Postcards & Slippers
Stanley Clearwater is walking down the long corridor of the Whispering Woods Nursing Home. He notices nurse Beluga double-locking Mrs. Januper’s room. He draws near the nurse and pats her on the shoulder. Nurse Beluga turns around, with a wide smile on her face. A smirk Stanley cannot stand.
“Mr. Clearwater, you should be in bed. It’s very late,” she says, straightening up.
“Is she?” Stanley whispers.
“Yes. Mrs. Januper passed away”
“She was too good today. I know it was the sign.”
“You should be in bed now,”
“My insomnia.”
“I know, I know,” she says. She steers Stanley by the elbow back to his room, down the cold white tiled corridor. She opens his door and waits until he is near his bed, adding some vague words of reassurance before closing the door again. Stanley Clearwater sits on his bed in the dark. The lamppost’s light outside his window projects furtive and creeping shadows on the wall with each passing vehicle. Stanley unties the belt of his robe, lies down, and mulls over his encounter with nurse Beluga. He does not like it. He does not like her, though everyone else at the Whispering Woods loves her. He cannot stand the way she evades his questions with that smirk on her face as if she takes a sadistic pleasure in watching the residents die. His right hand quivers. It always quivers when he feels anxious. He grabs it with his left arm to neutralize it. He thinks about his own death. It can come anytime, he realizes, and the idea that she will watch him lying dead with that twisted smirk sickens him. This nursing home is killing him, and sooner and later he will end up like everyone else. With a tag on the big toe. It seems the only way to leave the place.
Stanley gets up again and darts down the dimly-lit corridor straight to Al Jones’s room. Al Jones’s door is unlocked, and Stanley enters the room. Al is asleep, whirring with his mouth open. Stanley calls his name several times, but Al remains unresponsive. Stanley taps him on the back. Al cracks an eye open.
“Wake up.”
Al stares at Stanley.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Leave me alone.” Al turns on his side.
“I need to talk to you,”
“Tomorrow.” Al pulls the blanket over his back and remains silent to Stanley’s pleas. Thwarted, Stanley goes back to his room. He lies in bed and waits for sleep to come, but Mrs. Januper’s death is on his mind. He should have known. Mrs. Januper had been complaining of weaknesses for the last week. Everyone complains. And then she felt better. He takes a sip of water, picturing again nurse Beluga’s smirk. He tells himself he will not give her the pleasure of his death. He thinks of a way to escape from the Whispering Woods. Hours go by. Stanley rehearses over and over again his plan in his mind. Al and he can get their freedom back. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he will go back home to reunite with his son, Johnny, and his daughter, Lesley. Slowly, the headlight on the wall abates. A pink and yellow light is breaking over the horizon when sleep comes over him.
Stanley Clearwater feels a hand touching his thin shoulders and awakes. “Mr. Clearwater, are you okay?” asks nurse Beluga. Her hand rests on his shoulder.
“I’m alive. I’m alive!” he says, sitting up in bed.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she says with a smile. “I just wanted to make sure.”
Stanley waves her off and complains about the rattling water pipes keeping him awake the whole night. She has drawn the curtain open, and Stanley notices Al standing on the doorway looking perplexed. Nurse Beluga pours a glass of water and seizes a pill jar out of her pocket.
“It’s time for your medication.” She hands him a blue and green pill. Stanley gazes at the pill without moving.
“What that for?”
“We do this everyday, Mr. Clearwater.”
“I don’t need it.”
“What’s my name?”
“Olive Oil.”
“Precisely.”
Nurse Beluga brings her hand close to Stanley’s face and forces the pill into his mouth. Stanley lets the pill hang on the edge of his dry lips, but when she brings the glass near his face, he sucks the pill in. “Have a nice day,” she says, chuckling and walking out.
“Why are you so mean to her?” asked Al
“Her day hasn’t come yet. I bet the bitch wishes she could find me dead.”
“She’s lovely. She’s just doing her job.”
“Damned smirk of hers.”
“Oh shush! She’s gorgeous.”
“Well, you can’t have her, you old crust.”
Al walks into the room and closes the door behind him. He has not shaved. His white bristles glimmers in the sunlight and accentuates his sunken cheeks. Swollen purple bags under his eyes make him look like an overtired beagle.
