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The phone rings and even though I don’t have that gizmo that tells me who’s calling, I pretty much know who it is. I mean, I’m eighty-four years old, my wife’s been dead twenty years and I live alone on what’s left of this farm. If it’s not Louise, my eldest calling from Cincinnati, it’s Anna, my other daughter in Seattle. Given the trouble I’ve been having with Louise lately, if I had to bet the farm, I’d guess it’s her.
I don’t want to answer it. I’m sick of arguing. But if it is Louise, she’s not going to give up. The phone rings for maybe the tenth time. I pick it up because I’m sure it’ll ring all morning if I don’t.
“Hello, Dad, it’s me.”
Louise. I win the bet. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. “Who’s this?”
“Cut it out. You know very well who this is.”
“Well maybe I do, and maybe I don’t. It depends if you called to be nice or to raise Cain again.”
I hear her heavy sigh. “All right. Peace. But can we talk?”
“Apology accepted.” I know she hasn’t actually apologized but given that she’s as stubborn as her mother, I take what I can get. “By the way,” I say, “This connection is bad. You talking in a cave on your Bluebeard or whatever you call it?”
“No,” she says. “I’m home. I have you on speakerphone. And it’s called a Bluetooth.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not talking to any pirate.”
She laughs. A good sign.
“Why are you calling?”
I swear I can hear her busting a blood vessel all the way up here in northern Ohio. “To check on the price of soybeans! Why do you think I’m calling? To see if you’ve fallen on your head while raking leaves. To see if you fell in the shower again and broken anything else. To see if you’ve had a stroke and are staring wide-eyed and drooling at Wheel of Fortune.”
I laugh. Have to admit it’s a funny mental picture. “Negative on all of the above. I’m having a cup of coffee and some Oreo cookies. They used to be your favorite.” I’m smart enough not to tell her that as soon as we’re done on the phone, I’m taking the half-mile walk down the lane to meet my friends.
“Well, thank God for that,” she says. “Seriously, Dad, you know you can’t be staying there in your condition.”
Now it’s my turn to get mad. Sooner or later, every one of our conversations eventually gets around to this. Only usually not this quickly.
“Hey I got a joke for you. A Jew, a Catholic and a Buddhist die and go to the Pearly Gates…”
“I’ve heard it,” Louise interrupts.
I’m hurt. “How do you know? I just started it.”
“Believe me, Dad, I’ve heard all your jokes. Now tell me the truth, how have you been feeling?”
She’s right of course. But I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty funny guy. Helen, when she was alive, didn’t agree. Well, that’s not entirely true. She said I was funny the first five times I told a story. After that, I was just boring. The problem is, if you’ve been married sixty-four years like we were, five times hearing the same story is probably the minimum.
That’s where the ducks come in. They’re the world’s best audience. I wander down the lane to the pond with a baggie full of duck food stashed in my coat pocket, and they’re cackling and chuckling even before I get started. The wood ducks are okay and are more discriminating than the mallards. The joke has to be pretty good before you can get a wood duck to laugh. Teals are dumber than rocks. They just never seem to get it. I can let go with one of my all-time best jokes, and they don’t even let out a cackle. Maybe it’s because they’re hard of hearing with their head stuck in their back feathers and all. But the geese, they’re the best. All I have to do is start out with, “Two guys walk into a bar,” and they’re off cackling and guffawing even if I’ve told the joke to them ten times before. God, I love the geese.
I realize my daughter is impatiently waiting for an answer. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t consider falling and fracturing your elbow as exactly being fine. You could have hit your head and killed yourself.”
“Not to worry,” I say. “It was my left elbow. I’m right-handed.”
“Nice try, Dad, but jokes aren’t going to cut it. This is serious business. You can’t care for yourself there alone.”
“I thought you wanted to make peace. We’ve been all through this. Somehow I’ve been able to take care of myself for the last seventy odd years without help. I’m not about to quit now and move into some nursing home. I saw on the news last week where a bunch of geezers in a home died of food poisoning. The cook decided it was too much trouble to wash his hands. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen to me. If I’m going to die, it’ll be from my own cooking.”
“I’m not taking about a nursing home,” she says. “I want you to move in with Frank and me. With the kids grown, there’s plenty of room for the three of us.”
I like that idea even less than the nursing home. “You talk to Frank about that, or are you making this decision on your own?”
“Frank’s in perfect agreement. We both want you to move in with us.”
Louise never was a good liar. “Yeah, and I’m the King of Siam. Forget it; I’m doing just fine here.” Okay, maybe now I’m lying a bit. Truth told, it has been harder to keep myself going, especially when the winter comes on like it’s been threatening to do the last two weeks. And it’s not like I have that much to do, especially since I sold the farm fifteen years ago. The new owners let me keep the house, but I’m out of farming altogether. Still, it’s my place. I was born here in Ottoville, and I’m fixing to die here. Moving in with Louise and her well-meaning but humorless husband would make me a quick fan of suicide.
