It was his vision of our life in retirement.
To me, it seems a good way for people to
understand the essence of our relationship.
--Elaine

Looking at the Stars 
By Steven R. Doss  
Thursday, 7-2-98   

He shuffled along the walk favoring his right leg, a condition present so long he never noticed it anymore.  Instead, he focused upon the breeze bending the sea oats, the seagulls dipping and diving at an old crone spreading bread crumbs on the sand, the low waves breaking close in and the vaguely fishy smell they emanated. It promised to be a nice day…not too hot, not too cool, and only mildly humid.  He gave thanks for every one like it, because they were fewer and fewer as winter approached.  And the Lord knew, he dreaded the winter.      

Even the mild winter weather of South Charleston Bay was burdensome at this point in his life.  Though it rarely dipped below fifty, because of the gulf-stream, he could never seem to stay warm.  Remembering briefly the winters spent in Indiana gave him an involuntary chill even now, when it was seventy-two at eight am.  He pulled his jacket closer and hunched his shoulders.  “Yes.  Today will be nice”, he mumbled to no one in particular, but to everyone in general.

He reached Pierre’s just as a young couple was entering.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to struggle with the heavy door.  Passing by them, he removed his beret and bowed slightly in thanks.  They both smiled and chuckled lowly.  He smiled too, thinking, “They always like that formal polite dowager bit”.  And he made his way to his usual table on the deck facing the sea.

Terese, Pierre’s wife, appeared quickly with his black coffee, tomato juice, and ice water.  “How are you today, Mr. Doss?” she asked. 

“Comme ci, comme ca, et vous?”

“Ah! Vous parlais Francais ce jour!  Bien! Bien! Monsieur Doss.”

The old man regarded her evenly for several moments thinking she was a very pleasant woman and wondering if she shaved under her arms.  He shook himself back to the present when he realized she had spoken again and he hadn’t registered it.  “Sorry, what did you say?”

Thinking he didn’t understand her French she repeated, “I asked what you were having.”

“Oh, yes.  Just the usual Terese.”  And as she started away, he added, “And what’s today’s croissant special?”

“Strawberry.”

“Good. Give me two to go.”

She turned away thinking, “Isn’t that sweet.  He always takes something home for her.”  He lost himself in thought about the kids living so far away, their Siamese--Murray, and about getting him neutered…he winced at that.  And he speculated about the coming elections and thought, “The heck with it”, for he knew she would be downtown licking envelopes for her latest political icon.  “Always flailing at windmills”, he said aloud, but smiled to himself.

His smile broadened as Terese set his eggs benedict in front of him.  Pierre made them just the way he liked them…with béarnaise instead of hollandaise and the eggs poached for two minutes, not two and a half like most places did them.  He enjoyed this little deception from her.  She told him the sauce, eggs, and butter weren’t good for his cholesterol, at which he always retorted, “It hasn’t hurt me in 83 years, it won’t hurt today.”  Still he didn’t tell her he ate here every morning and smiled again at the thought as he smeared butter thickly on his croissant.

As he left Pierre’s, he noted the height scale on the door facing and snorted derisively as he saw again that he might be…might be 5’8”.  “Used to be 6 foot”, he grumbled to no one in particular and everyone in general.  And he shuffled on down the walk towards South Charleston proper.  Fifteen minutes later, his goal in sight, he sighed appreciatively, his hip talking to him now.

He opened the library door, entered, and repeated his “beret bow” to Ms. Clancy at the circulation desk and proceeded to the periodicals.  He took USA Today and The Atlantic Constitution to the sun-room and sat in “his” chair, an old Lane recliner partially behind an elephant palm.  The bag from Pierre’s between his feet, he surveyed the front-page and settled on a lead story. “Chelsea:  The First Woman President?” it asked.

“The heck with it”, he answered.

At 10:30, she began her daily constitutional with arm and leg weights in place.  She strode purposefully through the beach house door, arms swinging briskly, and headed up the walk running along the beach.  Her bandana was knotted at her brow and her fanny pack full of the essentials—her ID, library card, keys and five dollars, just in case he’d forgotten her croissants.

She nodded pleasantly at the youngsters running towards the water ahead of their parents.  “Tourist”, she speculated.  Anyone who lived here didn’t run to the beach.  After all, it would still be there if they walked.  But she understood…she’d run to the water everyday for the first six months they lived here.  Remembering that brought back the occasion of their move.  It didn’t seem like thirty years. She shook her head in wonder and smiled.

