GOLDEN YEARS

by Roger Poppen

Pale February sunlight glinted from his mother's bronze casket as it began its slow, creaking descent into the shadows.  He stood with his arm around his father's waist, the old man sagging as though he, too, would sink into the earth.  Suddenly, his father began sobbing with such intensity that it was difficult to hold him upright.  He had never seen his father cry.  This, more than anything that had gone before - the vigil at his mother's bedside, the doctor's "I'm sorry" - brought a sting of tears to his own eyes.

His wife, Angela, held the grieving man's other arm.  Slowly, they backed him from the graveside and got in the waiting limousine.  His father sat quietly between them, tears ebbing and head nodding sleepily.  He thought how differently he would feel if it were Angela back there in that gilded box.  Their marriage had died years ago. He smiled ruefully at the mordant metaphor.

He did not intend to wait that long.  He had consulted a divorce attorney, just before his mother had taken a turn for the worse, to see what his options were.  He would be eligible to retire in four years.  Angela had a master's degree and, though she'd flitted from job to job, could support herself if she had to.  Their daughter, Kristy, would be eighteen then.  He could stick it out until she went away to college.  After that, he would sail into his golden years without the anchor that was Angela.  He could imagine many options - travel, romance even - life had much to offer a single man with a good pension.

On what grounds, the lawyer had asked.  Mutual indifference, he'd replied, and the lawyer thought irreconcilable differences might work.  It hadn't always been this way.  In the beginning, he'd been charmed by Angela's playfulness, her sensuality.  Now, he couldn't even remember the last time they'd had sex.  New Year's, probably, when she'd consented to a little champagne and a little tumble.  Fifteen years younger than him, she had overtaken him in stodginess, becoming torpid, complaining, overweight.  Opposites may attract, but after many years of marriage they simply become polarized.

His thoughts were interrupted by the limo stopping in front of his sister's house.  He helped his father from the car.  After a nap, Dad had regained his stoic composure.

Madeline met them at the door.  She had skipped the graveside service to put finishing touches on the reception.  "Daddy!  Daddy!"  She embraced her father like a man returned from war. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin, then pressed her cheek against his chest, careful not to muss her hair and make-up.  She smiled at her brother, always and ever Daddy's Little Girl.

Dad would live with Madeline's family until longer term arrangements were completed.  Dad was healthy for his age, and competent, but was lost in the kitchen.  Mom always had done all the cooking.  Not like his household; he was the one who got up and fixed Kristy's breakfast, made her sack lunch before driving her to Parochial school, cooked supper if it was anything other than take-out.

They followed Madeline into the spacious buffet area that was filling with people from her church.  She belonged to one of those mega-temples with chromium spires and services for every demographic.  He begrudgingly accompanied Angela and Kristy to mass on Christmas and Easter.

Madeline was being gracious with Angela, seeking common ground.  "You lost your father recently, didn't you?"

"It's been almost two years," Angela said.

"And how is your mother doing?"

"She's fine.  It was tough at first, you know, but she's adjusted well.  She has her own condo and lots of friends.  And my sisters live nearby, with all their kids, so she has plenty of company."

He had to suppress a chuckle.  Angela's father had been a tyrant, ordering his wife and daughters around like a Catholic Archie Bunker.  Angela was the only one of her sisters to move away from their hometown, taking with her, it turned out, an aversion to housewifery. Esther, his mother-in-law, was reveling in her freedom - decorating her condo, shopping, lunching with women friends.  No such joy awaited his father.  He shook his head at the irony of an unhappy marriage and pleasant widowhood, and vice versa.  At least Dad had the hope of meeting Mom on the Other Side and spending Eternity with her in Heaven, as promised at the funeral service.  All he wanted was a little less hell on earth.

***

Later, in their hotel room, Angela said, "Dear, I've got something to tell you."  Her face was very serious.  "I've been waiting until all this was over."

"What is it?  Is something wrong?"

"Well, you know that I went to the doctor a while ago."

Did he know?   She was always going to the doctor.  She was a basket-case of symptoms:  pains, allergies, lumps in her breasts. For a time, she was convinced she had a brain tumor.  Her medicine cabinet could supply a Third World country for a year.

"What did he say?"

"Well, the test came back positive."

Oh, God.  What if she really did have cancer?  His mother had succumbed quickly, but she was old and frail.  Angela could hang on for decades.  What if she had to have chemotherapy, with all her hair falling out?  Or a mastectomy?  He couldn't divorce a woman with cancer - he would look like a total louse.

Angela must have seen his alarm.  She smiled comfortingly and touched his arm.  "It's all right, Honey.  I'm pregnant.  We're going to have a baby."

He made a sound between a hiccough and a whimper.  Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

She patted his hand.  "Oh Honey, how sweet.  And here I thought you might be angry."

 

Roger:  I am an emeritus professor at Southern Illinois University. Since retiring, I've taken up fiction writing, completing several short stories and a novel for which I'm seeking publication. Contact Roger.