Bodies and Souls (17 page)

Now, looking down beside him, he could see Norma’s hands folded neatly in her lap. Her wedding rings had become entrenched in the chubby finger of her chubby hand, while his gold band was forever sliding off his skinny finger and falling into the meat section in the grocery store. Now his stomach rumbled loudly and a flame of indigestion licked up in his chest and he realized his mind had wandered from the sermon. He wanted to yawn. When he clamped his jaws together, his teeth clicked. It was a hard thing, growing old, although, as the comedians said, it was better than the alternative. If old age and death signaled the triumph of the spiritual over the physical, it would be so much more appropriate if the body could simply melt or evaporate or be peeled away like a husk exposing an ear of corn, in some pure, definite, cleansing act. Instead the body
rotted and grew cantankerous and painful, and you were forced to spend time and precious thought on the sheer mechanics of physical existence: food, teeth, bowel movements, tumors, sleep. Also, it was frightening. You couldn’t help but take the deterioration of your body personally, even though it eventually happened to everyone.

Just as hard to bear, Wilbur thought, was the gradual and subtle deterioration of their social life. Wilbur liked people, and all of his life he had ranged up and down the scale of ages as freely as Flora Pritchard’s fingers moved up and down the organ keys. He had befriended, spent time with, served on committees with, gone to parties with, people of twenty and people of seventy and every age in between. But in the past few years, he found he had somehow gotten stuck up at the old-age end of the spectrum. He understood the militancy of old-age groups who demanded to be decently treated, like the real human beings they still were, but he didn’t think that younger people were actively prejudiced against older people. Younger people just did not stop to think—and who could blame them, they all had troubles of their own.

Wilbur had noticed his segregation first and most sharply when he had gone into the hospital two years ago for a bladder operation. It had been physically painful and emotionally terrifying. He did not like being helpless. He had spent much of his time in the hospital sick with fury at the betrayal of his body. He had lain in the hospital bed with his fist clenched and his jaws working, trying not to cry, trying not to bellow out his rage and fear. The three other men in the ward with him were even worse off; they were all in various stages of terminal diseases, and one of the older men just cried and whined and called out for people who never came. Wilbur had been miserable.

But when the nurses came into the room, squeaking on their rubber shoes, all officious and robust, how his spirits had lifted! He enjoyed watching their capable round arms. He just liked
seeing
the bulge and curve of breast and hip and stomach under the white cloth of their uniforms. He liked the enthusiasm of healthy bodies. One nurse in particular had been kind and pretty. She was a fifty-year-old woman named Peggy, and she had recently been divorced, and she liked to perch on the side of Wilbur’s bed and discuss her life. Three days after Wilbur had come to the hospital, she had come into his room and announced, “Well, what do you think of this!” She had gone out and had her gray hair dyed the most amazing color of red—a sort of pinkish red. She had found lipstick to match.

“Why, Peggy, you look just like a long-stemmed red rose,” Wilbur had told her,
and he had meant it. What an audacious and optimistic sight that head of red hair was, and from then on he had lain so that he could watch out the door to catch sight of Peggy as she flashed back and forth down the hall on her errands.

“A long-stemmed red rose!” Peggy had said, delighted with his compliment. “Just wait till I tell Joe! He’ll be so jealous!” Joe was her new boyfriend, as she called him, and whenever she could, Peggy slipped into Wilbur’s room to tell him about the latest development in their romance. Several of Wilbur’s friends and relatives had come during visiting hours to sit and chat with him, but Peggy was always the brightest spot in his day, perhaps because she was new to him and he could not imagine her life as he could the others. She made him aware of the vastness of the world again, and the thought of the thousands and thousands of people muddling along through the hot intricacies of their lives buoyed him up tremendously. Perhaps it was just sheer impertinence that kept people going on—well, it was a contagious attitude, and after each of Peggy’s visits, Wilbur found his spirit refreshed and eager, in spite of his body’s dawdling.