It was on the occasion of his first advance for a published work.  He was fifty and had long since given up on ever earning a living as a writer. And, if the truth were known, she was beginning to have her doubts, though she never told him.  He’d had some success writing seasonal articles for periodicals, and two of this novels were published, but weren’t well received and they’d profited very little.  All in all, he considered it a hobby and felt behooved to teach when called and run his yard service.  But his publisher liked The Problem with Wives and had advanced them $50,000.  It sold 220,000 copies and they moved to the beach.  The memories still made her smile.

After the move, she’d only taught part-time.  It freed her to pursue her other interests and to be a “stay at home” mom to the last four of the six kids.  She’d started a newsletter for the local Mental Health Association and lobbied in Columbia for reform laws.  She’d passed the 40-gallon mark for the Red Cross and she’d served for ten years on the Charleston County School Board, retiring at 70.  Also, she was politically active, though that was probably an understatement.

She had been a poll-watcher, a phone solicitor, a door-knocker, a poster-hanger and a hand-shaker at rallies.  She had given out buttons, licked envelopes and stuffed ads in newspapers.  She had been a delegate at both the state and national level.  Currently, she was an alderman and chairperson of the county Democratic Committee.  Yes, no moss grew on her, even in retirement. 

Passing Pierre’s, she saw that strawberry was today’s flavor.  “Good”, she thought, “one of my favorites.” 

A passer-by might wonder why the elderly power walker was smiling. “Probably really likes her exercise”, they might think.  They’d never guess it related to her husband’s breakfast.  She knew he thought she didn’t know he ate there everyday. She did. But what he didn’t know was that Terese and Pierre fed him low-salt ham and tomato juice, no-fat breads, and the butter was really no-fat margarine.  Also, his precious béarnaise sauce was made with skim milk, not cream, and no egg yolks.  “Let the old poop have his secrets”, she thought and picked up her pace.

She reached the library doors a full minute faster than yesterday.  Pleased with that, she gave a jaunty wave to Ms. Clancy, who pointed in the direction of the sunroom and smiled.

There he was…her lover of 42 years and husband of 40.  He didn’t look all that different in sleep.  The relaxed state smoothed out most of the wrinkles and he only weighed 200 pounds—20 more than when they’d met.  Sure, his hair was thinner and what there was of it was gray, but still, not that much different now than then.  His reading glasses hung on their chain and the life section of USA Today lay on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing and low snore.

She shook him and he roused.  Upon recognition, he beamed at her and she felt that familiar “zing” all the way to her hands.  It moved her that he was so happy to see her.

Recovering himself, he grumbled, “What are you doing here Old Woman…checking up on me?”

“Course I am, you old poop!  Came to see if I could catch you with your girlfriend”, she responded in their ritual parlay.

“Oh, she left hours ago.”  He waved at her dismissingly.

“It’s a good thing.  I’d hate to have to shoot ya’ right here in the library.”

“That’s okay.  It’s just the way I want to go.”  He stood and stretched before hugging her and kissing her on the mouth. She looked around self-consciously and her cheeks flushed.  “I love you, Puddin’, he crooned lowly.

“Me too”, she answered.

They held hands as they walked back up the path each had taken. She slowed her pace to accommodate his limp. But she it enjoyed it anyway--the closeness and ease in their presence.  “What’s in the bag?” she asked presently.

“Chicken livers for Murray”, he said.

“Oh, he’ll like those”, she replied, going along with him.  “Anything good in the paper?”

“Yeah.  Did you know that Chelsea Clinton-Kennedy is running for president?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course.  I’m her Charleston County campaign manager”, she chirped importantly.

“God help us!” he sighed.  “I think you should all stay barefoot and pregnant.”  He added as an afterthought.

“Well, Lord knows you tried with me.” 

“Yeah, and I’m not through, yet.”  He pinched her bottom and she giggled.

“You’re a randy old poop.  You know that?”  She laughed.

“That’s right.  Just because there’s snow on the roof, doesn’t mean there’s not fire in the furnace.”

“I’ve heard that one before..” She allowed.

“You’ve heard all my stuff”, he sighed with resignation.  She squeezed his hand and they walked on in silence.  Finally, he said, “These aren’t really liver.”

“I know that.”

Thinking of his breakfast, he replied, “Don’t think you know everything.” And he chuckled lowly.

“I’m sure you’re right, Honey,” she smiled and leaned her hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sure you’re right.”

Note: Steve wrote this story from Tippecanoe County Jail, where he was serving a six-month sentence for public intoxication.  It was his vision of how our life in retirement would be.  Although it is not his best work, it is by far my favorite.

A letter accompanied  the story from Steve.  He told me that he had just read a quote from Oscar Wilde that seemed pertinent…”We’re all in the gutter…Some of us are looking at the stars.”

The morning that Steve died, I needed something constructive to do.  I remembered this story,  found it and typed it.  I sent it to my friends to let them know the Steve that I knew and loved.

-Elaine Doss