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Authors: Jane Berentson

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BOOK: Long Division
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“Of course not,” I tell everyone. “What is the universe without nines?”
 
A transcript of the letter I get when I get home:
Hola babe,
It feels weird writing you on paper. I'm the soldier and you're the girl and I'm supposed to do this, right? I'm supposed to curl up on some cot or some corner of my tent and tell you (in cursive) how much I love you and how we'll get such a nice house when I get back. I'll take you to the soda shoppe and we'll go to the movies. Just like old times, Annie! It will be swell. Ha! Not the case. Mostly because you fall asleep in movies and don't eat ice cream. I don't sleep in a cot either. My bed is actually better than the ones in the dorms back in college. And you know I can't write in cursive. The thing about this paper, Annie, the thing is, that it's waterproof, fireproof, vomitproof, bulletproof, deathproof, spaceproof, semenproof paper. I think the army pays something like $4.50 a sheet for the stuff. They issue us a bunch, but I'm not really sure what we're supposed to use it for. So I'm writing you with it. Maybe you can use it for a science experiment with your kids or something? See if you can burn it in an airtight jar. I don't really know what to write since I'll probably talk to you and e-mail you six times before this actually reaches you, so what's the point in giving you all the scoop? It will be old scoop in no time. So, SO ANNIE, what I'm going to do is imbed a secret code word. No, a secret code phrase. And when you get this and you read it, the next time we talk on the phone, you have to use the secret code phrase. But don't just say it, you have to weave it into the conversation all smooth like. And that's how I'll know you got the letter. You ready? The secret code phrase is . . . “Below the Mason-Dixon line!” I don't know where that came from. A bunch of the guys were fi ghting the other day about whether or not Maryland is considered The South. But that's it. That's the secret code phrase. Use it well, my pretty one.
I guess I should be going now. My turn to drive laps around the compound and listen to AC/DC with this douche bag Robertson. I just don't think AC/DC suits the desert night. I love you and miss you, my Annie. This will all be done soon enough. It's already been almost two months. Can you believe it? Of course you believe it. I said so. Ahhhh.
Love and kisses and hugs for you. XOXO. Yours,
David
Secret code phrases? Secret fucking code phrases!??! Yeah, that's cute and all, but when I take my boy back from the army, I do hope I can chisel the army out of my boy. Below the Mason-Dixon line. We've both never even been.
7
T
oday I'm calling my book
Time Out for Karma
, because I've realized that with David gone I finally have more time to pursue semi-altruistic
25
deeds. Back in college I was really into helping out for all the different awareness weeks, and I even spent every Thursday night of my junior year playing dodgeball with about twenty Mexican-American children in a school gymnasium while their parents took free NGOSPONSORED English classes.
26
But since I started teaching full time and since I started snuggling David Peterson full time, my life has managed to squeeze out any aspect of service. And what's scarier is that until very recently, I hadn't even noticed.
I was standing in the kitchen section of Home Depot looking at different patterns of shelf paper. You know, the kind where you peel that back off and stick the top layer inside your cupboards so they look pretty and are easy to clean. It was between a classic red gingham and this floral print that reminded me of a favorite dress I had in elementary school. I had never used shelf paper before. It wasn't a poor college student necessity, but that morning as I moved my cereal boxes into ABC order, the thought of a lovely patterned floor on the shelf struck me as nice. Nice and organized. Put together. With it. A twenty-four-year-old with shelf paper is a twenty-four-year-old with her ducks in a row. If there had been a shelf paper at Home Depot with ducks on it, particularly ducklings, I surely would have chosen it. But as I stood there, debating the aesthetic future of the DARK INSIDES OF MY FUCKING PANTRY, I suddenly changed my mind. Who was I kidding? Shelf paper? What an indulgent waste. What a load of crap.
So I decided that I need to throw positive energy back into the universe—not behind closed doors. I have shamefully chosen not to spend time with the First Wives Knitting Club. I even lied about belonging to a book club. There is something in me (hopefully warm; hopefully patient; hopefully kind) that can affect change or provide assistance to other humans who might need it. And though it's only about 59 percent altruistic of me, I figure giving something back might just line my luck up right. David, I am helping the community to preserve your precious limbs!
I knew I couldn't handle any more children. It wouldn't be fair to my students to over-saturate my life with kiddies and risk burning out my patience and my mysteriously abundant cheer. I also knew that helping animals would make me cry. And really, it was a human connection that I craved. So fund-raising—though donations save sooo much—didn't seem right either.
I thought this out as I wandered through the lumber aisles of Home Depot, enjoying the wafting scents of cedar and pine, occasionally stopping to rub my fingers along the prickly grain. And then I saw this couple. They were old. So very very old. The man was pushing a cart with just three tiny things in it. And the woman was saying something about how they didn't really need a tool shed. She said, “Frank, you're not even supposed to use a hacksaw anymore.” I could tell she had one of those hairstyles that must get “set” once a week at the salon. I imagined her name to be Dorothy or Wilma. I hoped very much that it was Wilma. And that's when I figured it out. Helping old people! A nursing home! An old folks' home! A sterile assisted-living complex! Surely therein lies a poor old soul who needs a hand with letter writing or reading out loud or maybe just talking about
The Golden Girls
or something.
I left Home Depot without a single purchase, and I thought about old folks the entire way home. An old woman (or man, whatever) will want to talk about herself. She'll have one hundred years of stories rattling around in a brain that no one really pays attention to. Except I'll be paying attention, and I'll ask questions, and we'll never ever talk about boring little me. Maybe we'll watch old films together and she'll tell me about how her dead husband looked just like Clark Gable when he was young. And that on their honeymoon cruise they pretended he actually was Clark Gable and he signed autographs for all the other guests. Oh, those were the days. She'll laugh. I'll laugh. It will be so awesome.
When I got home I searched for nursing homes online. There are three within ten miles of my house, and I decided that Violet Meadows sounded like a promising name. Gentle violets swaying in a breeze. Clean, crisp sheets and giggling exercise sessions in wheelchairs. I gave them a call.
“Hi, my name is Annie Harper. I teach third grade at Franklin Elementary, and I'm looking for a volunteer job.” The woman on the phone sighed. It was one of those super exasperated sighs, and I wondered what I had done wrong.
“Sorry, sweetheart, no kids here. The little ones are just too germy. We don't allow groups of children on premises for the safety and health of our residents.”
“No, no. That's not what I mean.
I
just want to volunteer. By myself. Alone.”
“Oh, well, in that case, you will need to come by between ten and five on a weekday and fill out an application with our volunteer coordinator.”
“Okay. Great. Thank you. I'll be by tomorrow. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and made myself some popcorn. I know it's supposed to give you cancer, but I stood right in front of the microwave staring into the semitranslucent door and watching the bag spin and swell. Just like my heart, I thought. Add some new force and heat to it. Watch it grow grow grow. Taste good. Feel better. Share.
This
is how the universe functions.
 