When he got home from the hospital, a brilliant thought occurred to him, and he wrote letters to the hospital staff and the local newspapers, suggesting that the geriatric ward be placed next to the ward for the newly born, with a one-way window put in between. That way no germs would pass from the old folks to the babies, and the nurses and newborns wouldn’t have to be depressed and frightened by the sight of all the old sick folks shuffling around. But the old folks would be able to sit or stand and gaze at all those bundles of brand-new life—it would do wonders for morale. Wilbur had been excited by this idea, and had offered to help raise money to rearrange the hospital in this way, but he had received only a polite, official letter from the hospital telling him that since the two areas were on different floors of the building, such a thing would be impossible.

After he came home from the hospital and found it necessary to rest so much, he began to feel like just another old bird perched out on the creaking and doomed limb of old age, peering shortsightedly as the energetic creatures in the real world scurried about their business. His children and grandchildren were thoughtful and dropped by often or sent chipper letters and humorous newspaper clippings. But Wilbur was more and more isolated. Now and then someone would drop by after work to talk, or would call him on the phone, and Norma told him each Sunday that Peter Taylor had reminded people to think of Wilbur in their prayers; after the service many people stopped her to ask her to
give Wilbur their regards. So Wilbur knew that in many little ways the people of his town wished him well. That they did not show concern in an intense and desperate fashion reassured him. No one was worried, everyone thought he’d be around for years. But he realized how much he depended on parties, men’s clubs, church, and his daily walks to keep him feeling in the thick of life. He tried watching television or reading, but both bored him. He needed the actual spontaneous responsive flesh. He was fortunate; after a few months he was able to go out for his walks again, and to serve on club committees and attend parties. But he feared the time when that would be a world lost to him even more than he feared death.

Of all the people in the community, four people besides Norma had been and still were the sustaining force in his days. Two were men his own age, widowers who were experiencing the same bodily defeats he was. Wilbur got together with them once or twice a week to play pinochle or canasta and to laugh over sexy jokes, which made them all feel young again for a while. Peter Taylor was also reliable. He was an easy man to be with; he’d talk with Wilbur about this and that in a casual manner, and when he left, Wilbur would realize that Peter had somehow managed to give him something to think about, or some consoling thought. It was a real gift Peter Taylor had, to give comfort in such an offhand way that the recipient was never obliged to feel indebted. Even so, Peter Taylor was a minister, and Wilbur suspected his motives; maybe the reasons he came to call were all pro forma.

It was Ron Bennett who had surprised Wilbur the most with his genuine friendship and thoughtfulness. Wilbur had known Ron for a long time, ever since Ron came to Londonton as a young man with a new bride and started his own contracting business. Wilbur was a good twenty-five years older than Ron, and the year of Ron’s arrival, he had been president of the local Rotary Club. Ron had been as a younger man so earnest in his ambition that he verged on becoming pompous, but Wilbur had admired him because he was not afraid of hard work or new ideas. Wilbur had done a great many things to help Ron—throwing business his way, delicately apprising Ron of whom he could not afford to offend, giving him advice, and having him to dinner. It was as if Wilbur had metaphorically put his arm around Ron’s shoulder and drawn him into the fold of the community.

Now, twenty-five years later, Ron’s solicitude to Wilbur might have been motivated by nothing more than duty, a sort of psychological paying off of debts.
Perhaps. But Wilbur did not think that was the case. In spite of the years that separated them—and the financial disparity, for Ron had gotten rich—Wilbur still counted Ron as one of his friends, and was certain that Ron returned the favor. Wilbur felt sure that Ron visited him out of friendship rather than simple consideration because of one clear fact: Ron still needed Wilbur.

Wilbur could not remember just when it was that Ron had begun to confide in him, so now it seemed that he always had. But there had been times in Ron’s life when he had been troubled, and he had turned to Wilbur for guidance, and a bond had been made between them.

