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The Red Door
Jack Whistler closed the front door of the apartment, crossed the living room and sat by the open window. The sirens, screeching of brakes, and drone of the city, seeped into the room like poisonous gas. Jack reached up to pull the window down. His arms were weakened by age and by bad news.
“Well, Glover, …” The doctor said.
“Jack. Everyone calls me Jack. ‘Cause I’m a jack-of-all-trades. Call me Jack.”
The doctor looked at him, then nodded.
The window was old, and hard to close.
“Jack, I’m afraid the tests didn’t come back the way we had hoped.”
Jack’s chin dropped slightly.
“There isn’t anything I…anyone, can do.”
Jack’s head was nodding at the words.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
The nodding continued.
The window was stuck, but a little side-to-side rocking got it going again. The poison was diminishing.
“How long?”
“It’s.. pretty advanced.”
“How long?”
“Four to six weeks. I really am sorry, Jack.”
Jack’s head was still nodding.
“We’ll make an appointment for you to come back Friday. Friday morning. We’ll take care of your medicine and arrange counseling. Can you come in at nine o’clock?
“Yeah. Nine. Ok.”
The window closed with a hard clap. The sound echoed around the apartment like cannon shots. When the echo died, the apartment was suddenly quiet. Jack took a deep breath.
He sat in the cracked naugahyde lounger and wasn’t sure if he had just left the doctor’s office a few hours ago, or if it was yesterday. His mind was a merry-go-round.
***
The doctor had asked if he had any family. He didn’t. At least none that he’d seen in 40 years. They were in Alabama. This was Seattle. Even a straight line between these two places was no short distance.
Then the doctor asked if he was affiliated with a church. No. Atheist. Left those chains at the gravesite of his wife. That’d be 27 years ago. Almost a third of his life ago.
He rose from the lounger and walked to his bedroom and lay down on the bed. Jack was tall and lanky; his feet hung off the bottom just slightly. Without looking, he reached over and patted the top of the nightstand to make sure his sleeping pills were there. He heard the satisfying sound of a full bottle.
I’m going to die without family. And what have I ever done for anyone?
“How long?”
“Four to six weeks.”
Four to six weeks. Waitin’ on something good? This is a long time. Waitin’ on something bad? It’s the blink of an eye. Jack drifted in and out of sleep. His thoughts meandered to his childhood.
Pritchard, Alabama was a great place to be a child. He lived on Turner Road, not far from Vigor High School. He and his six brothers and sisters went to Vigor. The school was in the middle of the neighborhood.
Having neat, square lawns with well-manicured hedges between them, the houses in the neighborhood looked alike. A front porch swing that seated two. And a rattan sofa with large, heavy pads for sitting and sipping iced tea.
There were magnolia trees on the street, and the honeysuckle grew wildly on the hedges and fences. Jack used to pull off the honeysuckle flower and suck the sweetness from it, put them on his fingertips - converting fingers into claws - scaring his little sisters.
The exception was one house that had a bright red door. It was unique. The old widower who lived there had retired long ago from the L & N Railroad. Every person who walked by the house with the red door in the cool morning was offered a cup of his strong coffee. When the day warmed, you were offered iced tea with lemon.
All the children in the neighborhood played in his yard. They climbed the pecan trees there, too. And there was always a bowl of finger candy on the top step of his porch.
When young Jack told the old man of his great deeds at school, the man’s words of praise were indelible. And the pat on the shoulder that came with it was gratifying. This was a safe place. This was a place of encouragement.
Jack woke up slowly. The apartment was dark.
“How long?”
“Four to six weeks.”
Jack’s thought’s then went to the cardboard box under his bed. He pictured the certificates of appreciation he had received from The Boy’s and Girl’s Clubs, or for the basketball coaching he used to do for the parks department. Also in the box were a few old cards he’d received from kids he’d known through the years, many of whom were adults now.
Jack realized that the meaning he had achieved was the encouragement of self-worth in others. Like the old man who made a difference in his life, Jack offered a place of encouragement.
In the dark, he bent down and put on his old slippers. They were the thin, corduroy slip-ons you see in all the stores. He picked up the sleeping pills, went to the kitchen and took them all.
He crossed the living room to make sure the window was closed, and then unlocked the front door so they wouldn’t have any difficulty opening it.
Then he went back to the bed, sat down, pulled out of his slippers, and lay down, his thoughts on the box underneath. The pillow felt so good, so cool on a warm night.
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