I break out of my thoughts to hear my daughter still going on about the advantages of Cincinnati, something about senior centers and half-priced movie theaters. “Look, Dad, I’ve talked to Anna about it. We don’t want to pull rank, but we both agree that, for your own good, you need to move in here with Frank and me.”
“My good or yours?” I don’t appreciate my daughters making decisions for me like I’m some incompetent child.
“Whichever,” Louise says. “Truth is, I can’t keep running up there two hundred miles each way every weekend to make sure you’re okay. It’s only going to get worse when the snow starts.”
This conversation is getting nowhere. “Then don’t come,” I say. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, I can’t do that. Look, I’ll be there this Saturday, and you’re moving here with us, at least for a while. We can always reassess things when your elbow gets better. Please, just pack some things for the trip. We can work out the details later.”
I shouldn’t be mean. After all, she and her sister are just trying to help. But, damn it, I don’t want to go. “Don’t hold your breath,” I say and hang up before she can answer.
Which is why I’m down here at the pond after getting off the phone with Louise. I need someone who still thinks I ‘got it,’ who doesn’t believe I’m incapable of cutting my own meat and getting around the house without dropping ass-over-heels on my head. Even before I reach the water, the geese start toward me, honking out how happy they are to see me. The white goose with the spot on his beak is the boldest. He starts poking around my coat pocket impatiently, making sure I haven’t forgotten how to butter up my audience.
“Hey, boys,” I call out. “Good to see you, too.” I take out some feed from the baggie and toss it to them. Pandemonium. “You guys should be happy you were down here rather than up at the house when my daughter called. Got to tell you, it wasn’t pretty. That girl's as ornery as a drake protecting her nest. Gets her mind onto something, and no joke or story in the world is going to get her off the track.
“Which reminds me. A guy goes to a psychiatrist. ‘Doc,’ he says, ‘I keep having these alternating recurring dreams. First I'm a teepee, then I'm a wigwam, then I'm a teepee, and then I'm a wigwam. It's driving me crazy. What's wrong with me?’
“The doctor replies, ‘It's very simple. You're two tents.’”
The mallards are laughing like no one’s business. Like usual, the damn teals don’t get it. I throw out some more feed. “How about this one? A hungry African lion comes across two men. One is sitting under a tree reading a book; the other is typing away on his typewriter. The lion pounces on the man reading the book and devours him. Why? Because even the king of the jungle knows that readers digest and writers cramp.” The geese are going nuts. Even the wood ducks think it’s funny. I’m feeling good. I mean, I have a million of them.
I think of what life would be like without my audience. “Seriously, guys, I really am at my wits’ end. I don’t know what to do with Louise. All I know is I’d rather be on a slab in the morgue than live in some condo with her and her fish-faced husband.”
I turn to the terns, which begin to laugh. Just like them to go for the unfunny parts. “Yeah,” I say, “Go ahead and laugh. It won’t be so great for you guys, either. Winter comes, and I’m the best friend you got.”
I empty out the bag on the ground and watch the birds fight among themselves for supper. “Face it, boys. We need each other. Comic and straight man. Abbott and Costello.” The terns don’t have a clue who I’m talking about. I turn away and hobble up the lane back toward the house.
Saturday. I hear a car pulling up the drive. The Meals-on-Wheels guy has already been here, and it’s too early for the postman. The only one left is Louise. She can’t take no for an answer. I’m not looking forward to seeing her, for more reasons than one. The screen door slams behind her. “Dad?”
“In here,” I yell. I don’t feel like hunting for my cane and struggling out of the living room chair.
Louise comes into the room. She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. Her brown hair is done up in a knot, and she’s not wearing make-up. Still, at fifty-five, she’s beautiful, even if her father says so himself. Her good looks are another way she’s like her mother. For about the hundredth time today, I realize how much I miss Helen. “Dad, I got the minivan empty and parked out front. You ready to... Jesus, what happened to your face?”
I reach up and touch the large bump on my forehead. It still hurts, and I know from looking in the mirror this morning that the bruise has turned an ugly purple. “I took a header day before yesterday. Kind of lost my balance and tripped over the broom.” I can see that she’s in shock at the way I look. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not a big deal. I got up and finished what I was doing. I’ve been fine since.”
“Did you call the doctor? And why didn’t you call me?” She walks over to where I’m sitting. “Come on, we’re going to the hospital right now. How do you know you don’t have a concussion?”
I know I shouldn’t get angry, she means well, but I can’t help myself. Is this what I have to look forward to when I move to Cincinnati? “I said I’m fine. Besides, if I go to the hospital, I’m afraid that next week’s headline in the Putnam County Sentinel will read, ‘X-rays of Wallace Swenson’s head reveal nothing.’”