Ron Bennett was one of the most moral men Wilbur had ever met. If a lumber or plumbing or hardware company had a sale on some item, Ron always passed the savings along exactly to his clients, rather than paying the sale price and charging the full price and pocketing the difference. He would not try to beat the competition by giving a low estimate for a job and then surprising the customer with a much higher final bill. He had always made it a habit to give as many jobs as possible to high school and college kids, but he never tried to pass them off to his clients as accomplished professionals. He was an honest man. He had come to be much admired by the members of the community, even loved. Realtors had no trouble selling a house that Ron Bennett had built, because over the years the quality of those houses had shone through so well that “It’s a Bennett house” was a phrase that inspired confidence. The people of Londonton had great affection for Ron Bennett, and in his turn he loved them back. He chaired many boards and worked tirelessly for a great number of necessary charity groups, and it was apparent that he liked doing all of this, he liked exerting himself on the behalf of the world around him.

In the past few months, Ron had been in charge of the construction of the new recreation center which was being built on a plot of land donated by Jake Vanderson. Two years ago a bill had been passed in Londonton which allowed the city fathers to raise money through donations from the townspeople to build a recreation center. Londonton was tranquil and idyllic, except for its children, especially adolescent boys from poor families who had nothing to do after school but hang around the main shopping street of town, smoking cigarettes and wisecracking. When the recreation center was completed, other activities would be possible: there was to be a large indoor gym for basketball, volleyball, gymnastics, wrestling, and other indoor sports; private rooms for
music lessons and counseling; goodold movies inexpensively rented would be shown on weekend nights; there would be chess tournaments and sex education courses. Everyone in Londonton was eager for the center to be finished, and Ron Bennett was giving it all his spare time, and more. Because he was in charge of the construction, he had been given complete control of the funds, and it was apparent that he was doing everything he could to give the community the best quality for the least money. Ron was unyielding in his standards. The Londonton Recreation Center would be every bit as sound and enduring as any of Ron Bennett’s houses. One had only to go over to the skeleton building and run a hand over the carefully cut and joined and sanded boards to know precisely what kind of a man Ron Bennett was.

Ron did have a flaw, however. Wilbur thought that only he and one other man—Peter Taylor—knew the complete truth about this imperfect side of Ron, and as far as Wilbur was concerned that secret could go to the grave with him. He hadn’t even told Norma. Ordinarily Wilbur told his wife everything he knew—half the pleasure of knowing something was the pleasure of sharing it with Norma. But in this case the slightest indiscretion on his wife’s part could do serious damage to the life of someone in the community, and Wilbur didn’t want to risk that. He knew that civilization was based as much on well-chosen silence as on well-chosen words.

Ron Bennett was a womanizer. His lechery was pure and personal rather than social; he did not chase after women in order to impress other men. He had, in fact, never talked with any other human being about his escapades until four years ago, when he had gone fishing with Wilbur.

Wilbur had been cranky that day. Retirement was annoying him; he felt always at loose ends, and had quickly found the projects he had planned on filling his days with to be either boring or too quickly done. When Ron called to suggest they spend that surprisingly warm April Sunday fishing instead of attending church, Wilbur had agreed happily enough. But out in his garage, as he puttered around getting together his fishing gear, he had accidentally gotten a hook caught in his thumb, and that had made him feel clumsy and old and useless. He had thought to himself that Ron was asking him to go fishing only out of pity, to give an old geezer something to do. So he had been taciturn during the drive to the lake, and Ron had been quiet, too. They had parked the car and lugged their gear and a cooler full of sandwiches and beer out to a promising spot on the edge of the lake and settled in for the morning.

It had turned into a good morning. The grass around the lake was pale and new and damp from morning dew, and the trees all around the shore of the lake were just starting to bud. Wilbur had put a fresh worm on his hook and cast his line into the blue depths of the lake, then sat down on the little canvas stool he carried for such occasions, and waited. He drank a beer even though it was only nine o’clock, and felt the heat of the sun on his chest. His bitter thoughts began to evaporate. He thought it wasn’t that bad, after all, to be an old man being humored by a younger one. Still, though his mood improved and he made comments about the weather and the possibilities of getting a bite, his mind was on himself.