“You scared me,” Al says, “When I didn’t see you at breakfast, I thought . . . you know when I get pain in my knee, it’s never a good sign. It never lies.”
“I’m still here.”
“Maggie Januper’s gone,” Al says, looking outside the window, at the highway in the distance and the hills bulging behind it. Stanley looks at Al lost in thought.
“I tried to tell you last night . . . I was outside her door when it happened.”
Al crosses himself. “She was all smile, so alive last week-end.”
“I knew something was wrong. They say it only happens to dying people. The surge it’s called. They just get up, chat, laugh with everyone after been ill in bed for weeks. That was a sign. My father had a cancer. He got off bed and fixed himself a huge meal. Like in the old day. No one could believe it. We thought he was cured. Two hours later he was dead.”
Al looks around, distracted, and glances at a couple of exotic postcards wedged in the dresser’s mirror. “I’m glad you’re still here . . . This is where we should be you and me. Somewhere sunny. Lying on the beach and drinking cocktails. Somewhere like Florida.”
“You bet.”
Stanley slips his tartan slippers on and peeks down the corridor where two large men in white coats carry Mrs. Januper’s belongings and furniture out of her room. “Vultures and cockroaches. Can’t wait for you to croak to come and clean up the place.” He closes his door quietly. “I can’t stay in here anymore. Damned place’s killing me.”
Al averts Stanley’s look. He skirts around the bed and moves towards the door. “I better get going.”
“Wait a sec. Where are you going?”
“Not now. Not again. I know the story.”
“But I’ve been thinking about it the whole night,” Stanley stretches his arm out to bar Al. “I’ve got the whole thing in my head. I can’t stand been here, in that lounge with this blaring TV and all these people in wheel-chair, shaking and moaning, staring at nothing, waiting to croak—alone. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. ”
“Yeah?”
“Together you and me.”
“Oh yeah? Last month, you were going to steal a car. Now what? . . . And where will I go anyway?” He locks eyes with Stanley and waits for his response. Stanley remains silent. Al huffs and puffs and grabs the door handle.
“Wait. I’ve got a large house. Come and live with me.”
“What with your kids? They can’t even stand you. Why should they put up with an old rag like me?”
“I’ve known you for thirty years, but if you prefer to die alone in this shit hole, suit yourself.”
Al shakes his head in disbelief. “You never leave this place because you’ve got nowhere to go, you windbag.”
“Is that so?” Stanley dashes to a drawer and shoves a pile of clothes on his bed. “you know, if only I had a decent pair of shoes, I’d have been long gone,” he says, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Yap, yap, yap,” says Al, opening the front door.
“You know they stole my shoes, don’t you?”
“Yeah right!”
A male nurse appears at the door and without saying a word hands Al a postcard.
“As if it’s going to stop me, right? You stay, I’m going alone.” Stanley chuckles and comes out the bathroom, dressed. He notices the postcard in Al’s hands. “Got mail today, Al? A Postcard. Aren’t you special? See, there’re still people thinking about you out there.” He crosses the room and peeks over Al’s shoulder.
“It’s from your son, Johnny,” Al says with a faint voice, handing him the postcard, a grave expression on his face. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Didn’t you tell me he was stationed in the Persian Gulf?”
Stanley examines the postcard in silence. It comes from Newport, and Rhode Island is printed in white over the picture of a blue sea and a multitude of sailing boats. Stanley brings the card close to his face. His eyebrows arch, sharpening his gray and vitreous eyes. “You know my son’s in the Navy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders “They get around those ships.” He points at the postmark and at the blotched and visible date. “It’s the fourth one I get this month. The boy’s sure burning miles.”
“The boy’s sure burning miles,” whispers Al. “How could he be in the Persian Gulf last week and be already in Rhodes Island three days ago?”
“Maybe he flew in.”
“I was in the Navy. You always come back home with the ship.”
Stanley drops his arms in despair. “What are you talking about?”
“From Newport, Rhode Island?” Al snaps the other postcards from the mirror. “Look what we’ve got here. From Johnny, both of them. Costa Rica and Vancouver. He’s surely burning miles the boy of yours.”
