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The Last Sunset

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THE LAST SUNSET BY DANIEL JAY PAUL [email protected] COPYRIGHT 2009 BY DANIEL JAY PAUL 2 Is it the wisdom of the ages or the knowledge of the aged that we revere? And in the end is it death or undying love that prevails? ONE On the outskirts of the small city of Evergreen, thirty miles from where the White Pine River empties into Lake Michigan at Farehaven, the river gently meanders past the Pioneer Manor Nursing Home. It was a sultry June morning, as Steve Hadley eased his car through the gently winding curves along the riverbank, out past the city limits. An anxiousness gnawed at his stomach in nervous anticipation. What did community service really mean? How bad could it be? Emptying patient bedpans? Peeling potatoes in the kitchen? Scrubbing toilets? It was an old fear, at least as old as a nineteen year-old can have, the fear of the unknown. Steve cracked the side window of his Ford Mustang in response to the beads of sweat ponding on the curly blond hair at the back of his neck. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he pulled up the drive. One thousand hours of community service, he couldn’t really believe it. Obviously, the judge had no sense of humor when it came to college pranks. This prank had involved too much alcohol, too much spray paint, and, as luck would have it, a sculpture donated to the university by Judge Granby’s family. He was sure now, in objective reflection, that losing his temper in the courtroom hadn’t helped his situation either. 3 Steve wheeled into a parking spot, ignoring the ‘employee of the month’ sign, listened to the end of “The Horizontal Bop” on his tape player, and turned off the car. He walked slowly, his amble showing neither arrogance nor fear; he was determined to not let it show. He was tall, and broad at the shoulder, but narrow at the hip. The arms extending from his short sleeve, green polo shirt, were muscular and sculpted. His blue eyes flashed over the landscape, taking in a facility that he had passed a hundred times before, perhaps a thousand, but had never noticed. Unkempt arbors surrounded the building, white paint from the wood trim carelessly splattered on the chocolate brown brick. Nurse Hackett met him ten steps inside the door, sized him up instantly, and looked at her watch, “You’re late!” “You know who I am?” Steve wondered aloud. “You’re the jailbird, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, “come with me.” Nancy Hackett had the shape of a mushroom turned upside down. She was a shade over five foot, her pudgy, round face, which bore a small mole by her lip, was still pleasant despite the abundance of her excess weight. She waddled down the corridor, the floor of tan tiles flecked with white bordered by tan concrete block walls glistening under the florescent glow, her enormous buttocks bouncing with every step. Steve followed along like a lost puppy examining his new surroundings. If death had a color, he was sure that the Pioneer Manor Nursing Home was decorated in that grim hue. Nancy Hackett had once been a good nurse, there was a time not so long ago when she actually cared about her job, and the people that she cared for. In fact, she did not even realize that she had stopped caring, but she had, suffering under the dominance of her husband Barton Hackett, the nursing home administrator. His unrelenting 4 pursuit of the dollar bill had worn her down, for when he wasn’t talking about money directly, he was talking about discipline, staff discipline and fiscal discipline, and productivity, always productivity. Some days she would like to take his productivity and tell him just where he could stick it. She led Steve to an office marked ‘Barton Hackett, Executive Director’, “Wait here,” she commanded, and entered the room unceremoniously. “Steve Hadley is here from Judge Granby,” she announced without emotion. Barton Hackett looked up at his wife, her hair short, red, and tidy. He was eight years her senior, but he was sure she was well on her way to catching up. He wasn’t a medical person by training, he was a certified numbers cruncher, but he was sure, nevertheless, that the extra load she struggled with continuously was aging her rapidly. He looked up at her blue eyes behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, and then down to her hips, which had a circumference that equaled her height. When he thought of the girl he had married ten short years before, it hurt him just to look at her. At twenty-three she had possessed an athletic body. How could he have known that she didn’t have the fortitude or constitution to maintain it? He no longer made any public reference to her as his wife, and spent the private moments, when visions of her and her obesity forced their way into his thoughts, assuring himself that he had no part in the blame for her condition. He sighed. “Show him in, Nurse Hackett.” Steve felt as though he were being either ushered into the inner sanctum of a holy shrine, or let in the private, behind the scenes area of a funeral parlor, he didn’t know which. “Mr. Hackett, Judge Granby sent me over.” Steve extended his hand, offering a folded letter from the court. 5 Barton Hackett looked up from his desk. He was immaculately groomed, and dressed in the finest executive manner, a starched white shirt with gold collar pin securing a blue and gray striped tie with gold tie clasp, all neatly framed by a Brooks Brothers suit. He had grown stocky and had developed a touch of silver at his temples, but now, at forty-one, it was not unattractive for someone of the executive persuasion. When Barton looked at Steve, he saw a child of privilege, a class, a condition, which invoked his intense and immediate dislike. Of course, Steve did not see himself in that light. After all, the Mustang convertible his parents had given him wasn’t new, and it wasn’t like he had a monogram sweater for every day of the week, every other day at most. For every gift or opportunity that you could point out that Steve had, he could point to two that he didn’t. Barton did not extend his hand to take the paper. “I would invite you to sit down, Mr. Hadley, if this were a social visit,” Barton spoke softly, a snarl in his undertone, “but it’s not and you will not be staying that long.” “Won’t I?” Steve was letting optimism get the best of him, thinking that the whole thing might really be a sham, that they really had no use for him in a place like this, that maybe somebody somewhere had realized the whole matter would be better resolved with turpentine and elbow grease. “No, I’ll be handing you back over to Nurse Hackett for your work assignment as soon as I’m sure you know the lay of the land around here, and especially clear up any misconceptions you might have concerning who’s the boss.” “I think I’m fairly clear on that, Mr. Hackett,” said Steve, “those big gold letters on your door makes that kind of hard to miss.” “Do I note a hint of sarcasm in your voice, Mr. 6 Hadley?” Steve was not much on trying to read other people, but there was no mistaking that when senses of humor were being handed out, Barton Hackett was standing in another line. “I’m just a poor college kid, Mr. Hackett, I don’t even own any sarcasm.” “Are you a fool, Mr. Hadley?” “Well, sir, I guess that depends on who you ask.” What was this asshole getting at? Steve thought. “I’m sure Judge Granby believes I’m a fool.” “Do you believe I’m a fool, Mr. Hadley?” “No, sir, I don’t believe you’re anybody’s fool.” “Do you believe you’re here to make a fool of me?” “I’m not here to make anything of you, sir.” “Do you know what I believe, Mr. Hadley?” “I truthfully don’t have a clue.” “I believe that those of us who find ourselves in positions of authority are obligated to encourage, extol, and coerce, if necessary, those who are in our charge toward a higher purpose. Don’t you?” Steve stood perplexed, the backs of his calves were beginning to tighten up from standing in one spot for so long. Had he stumbled into the kingdom of some religious zealot or what? “I certainly believe you believe it,” he said. “And what is it you believe in, Mr. Hadley?” Was this a trick question? Did he dare answer sunny days, beautiful girls, and driving ninety miles an hour with the top down with “When I Learn to Fly” by the Foo Fighters blasting on the stereo? Did he dare, was he really a fool? Steve stood silent for a moment. “Well?” Barton’s impatience was showing. “Happiness,” Steve said finally. “Happiness?” chuckled Barton, “well you see where that belief has gotten you, don’t you?” He shook his head as if staring into the face of sheer ignorance. “What in the world has ever been learned by happiness?” 7 “Is that a rhetorical question, Mr. Hackett?” “Nothing!” Barton shouted. “That’s what’s been learned by happiness, absolutely nothing.
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