The Violet Meadows Retirement Center is completely gray inside. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. I know these kinds of homes are expensive and that extra funds are probably not spent on snazzy interior design. Maybe I can propose a paint day? I imagine paint rollers with super long handles so any wheelchaired octogenarian with enough arm strength can help out. Maybe we'd play big band music while we work. But as soon as I see the first little clump of residents, half of them snoozing and drooling in front of a fuzzy television screen of MacGyver scaling a wall, I realize that painting isn't too likely at all.
The volunteer coordinator is also the activities coordinator, and she has three of these creepy kitty bobblehead dolls affixed to the top of her computer monitor. They're made of felt-covered plastic, and the way they bobble is nothing like the way a real cat would actually move. Her office is just a little more pleasant than what else I've seen of Violet Meadows, and I see that her calendar has
X
s marked over each passed day.
Promise promise promise. I promise on every healthy, vital organ I have NEVER to do this.
“So, Annie, what are you interested in helping out with? We can get you a conversation partner. We have plenty of residents who are sick of each other and eager to converse with a new face.”
She says this without a flicker of enthusiasm and with a distance and disgust that freaks me out. Like the residents are rabid dogs that need someone to calmly make hushing noises while slipping trays of food through a cage door.
“Yeah. Perfect. Exactly. Sounds just right. Sign me up.” I fill out this questionnaire about myself that the woman (her name is Jean) pulls from a faded red folder that looks older than me. It asks questions about my employment history, my interests, what kind of books I read and what kind of movies I like. It reminds me of e-mail forwards that would get passed around in college. Except no Bud Light vs. Coors Light or top vs. bottom type provocative stuff.
When I finish, Jean asks me a few questions about my availability, how much time I can commit to, and whether I've ever been convicted of a felony. She says she'll give me a call. As I'm trying to shuffle quietly down the corridor toward the exit, I hear a
psssst
behind me. It's the kind of noise my ears pick up all the time when eight-year-olds try to pass notes during silent reading. It's a noise meant to grab someone's attention in a gentle, sneaky way. It is just so strange turning cautiously around to find the noise maker a white-haired, robe-wearing, curvy-backed old woman. I say hi.
“Well now, Francine,” she says to me, slowly and like she's said it four thousand times before, “it's about time you got your ass out of that whorehouse and in here to see me. It's about time.” I do that classic head check behind me thing to see if some Francine has appeared behind me in the hall. It's empty, and I start to say something like
no, no, I'm sorry, I'm not
. And then I stop. The woman sighs and asks me if I'm going to come on into her parlor or not. I'm frozen. Just then Jean comes shuffling out of her office. She tells me she's sorry and that Mrs. Jameson is just confused.
“Let me walk you to the door,” she says. And we're not even that far away. Mrs. Jameson is still leaning against the door jam of her “parlor,” and unless the batteries in her hearing aids are dead, of course she can hear us. Of course she can hear fat Jean and her loose, uncensored mouth say to me with a harsh, grating tone, “Don't worry, Annie. I won't pair you up with anyone delusional.”
Jesus Fucking Christ. I figure this whole deal might be a bit depressing. Once I get back home I eat a bowl of cornflakes for dinner. I slather them in honey and lactose-free milk and think about Mrs. Jameson in her parlor. Hoping that Francine will actually pay a visit someday.
 
“Old folks, Annie? Damn, you are such a sap. But in a good way. Like a cute sap.” There is a long, staticky pause. The heavy breathing of the miles between us. “Sounds like an okay idea, but if you were too busy for Angela Henderson, how do you have time to do this?” I re-explain to him that I wasn't too busy for Angela Henderson, I think she makes great pigs in blankets and is a totally sweet lady, but I just wasn't into sitting around and griping about this stupid ride we're all on. I think I succeeded at least a tiny bit in showing him my side of the story, but I could still sense a bit of hurt in his voice because I had chosen strange old ladies over the wives of the men he was surely growing closer to. Can't say I blame him too much.
“So how's everything? You guys getting along? Anything awful happen lately?”
BOOK: Long Division
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ads

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