Stanley yanks the postcards from Al. “Get the hell out of here.”
“They’ve dumped you here. Like all of us!” Al points his finger in anger. “You’re no exception. They’ve abandoned you. There’s no one left, either for you or me. You old fool, sending yourself postcards!”
“Get the hell out!” Stanley slams the door shut behind Al. They’re too busy with their lives to even take the time to send postcards, he hears Al mumble through the door.
Stanley is fuming. He pulls out a drawer and takes out a gray shoebox. He lifts the beaten cardboard lid and stacks the postcards on top of hundreds of others. They come from all over the States. From abroad. The collection of a lifetime. Johnny has signed only the latest ones. Damned fool, if he wants to die here in this looney bin alone be my guest, he repeats to himself. Overwhelmed, he lies down on his bed with the tartan slippers still hanging on his feet. Al aggravates him. Thirty years they have known each other, and never they have managed to be closed friends. Yet they cannot live without each other, especially since they are in the same predicament. Contrary to Al, he has not yet capitulated. Al is lost. He accepts his fate without a battle. They have shared all the activities, the excursions, but Al is now undermining Stanley’s spirit. As for the Whispering Woods, three years now, he has endured home’s regulations. They slowly grind him down and each one of the residents along. Stanley feels the heartthrob in his chest. He is alive and aware of it. He has a house. His daughter Lesley lives in it with a grandson, three year Todd. They are waiting for him. And then there is Johnny coming and going every so often. Stanley lies in bed, mulling over how much he misses the familiar surrounding of his house. His mind is made up.
Stanley Clearwater is spending the rest of the day in his room, and his absence draws attention. Nurse Beluga comes back to check up on him. He is still in bed and makes no effort to accommodate her. Are you sure you’re okay? she asked, stooping towards him. He faces the wall and feels her breath brushing his neck. He mumbles something about Mrs. Januper. Her death saddens him and he wants to be left alone. Nurse Beluga expresses her surprise at the revelation. She has never seen them talk to each other. Stanley turns towards nurse Beluga. He blinks. They go way back in their childhood he tells her. Nurse Beluga shakes her head with approval and gets up. “Glad to hear you’re fine.”
On her way out, she comes across the shoe-box on the chair. “You got yourself new shoe? Look at that.” She lifts the lid slowly. Stanley cringes. He raises his head from the pillow, feels like stopping her. Nurse Beluga has already eyed the box’s contents.
“Are these postcards from Mrs. Januper?”
“They’re from my son,” he says, feigning a sleepy voice. Nurse Beluga riffles through the postcards.
“Your son?” She pouts her lips. “That’s a lot of travels. A lucky man. Doing so much traveling. Me, I’ve never been beyond the state’s borders.” She studies Stanley and smiles at him. She replaces the lid on the box and walks to the door. “Would you like me to bring in your dinner?”
Stanley rubs his head with discomfort. “Thank you. I’m too tired.”
“You’ve got to keep on eating, to remain strong. You never know, you may want to travel like your son some day.” Her lips are curled up. She is waiting for his reply. “Sure?”
Stanley nods no and she closes the door. He rushes out of bed, turns the TV on up and drags his bleu daffodil bag out from underneath the bed. They haven’t had the best of him yet. He finishes packing, cramming pants and shirts into the bag. Then he pushes the bag back under his bed and waits for the night to come.
It is late when Stanley opens his door. He knows the nursing home’s schedule and figures out that by now everyone is asleep. He peers down the hall, back and forth several times, and pricks his ears up for potential noises. Sure of himself, he ventures down the corridor towards the main entrance, dragging the bulging bag while holding the box of postcards with his weak arm. His slippers make no sound on the tiled floor. The building’s entrance appears to be miles away. The heavy bag slows him down. His arm quivers. The shoebox wedged under the arm cuts into his skin. He switches his load side to side but still finds himself out-of-breath. One of the night guards happens to walk across the lobby and glance in Stanley’s direction. Stanley flattens himself against a wall. He feels a door with his hand, pushes on it. It squeaks. He slips in a bathroom and locks himself inside a cubicle. The security man within seconds has reached the bathroom.
“Mr. Clearwater, is that you?”
