This short was inspired by Alfonsina.d's story, Stephanie's Gamble, and also by the poem, The Last Leaf. What will the end of life hold for Ranger? I've paraphrased some of Janet's writing here. Make no money, don't own them, yada, yada, yada...
Return to Trenton
Beeeeeeep. The detector continued to peal loudly as everyone's attention turned in surprise toward the unlikely source of the alarm.
"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind emptying your pockets and walking through the metal detector, again? Perhaps you forgot to remove your keys," the uniformed guard respectfully requested.
"That won't be necessary."
"I'm afraid it is, sir. It's the rules." Due to increasing terrorist activity, the guard would be suspended for not following procedure, no matter how unlikely the probability that the elderly man before him was armed. He watched as the old man reached into his wallet, produced a card, and held it up to be read.
"You see, I have some artificial metal joints. If you feel it's necessary to search my clothing..."
"No, sir. That's entirely unnecessary." A brief glint of dismay appeared in the old man's eyes as he continued. "You're not considered dangerous. Have a good flight." The gray man steadied himself against the side of the conveyor belt as he returned the card to his wallet, and then slowly walked up the corridor toward the gate. "Sir," the guard cried, "do you need any assistance?"
"No!" The old man's voice was adamant, and he straightened his back as he walked away.
Some artificial joints. Three to be exact. Two knees and a right hip. The last knee surgery had been the most painful and had resulted in the longest recovery. It was as if his body had lost its ability to bounce back. He'd failed to realize, at the time, that his youthful obsession with fitness and nutrition was a double-edged sword. He'd been blessed with a healthy heart and circulatory system. His mind was still sharp as a tack; but years of jogging, weightlifting, and the physical demands of his job had slowly eroded his joints. Daily, he endured pain and stiffness on rising from bed. He hobbled around his apartment while holding onto furniture until his body loosened enough for him to walk upright. