Paul

He looked at the cards as he carefully cleaned out the old wallet from his bottom drawer.  Story of his life.  Thirty-five years on the Burlington, twenty years in the Masons, basic mileage ration card from 1944, untold number of years in the Lions and Elks and Optimists and Rotary.  And who was left?  None that he could tell.  His daughter Violet said he should use Facebook and search to see who is alive; but he’s afraid there will be no one.  Violet always has good ideas but they take too much time and energy.  He opened his usual wallet and looked at his lists.  The vacations he and Virginia took; the dates he worked at various companies; the birthdays of his family and friends.  He didn’t write in the dates they died for those who were gone; that felt too final.

And now, everything is going.  The estate sale people said they’d take good care of his things and make sure they went to good homes, but he didn’t know how they could do that.  Should everyone buying something fill out an application for him to approve?  “I hereby swear that every time I wear this hat I will think of the person who made it.”  That was Virginia, who spent at least a year knitting furiously after their son died.  She needed something to do with her hands other than wring them and wipe her eyes.  And all those skeins of wool–who was going to buy them?  What would they make of them?  Why were they knitting?  Questions, all these questions, and no answers.  He chuckled.  He should be used to unanswered questions by now. That’s what someone gets for being curious all his life.

At least he wasn’t going to the limbo of assisted living.  He was going to have his own apartment, and his own dignity, and his own independence.  What was left of it.

What does he really need?  The pictures are important but they won’t mean anything to anyone else but Violet, and she won’t know half the people in them.  All those people in the photos lived on through him, and he’s starting to puzzle over names now.  Remember all the pretty girls in their summer dresses?  He looked at the first page of the small album.  Cut-out pictures of smiling ladies he remembers fondly; the tilt of the head, the hand to the cheek.  All the good times they had; picnics and gatherings and parties.  And walks in the summer sun.

The sale would be starting soon.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to be there.  People looking at his things and walking by all the meaning that had accumulated over the years.  Each rejection would be a rejection of him and the items he’s used and yes, loved, over the years. But he wanted to be there, to say goodbye, to see each venture out into its new life.  He hoped they would have new lives.  They had served him well.

The estate ladies had set up the tables and put up the signs and placed the ads.  Everything was ready except him.

And the door opened.

He sat on the couch (priced at $100) and watched as the flood of people looked at his things, picked them up, and then put them down.

A girl picked up the album.  And didn’t put it down.

She asked the estate sale ladies “What do you know about this?”  They said “Nothing—but he will,” and pointed to Paul.  She came over, sat down, and opened the album.  “Hi, I’m Holly.  Why did you cut out these pictures?  Who are they?  Look at their smiles.  I feel like I know them from those smiles.”

“That’s the album I made to keep with me when I was on the road for business.”

She took out a notebook.  “Tell me more.”

“Well, this girl here is Deirdre.  She was my first girlfriend.  We held hands in school and then became just friends and then she was the best friend of Virginia, my wife.  And this is Helen.  She worked the farm next to ours all on her own and did better than a lot of men would have.  Emily came from Germany and her cousin John was my business partner.  See these cards?  This one was for our company.”

And then, it had been an hour and the notebook was full.  “You’ve been wonderful,” she said.  “I’m going to have a baby, and she won’t have any grandparents or anyone other than John and me in her life.  I need to have some stories to tell her and you’ve given me a lifetime’s worth.  Would you mind if I gave you a hug?”

No.

Everything felt brighter after that.  At the end of the day he told the estate sale ladies that whatever was left could be donated to the church bazaar, then he went to bed even earlier than usual.

The next morning he got out of bed, sat on the floor, and did his usual stretches.  He remembered his cousin Casey, who was a visiting preacher until he was 99.  Casey did five sit-ups every morning.  The whole day stretched before Paul; he felt possibilities in the air that he hadn’t sensed for years.  Perhaps he would go out for coffee.

Waiting in line, he looked about the cafe.  What a mix of old and young, mothers and children, construction workers and students.  Half of them had computers open in front of them.  He watched people in line.  One guy was rumpled and be-bearded and clearly homeless.  The lady taking his order knew his name.  She knew his order.  So if he ever lost his apartment, he could count on at least one person greeting him. Another lady ordered and turned away, smiling.  She had horrible teeth but didn’t let that stop her from radiating confidence and joy.

He ordered his coffee and sat down near a table of men near his own age, each of whom had a book open on the table.  Ah.  A Bible group.  One of the men turned and caught him looking. “Hi, friend.  How are you?  Pull up a chair and join us.  That’s how we built this group, inviting people in.  You look like someone who will have something to say.”

Why not, he thought.  Why not.

He pulled his chair around and looked over at his neighbor’s bible. The man at the end of the table cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Please turn to the Psalms.  Today we will be discussing Psalm 133, verse 1.  Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together on unity.”