Stanley clears his throat and spits in the toilet bowl. “Nothing Gus. It’s nothing. Same old. Same old god damned insomnia. Just like a young bride—never lets you sleep peacefully.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” says Gus, “I’ve never been married. But sure can’t wait to find out, because I’m sick and tired of staying awake for no reason.” The night guard burst out laughing.
When Stanley hears the door’s spring squeak he understands the watchman has left. He lifts the bag, but his arm refuses to obey. The bag will not move. Stanley presses his trembling arm against his chest. Beads of sweat tickle his forehead. He mops them with toilet paper and weights his options. A hell of a burden. I can always have it ship to me later. He tucks the cumbersome shoebox under his jacket and resumes his walk down the corridor, abandoning the heavy bag behind. At the main door, he sees no one. Gus has disappeared. Stanley shuffles out of the Whispering Woods Nursing Home and rushes into the garden.
The cool night makes the wind rustling in the trees sounds sinister, and Stanley feels at once the cold and blustery air sneaking under his shirt. He tightens his thin jacket against his chest, pressing the shoebox under his arm, and runs as fast as he can, taking small steps and hiding behind a row of trees aligned to the grounds’ entrance. No sound. No presence. Panting, he dashes through the main gates, his heart pounding in his chest. He can hear the muffled blood throbbing against his temples. The excitement of freedom makes him forget the upsetting cold.
No one has followed him. Each time he perceives headlights coming his way, he does not hesitate and jumps in a ditch. Still he walks on for a mile down the road and heads straight towards the hills, towards the highway, crossing roads and back alleys. The landscape in front of him chisels a wasteland of broken fences and fallow fields. Against the thick darkness, he recognizes the silhouette of a garden shed. It appears abandoned. The cold trapped below his shirt is debilitating. He shivers from head to toes. His breath draws out cloud of smoke in the air. His spirit feels undermined. He has not anticipated such cold temperature. His arm is erratic, barely clinging to the shoebox. The felt tartan slippers now wet and muddy freeze his toes. This cold temperature could kill him if he does not attend to it. How grotesque to catch a cold and die from it. He considers returning to the nursing home. Nurse Beluga’s smirk flashes upon his mind. Over his dead body will he return, instead he staggers towards the somber shack.
Stanley crashes against the door. His hand fumbles for the handle. Thank God, it is unlocked. The door creaks open. The shack smells of damp, rotten wood and mold. Sheltered from the cold wind, his jaw ceases to chatter at once. He gropes around hoping to find something, a blanket, a lamp, some matches, something to warm him up. Nothing. He stands still until his eyes get used to the dark inside. Nothing but planks of wood and, in a corner, a locked trunk. Feeling the long day catching up with him, he lays the shoebox under his head for pillow. He rubs his chest and then his numbed toes to warm them up. He closes his eyes and falls asleep only to be awaken by a violent cough. The makeshift bed is hard on his thin frame. His guts rumble. Nothing to eat the whole day. Worse, the cooled sweat dampens his body, glues his clothes to his bones. He gets up to shake his limbs, flaps his arms around. Walking about the shack, he bumps against the trunk and tips it over. The trunk is only a box turned upside down. Inside, he finds two thick rough blankets, such as those used for moving furniture. They stink of gas, but he covers himself with them. The night is peaceful now, he notices at once lucid and relieved. He can only hear the whir of a wind-propeller nearby. Up yours nurse Beluga, he tells himself. Soon he falls asleep.
The daylight has broken and pierces through the shack’s planks. Stanley steps out of the shack. Across, the sun is rising over an abandoned redbrick warehouse. Colorful graffiti cover the facade punctuated with broken windows. He feels the sun’s warmth seeping through his body. The shivering subsides at once. He feels weak. He has nothing to eat for a day now. He thinks about the breakfast buffet at the nursing home. Saliva drips in his mouth. He sees Al carrying his tray to the table and sitting next to him. He quietly eats his porridge, and Mrs. Januper crushes her pills with the back of her spoon, over the blaring morning news on TV. A truck’s roaring engine drawing near reminds him he still has a long way to go before reaching home. He gathers the shoebox and his damp slippers, winces as he put them on, and resumes his walk towards the mute highway.