“Dad, that’s not funny.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but I’ve been waiting my whole life to use that joke.”
Louise sits on the sofa across from me. The springs creak in protest. She’s not heavy or anything; the last time I changed the furniture was five years before Helen died. “Well, that seals it. You’re coming home with me. And I don’t want any more arguing. Okay?” I’d surrendered right after my fall but she doesn’t know that, and I’m not telling.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ve already packed a few things. But you have to stop treating me like a child. When I gave you power of attorney, I don’t remembering signing any papers appointing you as my parent.”
“Deal,” she says. “I don’t mean to be overbearing. It’s just that I worry about you. We all do.”
It’s tough to stay angry at that, even though holding out a few minutes more might have been good for both of us. I reach for my cane and get up, not, I admit, without some difficulty. My hip is still plenty sore from the fall. I’ve conveniently forgotten to tell her that part of the story. If Louise sees how I’m struggling, she wisely says nothing. “You ready to go then?”
“Yeah, but I have to make a stop first. Also, I need the keys to the van. My bags are upstairs in the bedroom. You get them, and I’ll meet you outside.” She's going to have a hard time finding the two suitcases I’ve stashed under the bed. I figure that’ll keep her busy for five or ten minutes, enough time for me to do what I need.
I go into the garage and put a thirty-pound sack of duck food into my wheelbarrow. I know Louise would go nuts if she saw me struggling with it. I roll the wheelbarrow to the van –it’s tough to do this with only one good arm – open the hatchback and throw it in. When she finally comes down with my suitcases, I’m sitting innocently in the front seat.
She throws my bags into the backseat. “Jeez, Dad, you didn’t tell me they were under the bed. I had to search all over the room for them.”
“Sorry. Forgot I stuck them there. One of the privileges of old age, I guess.”
She starts the car. “So where do we have to stop before we head home? I don’t want to hit traffic around Dayton.”
I don’t like calling Cincinnati ‘home,’ but I say nothing. “The pond.” I see incredulity. “No questions. I’m going to Cincinnati with you without a fight. I need to do this before I go.”
We drive down the lane in silence. The ducks seem confused to see a vehicle approaching. They’re used to seeing me on foot. “Stop here,” I say, as Louise reaches the edge of the water. “Shut off the engine and wait in the car. I won’t be long.”
“Dad, what are you up to? At least let me help.”
“Remember, I said no questions. Thanks for the offer, but I have to do this myself. Just pop the back door and wait here.” I struggle out the door and hobble to the rear. It’s been a long time since I’ve lifted thirty pounds on my own, and my aching hip isn’t helping any. But I don’t want Louise to see how much of a burden it is. I need her to stay in the van.
The boys are happy to see me. The geese are chuckling already. The mallards are waddling over, looking at my coat pocket. I rip open the sack and empty it on the ground. “Eat up, boys. This looks like the last feast I’m going to be able to give you. You could call it The Last Supper.” Even the wood ducks laugh at that one. Maybe I’ve misread them all these years. Could be they like religious jokes. Wish I had known that earlier.
“Got to go to Cincinnati with my daughter. So I won’t be here to feed you any more, at least until winter is over. Guess you could call me a fowl weather friend.” The goose with the spot on his nose is eating it up. Literally and figuratively. “Anyway, I just stopped by to say goodbye.”
The geese are going from the food to me and back again. Clearly, they want an encore. “Okay,” I say. “One for old time’s sake.” I look at the terns. “And, for once, you guys pay attention.
“A man in a bar has a couple of beers, and the bartender tells him he owes $6.50. ‘But I paid, don't you remember?’ says the customer.
“‘Okay,’ says the bartender, ‘if you said you paid, you did.’
“The man then goes outside and tells the first man he sees that the bartender can't keep track of whether his customers have paid. This second man rushes in, orders a beer and later pulls the same stunt. The barkeeper replies, ‘If you say you paid, I'll take your word for it.’
”Soon this customer goes out onto the street, sees an old friend, and tells him how to get free drinks. The guy hurries into the bar and begins to drink highballs. Suddenly the bartender leans over and says, ‘You know, a funny thing happened in here tonight. Two men were drinking beer, neither paid and both claimed that they did. The next guy who tries that is going to get punched right in the face.’
“’Don't bother me with your troubles,’” the final patron responds. ‘Just give me my change, and I'll be on my way.’”
The geese are hysterical. One is so helpless with laughter that he craps on the spot. I make my way through the crowd and get back into the van. The geese and mallards walk toward my door. I open the window. “Thank you,” I say softly. “You’ve been a great audience. Get home safe.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Louise says. “We will.”