Keeping the Company

I walk past his house every day to and from my bus stop. His house, the only one on my block with a short picket fence, stands out among all the rockeries that line the sidewalk. On most sunny days, he sits in his rocking chair perched high up on his open porch. With a blank stare towards the street, he watches cars, people and all else that passes by.

I’ve gotten accustomed to seeing him up there. I usually give a wave or shout a “Hello Mr. Peterson,” as I walked by. He always kindly waves with a smile and hello back.

Today, however, was different. Instead of obliging a hello or even a smile, he nodded a little, deep in thought, still entranced in his blank stare to somewhere on the porch.

I stopped just outside the fence. “Hello Mr. Peterson,” this time a bit louder.

His eyes swung over to meet mine. “Oh, hello Grace, how long have you been standing there?”

“Not long.” I answered as I watched his eyes drift downward again. “Mr. Peterson, are you ok?”

Mr. Peterson paused for a longtime as if contemplating an answer. His brows furrowed before the words escaped from his mouth. “Well…” He said with a deep sigh. “It’s been a year since my Marlena passed and well, I’m just having a hard day.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I sympathized and looked over at the empty chair next to him in which she used to sit. I paused for a long time not knowing what to say.

Mrs. Peterson the block gossiper, would sit out on the porch with him. She would often flag neighborhood passersby down to stop and exchange news of the latest happenings. If you needed to get the scoop on who got their power shut off or who’s moving out or moving in, she was the one who always knew.

Mr. Peterson looked down sadly at his hands as if he wished he was holding something of hers in them.

“Mr. Peterson, would you like some company?” I finally added.

“Ohhh, I guess I wouldn’t mind,” he said after a long contemplation.

“How about dinner? I have beef stew in my crock pot at home. I can bring it over,” I offered.

“Well, I haven’t eaten all day, but I probably should eat a little something.” He paused. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had beef stew. Marlena used to...” he lost momentum as his words faded to a whisper.

“So, it’s a date?” I smiled to try and lighten the load.

He looked up as if snapped out of a daze. “Well, I suppose it is.” His weary eyes brightened a bit as the corners of his mouth turn slightly upward to a grin.

Thirty minutes later, I was hauling my crock pot full of stew up the four steps of Mr. Peterson’s porch. A bag containing a bottle of wine slid off my shoulder and onto my wrist as I struggled to ring the doorbell.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming.” He said as he opened the door. “Let me help you. You really didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” he said as he took the crock pot into the kitchen.

“Mr. Peterson, Why would I not come? I could use the company too. I hope you are hungry. I also brought some wine. Do you like Merlot?” I talked to him through the pass-through to the kitchen.

“Merlot?” Mr. Peterson opened a cupboard to the left of the kitchen sink and grabbed two mismatched bowls from the bottom shelf.

“It’s a type of red wine.” I informed. “I like it because it’s really smooth and just a bit fruity. I’m not into the oaky flavor some of the other types of wine have. “

“I wouldn’t know anything about wine. I think I’ve had it maybe once or twice. I’ll get us some glasses.”

“It’s nothing fancy, I’m not used to company.” He said as he sets the table for two. The mismatched bowls are placed on opposite sides along with spoons and paper towels. Two short square glasses added the finishing touch

Thank goodness I brought my opener, I thought as I released the cork from the bottle and pored the wine.

“Oh, that does look nice.” he watched as I carefully filled each of the glasses.

I lifted my glass up in my right hand, “A toast to Mrs. Peterson, thank you for being here in spirit and watching over Mr. Peterson and I’m sure everybody else, including me.”

Mr. Peterson tearfully lifted his glass to meet mine. “She was always good at knowing everybody’s business. I’m sure she still knows mine. “He said, reassured and comforted with the feeling she may still be with him.

His eyed widen a bit as he took a drink and swallowed. “Why, that’s not bad. Not bad at all!” he said, somewhat delighted by the wine.

“How did you and Mrs. Peterson meet?” was the question that sprouted what seemed like twenty stories of Mr. Peterson’s life. I loved listening to every memory he shared with me.

After dinner, I was given strict instructions to sit down and relax as Mr. Peterson was clearing the table. I made my way to the living room. Scanning the space which contained a small sofa and two sitting chairs (his and hers I imagined), my eyes fixed on an old record player accompanied by two boxes of albums. It sat upon a long cabinet at the far end of the room.

“I see you have a record player.” I said, making conversation again through the opening to the kitchen. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid.”

“I was going to get rid of it.” Mr. Peterson said, “But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“Mind if I have a look?” I asked as I made my way across the room.

“Be my guest.” he permitted.

I fingered through the albums in the box many who’s name I did not recognize. “Here’s one I know,” I thought to myself as I pulled out Frank Sinatra. I remembered Frank playing on the cassette player in the car on many road trips with my parents as a kid.

I pulled the black disk carefully out of its thin cardboard sleeve and started to load it onto the player when I noticed that a thick layer of dust coated the top of the player. “Do you have a rag to do some dusting so I can give her a spin?” I said holding up Frank Sinatra.

“Ahh, good choice,” he said as tossed a kitchen towel through the opening.

After a bit of dusting, I loaded the large, black disk and flipped the small silver switch that I assumed was the on button. The disk began to spin. I lifted the arm up and placed it gently on the record. There was a crackling sound and then the drumbeat began. “Fly me to the moon...” Frank started in.

I felt myself grinning from ear to ear as I looked over to see Mr. Peterson standing in the middle of the living room tapping a foot and swaying to the music. I started to sway to the beat along with him. Remembering the words from when I was a kid, I began to sing. Looking quite amused, Mr. Peterson joined in singing along, “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars….”

Not but a short time later, Mr. Peterson took my hand then swung me to his right then to his left all the while singing as we swung and swayed to the music. He winked at me, “Ready?” He asked as the music reaches its crescendo.” I nod and he rolled me out arm lengths away and I rolled back in.

I laughed and clapped as the song came to its end. “Mr. Peterson, you’re a really good dancer.”

“Marlena and I had lots of practice over the years. That happened to be one of our favorites. Thank you, Grace, for making this evening bearable for me. In fact, it was more fun than I could have ever imagine.”

“I had fun too! How about another visit next week? I could use some dance tips.” I added, “I can bring dinner again.”

“It’s a deal. I would never pass up a home cooked meal. I’m getting kind of tiered of those meals on wheels,” his nose crinkled thinking about it.

“Alright, same time next week?” I asked as I gathered my things and made my way out the door.

“It’s a date,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, a date,” I laughed.