A pale blue sky stretches for miles in front of him. Not a cloud in sight. A warm day ahead. Stanley progresses for an hour along an empty rural road with the box of postcards, shuffling his feet, the soles of his wrecked slippers coming apart. He cannot wait to be back home, surrounded by the sweet smell of familiarity. What a surprise it will be for Lesley. And Johnny when he gets his next leave. He cannot wait to see him again. Three years maybe since he last saw him has elapsed. He wonders if back at the nursing home, his absence has already been discovered. A blue car pulls alongside the old man. Stanley walks on without paying attention. He has to be careful. It could be a trap. The car adjusts to his pace. Stanley hears a window roll down.
“ Need a ride?” says a nasal man’s voice inside the car. Stanley stares straight in front of him. “With the shoes you’ve got, looks as if you could do with one.” Stanley observes the car glimmering in the sun. “I’m driving down Lansing . . . Are you sure?”
Stanley turns towards the man, a bold man wearing a white shirt and gray pants. “Lansing hey? Goin’ through Jackson?”
The driver stretches up across the passenger seat to pull the door’s latch. The door swings open. Stanley inspects the car quickly. Flat on the back seat a dark blue jacket. He looks up and down the road and seeing nobody loses his hesitation and gets in.
“Quite a walk to Jackson from here?” says the driver, shifting gears.
“My car broke down,”
“I don’t remember seeing a broken car on the road.”
“ I left it in someone’s driveway.”
“I can tell.” The man sniffs up to let him know about the smell of gas. Stanley ignores the remark. He looks straight ahead, at the blurred mirror-like fading road. The driver speaks with a high pitch voice, which irritates him. He limits himself to an occasional nod and grunt, hoping the driver will shut up. The driver is in the construction business. Now and then, he comments on buildings he recognizes, hoping to strike a conversation. After a while, the driver does fall silent. Stanley watches the corn and wheat fields succeeding one another. At times clumps of cows graze in lush pastures. It has been a long time he has not seen cows in open fields. Hunger hits him again, but the warmth coming though the shield makes him fell sleepy.
“Coming from around here? I’m Bob by the way.”
“Johnny. Goin’ to visit my daughter. She’s keeping my house.”
“Looks as if you’ve already done some miles.” Bob points at the muddy slippers with a head gesture.
“I stepped in a ditch coming out of the car.”
“Then what have you got in your box? Saving your shoes for Sunday Mass?” Bob smacks the steering wheel and chortles. Stanley smiles too. “I’ve got sensitive feet,” he says, “I can’t wear shoes anymore. Had surgery three years ago and it’s been a nightmare ever since.”
Bob arches his eyebrow and loses his smile. “You know what they said: the shoes make the man. I guess it doesn’t apply in your case.” He glances at Stanley for approval. Both men remain silent.
The sun hangs high in the sky, bright and hot. The long straight unending road glows in the distance. The asphalt appears to melt into the fields. Stanley cannot tell whether he is more exhausted or hungry. The seat is soft and comfortable. The dreadful night catches up with him. The hunger weakens him. He strives to retain consciousness, but his head sinks on his chest. But soon an intense cough keeps him awake. He breaks a sweat.
“Sounds as if you’ve caught some nasty bug there . . . A man of your age should be in Florida, resting in the sun, by the sea. This is where I’m going to retire, in Florida. The palm trees, they get me. They brighten my mood.”
“My son and daughter live here.” Stanley wipes his forehead.
“Ask them to move down there with you,” Bob says, beaming, “I’m taking my wife and kids to Orlando—next month. They’re real excited. Been there before?”
Stanley turns towards Bob for the first time. “No, but maybe you could do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
Getting Stanley’s attention for the first time makes Bob vibrant. His little pearl blue eyes widen.
“I want to play a trick on a friend. His name’s Stanley. Could you send him a postcard from Orlando? From me? A beautiful postcard with lots of colors?”
“Sure can. I’ll be more than happy.”
Stanley releases a short laugh. “Stanley’s my neighbor. He never believes a word I say . . . I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes I’ve been in Florida.”
