“Hello! I’m Mary Pat O’Reilly, your welcome ambassador to this hell hole.”
Mr. Stone gripped the wheels of his chair, swiveling toward the woman’s voice; his eldest, Sylvia, blocked his view to the room across the hall. The fragrance of lavender thinly masked the odor of old he inhaled since entering the building with his daughter dressed in her stiff grey suit—pants, not a skirt which he preferred women wear. Later this afternoon, she’d catch her flight to Atlanta after dumping him in this latest waystation of life. Her eyebrows pinched forward like her mama’s did when he stumbled home late or lost another job due to his affection for long legs and curves he couldn’t resist.
“Well, an honest woman. Name’s Gregory,” he said, tipping his straw fedora toward her. He noted the faded ginger curls tumbling across her shoulders.
“Now, Daddy, I need you settled. No time for chit-chat.” The woman glanced at Mary Pat. “Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”
Inside his suite, he noted the shared sink outside the bathroom, where Mr. Hank sits on the toilet, his pants cradling his ankles, his boxers hugging his knees, and his head nodding forward as he snores into his chest. He heard a noise of disapproval from his daughter part-cough, part-grunt, though her mouth never opened.
Sylvia kept talking or rather kept instructing him while unpacking his suitcases. Her voice faded into white noise as he took stock of what was left of his life. His 1972 gold motorcycle racing trophy he cherished, though he couldn’t recall where he’d won it; those details scraped off the tarnished metal plate years ago; his 1964 World’s Fair mug which always made his coffee taste better; and the crucifix he’d acquired in Mexico, the only one he’d ever seen where he and the Lord shared the same color skin. Finally, he picked up the silver-framed photograph of his family before the divorce; Sylvia was 12 years old when her mother chose to leave him. His daughter held hands with her two younger sisters, Saundra and Sharon. Their mother, Sophia, sure loved S’s.
The top dresser drawer sliding shut sounded like goodbye. Sylvia stood, hands on hips, surveying him from high on her heels. He knew what was coming.
“Daddy.” Her voice softened from her no-nonsense chatter about soap and towels and changing his underwear more than once a week. “Promise me, Daddy. You’ll behave. You’ve been asked to leave everywhere else. I’ll move you to Atlanta next. Away from your friends.”
“I promise, Honeypie.”
“Daddddy. I mean it. No fooling around.”
He wondered again why such places considered aging men asexual beings simply because they lived longer. Yes, his body at 85 didn’t have the same, let’s say, stamina he had at 25, hell, at 65, but his mind was sharp with desire. He held on to the bureau, lifting himself to stand on his one good leg to hug his daughter goodbye.
“I love you. Now don’t work so hard. Ain’t worth it.”
Sylvia hugged him longer than usual before guiding him down to his chair.
At dinner, Mr. Stone was seated at the men’s table.
“Evening, gentlemen. Are we it?”
He glanced around the dining room, answering his own question since every other table was full of women.
“Name’s Gregory Stone, but y’all can call me Freebird.”
“I’m guessing a woman tagged you with that nickname,” a woman’s voice called out.
Turning his wheelchair to the right, he recognized his across-the-hall neighbor. Her neck brace rose from ample bosoms he couldn’t help but admire. Firm and high the way he preferred.
“You watch this one, Freebird. She’ll break your heart,” Willy said, making the other men laugh.
“It’s a long story, Miss Mary Pat. Maybe. If you’re nice to me. I’ll tell it to you,” he said, before winking. The men laughed harder, jabbing each other with their elbows and making remarks so crude, the woman blushed.
“Well, I never,” she said, abruptly turning from the men’s table, but not before Freebird whispered loud enough for her to hear.
“I’m betting you did.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if his eyes deceived him, it’d happened so fast, but was that a wisp of a smile on her face?
He waited an hour after the med techs distributed the nightly pills. Hank was tucked under his blankets snoring. Freebird glanced up and down the hall making certain no one wandered about, a common practice he discovered from living in such places. The door to his neighbor’s room left ajar was wide enough to slide into the outer area of her suite. He tapped lightly on Miss Mary Pat’s door.
“C’mon in. Can’t stop you if I tried.”
She sat with her back to the door facing her computer.
“What do you want now?” she called over her shoulder before turning. “You’re not staff.”
He took off his worn fedora, pressed it against his chest, and whispered, “I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour. I’ve come to apologize. Couldn’t sleep over the shame of my earlier misconduct.”
“You shouldn’t be in a lady’s bedroom, sir,” Mary Pat said, and pulled her robe closed but not before he’d glimpsed the scar riding across her chest. He couldn’t keep his eyes from the place where her breasts should be and, god help him, she noticed. Her furious lips eased into a tender smile like those that rise while reminiscing.
“I truly miss my girls. I’d named them, you know. In their heyday. Thelma and Louise. Like the film. Such bad ass girls.”
Freebird put his hand on her thigh, squeezed it lightly, and before she could swat it away, he said, “Well, you know Miss Mary Pat, I’ve always been a leg man myself.”
