Milky Way. Muriel Jensen

so he’d never gotten below the surface of the pretty little lake town.

      Now that he had, it was a little scary. For a boy who’d lived with his mother in a tenement in Chicago, crowded in with an aunt who’d made it clear every day that they were there on the sufferance of charity, this warm caring of one person for another was something alien and new. As an adult, he’d certainly never seen it in the corporate world.

      Marge topped up his coffee and gave him a brilliant smile. Brick picked up his tab. When Jake tried to protest, he offered his hand again, then was gone.

      Jake dug into his succulent omelet, feeling as though his world had slipped a little out of orbit.

      * * *

      WALKING ACROSS the parking lot toward the rest home that sprawled on a corner of Elm Street, Britt tried to stop her mind’s erratic jumping, from Jake Marshack to cheesecakes, to Jake Marshack to money, to Jake Marshack.

      She’d seen a lonely man in the diner. Though she missed Jimmy abominably, she had friends and relatives who were always generous with emotional support or a more substantive helping hand. She hated to think of anyone trying to get through life without them.

      Of course, why she was worried about a man with a secure, high-paying job when her personal economy was about to bottom out, she couldn’t imagine. There was just something in his face that touched her.

      Topping the stairs and blindly turning down the corridor, Britt collided with George Phelps, who was perusing a chart.

      “I’m sorry, Dr. Phelps,” she apologized breathlessly. “Did I hurt you?”

      He grinned at the question. Tall and fit, with graying brown hair, he twirled the end of his elegant mustache in a parody of villainy. “Hardly. It was the nicest thing that’s happened to me this morning. How are you, Britt?”

      “Good. How are things with you?”

      “I’m fine,” he replied, his expression failing to match his words. He waved a typewritten sheet in the air. “Except for the resignation of Finklebaum, my nursing supervisor. She’ll be missed around here. But how’re the kids? I don’t recall seeing any of your brood since back-to-school checkups.”

      Britt rapped on the paneled wall. “Knock on wood. I think they move too fast to catch anything.” She began to back away. “I’m on my way to visit the ladies. Take care, Doctor.”

      Britt turned down the corridor toward Inger Hansen’s room, bracing herself for the ordeal. She visited Jimmy’s great-aunt before her grandmother because the woman’s irascible personality made it more of a challenge than a pleasure. With that chore behind her, Britt could then relax and enjoy her Grandma Martha.

      The theme music from “The Price is Right” blared from the television as Britt entered the room. The woman sharing the space with Inger, apparently cursed with good hearing, wore large orange ear protectors as she concentrated on her cross-stitching.

      “Hi, Inger,” Britt said, coming up beside her to put a bag of goodies on her bedside table.

      “Shh!” Inger snapped, her sharp eyes focused on the television as she held Britt out of the way with one arm. “This guy’s about to blow it. He is so stupid! You wonder how some people get by!”

      The television audience cheered for a correct answer and Inger slapped her blanket in disgust. “One live brain cell. Big deal!” She turned to Britt and shouted over the loud television. “How are you? You look like a refugee. Don’t you ever eat?”

      Britt smiled and gave her a hug, tuning out her considerable annoyance quotient in deference to her age and her status as family.

      “I’m fine, Aunt Inger. How are you?”

      “Old. Arthritic. God knows what else. I hope that bag isn’t filled with more cheesecake.”

      “No.” Britt allowed herself a smile, grateful her small success didn’t depend on Inger. It was interesting, she thought, how differently time and loss of loved ones aged individuals. Some, like her grandmother, drew others toward them. Inger pushed everyone away, as though telling the world that if she couldn’t have the people she wanted, she didn’t want anyone.

      Britt delved into the bag and held out a Linder ball, a chocolate confection wrapped in colorful foil. They were Inger’s weakness.

      Inger’s eyes softened for an instant, then she snatched the candy from Britt. “Thank you,” she said, almost resentful at having a reason for gratitude. “How are your little monsters?”

      Britt poured water into Inger’s glass from the small carafe and tidied her tray. “Oh, you know. Monstrous. Anything I can get you?”

      “No.” Inger made a shooing motion toward the door. “Go on. Get back to your kids and your cows. And for God’s sake, eat something before somebody puts old clothes on you and sticks you in a cornfield.”

      Britt leaned down to hug her again and felt the old woman’s surprisingly strong response before she pushed her away and turned her concentration back to the television. When Britt paused at the door to wave, Inger had the bag of Linder balls in her lap.

      She found an earnest game of gin rummy in progress in Martha Bauer’s room. The tiny, fragile woman was propped up against her pillows, her white hair in a neat braid coronet atop her head, her bony shoulders adorned with a soft blue bed jacket.

      “Brittany!” Martha’s deep voice was slightly fractured with age. From the bank of pillows, her bright blue eyes smiled behind wire-rimmed bifocals. She patted the side of her bed for Britt to join her, then returned to the serious business of winning the hand. She tilted her head slightly backward to focus on the spread of cards she held. She considered for a moment, then placed everything in her hand in threes and fours on the swivel tray serving as a card table. “Gin!” she said with satisfaction.

      Martha’s round, gray-haired opponent occupied a room down the hall but visited Martha regularly to play cards and cadge treats. Britt knew her simply as Lavinia.

      Lavinia looked at her full hand of cards, then down at the table in disgust. “I don’t know why I drag my arthritic carcass all the way over here just to get beaten day after day. How much am I in your debt now?”

      “Ah...” Martha consulted the score sheet. “Nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars.”

      “You cheat!” Lavinia accused with a smile. “If it wasn’t for the food your granddaughter brings—” she winked at Britt “—I wouldn’t come back.”

      She stood laboriously, and Britt went around the bed to help her untangle herself from the chair and position herself within the protective rails of her walker. Someone in Lavinia’s family had made a colorful little calico pouch that snapped on the side of the walker, and Britt stuffed a bag full of soft cookies she and the children had made into it.

      “Bless you,” Lavinia said, leaning heavily on one hand to put the other arm around Britt in a hug. Then she started for the door, moving surely, but at a snail’s pace. “Here I go,” she said. “Like a turtle with her tail on fire. Out of my way. Watch my dust. That’s not an explosion you hear, it’s me, breaking the sound barrier. Hi, ho, Silver! Awayyyy...” Her voice trailed after her as she made her way down the hall.

      Britt and Martha giggled.

      “How are you today, Grandma?” Britt asked, settling herself on the edge of the bed again. “Do you really cheat?”

      “Of course. She’s a better player—it’s the only way I can win.” She looked more pleased with herself than apologetic. Then she tilted back her head to study Britt through the lower half of her bifocals. “How are you? You look more like your mother every day. Except for the circles under your eyes.”

      Britt delved into the bag she’d brought. “Well, I’m no spring chicken anymore, you know.”

      “Thirty-two. Still a baby.”

      “Thirty-three,”