Bob nods and hands him a slip of paper and a pen. Using the shoebox as a table, Stanley writes Stanley Clearwater’s address at the Whispering Woods. Bob puts the slip back into his wallet, and Stanley smacks his leg with euphoria. The excitement makes him choke. He coughs up again and feels a tingle in his throat, something wheezing down his chest. He clears his throat and spits out of the window.
“You should get that thing checked.”
Three hours later, the car slows down. The blinker ticks. “Johnny? We’re in Jackson.” Stanley cracks his eyes open. “I’m making a left at the next light. Where do you want me to drop you?”
“De Angelo bakery on Main,” says Stanley, rubbing his eyes.
“You mean Meier? De Angelo bakery was torn down five years ago. I know, my company got the contract.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Before getting out of the car, Stanley reiterates his request about the postcard. Bob pats his wallet. Everything is under control, he tells him, and Stanley shakes his head with approval. He watches the blue vehicle recede in the distance and trudges to his house nearby, hugging his shoebox full of postcards.
Stanley Clearwater stands in front of his house and gazes at it from across the street. The house looks beautiful, well-kept, freshly painted. The houses next to it also have been redone since he has last seen them. A curious sensation overcomes him. He has spent his whole life in this street before moving to the Whispering Woods and now feels like a stranger. The neighborhood looks better than it has ever had. He crosses the street. No car in the driveway. No neighbor coming or going. Seeing the old rusted carcass of the motorcycle on the other side of his fence makes him smiled. After all these years, the Bryszski still have done nothing with it. He walks up to his front porch. A white wicker table and two armchairs. Luxuriant ferns hang above the white-painted beams. He fans his hands through the moist leaves. He sits in one of the armchairs and lets out a childish laugh, ensconcing himself in the thick cushions. The chairs sit next to the front windows where the sun blasts straight into the panes. Stanley cups his hands around his face and glues his nose to a window. No one in sight but a large white sofa.
He knocks on the front door. No answer. He waits before knocking again. He rings the bell and lets it ring. “Lesley? It’s me, your father,” he shouts through the mail slot. No response. He lifts the doormat hoping to find a key, steps down the porch, and turns around several flowerpots lying at the foot of the steps, next to two rows of daffodils. No key. He walks around the back to the kitchen door, looks through the window, and again sees no one. He grips the door’s handle and the door opens. “Anyone home? Lesley? I’m back. It’s your father,” he yells, entering.
The kitchen has been renovated and looks immaculate. From the white appliances, the wall tiles, the floor, to the table, everything is white. As clean as a damned morgue, he mumbles to himself. He calls Lesley several times at the top of his voice, but the effort makes him cough again. He leans against the kitchen sink and pours himself a glass of water. Framed inside the large window sitting above the sink, the garden appears like a postcard. Colorful and dainty. The lawn is manicured. A new garden shed has been built near the maple tree with an old tire hanging from a branch. Stanley takes a deep breath, his lungs wheeze. The garden’s perfection makes him a proud father. He is back home. It does look different since his daughter has moved in, but he has left his house in such good hands. He is a luck man.
He removes his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair. He roots through the cupboard for food, opens the fridge, and fixes himself a sandwich. He sits on the back door’s steps to nibble his food in the sun. A gentle wind runs through the trees turning yellow. A patch of pink and purple flowers in front of the shed is withering.
The phone next to the fridge rings. Stanley answers it. His thick wrinkles make ripples on his forehead. “ No, I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong number. There’s no Zabrysko or Zabriskai living in his house . . . What do mean if I’m sure? My daughter lives here and her name is Lesley Smart.” He smacks the phone down. He picks it up again and dials the nursing home’s number. “Al Jones, please,” he says in a cavernous voice. He hears the TV blaring in the background and Al’s footstep nearing the phone. “Al? . . . guess who this is? You old crust, it’s me! . . Guess where I’m at? . . . Florida, my friend. That’s right . . . Told you to come with me, you old fool.”
Al remains silent. Stanley can hear his heavy breathing punctuate his silence, and before Stanley can say something else, Al hangs up. Stanley moved to the living room, knowing that Al must be jealous of him. The living room looks expensive, with brand new furniture. “Holly smoke!” Stanley again feels at odd with the house. It is no longer his house. He does not know what to do, where to go, how to behave. Scanning the room, his gaze . . .
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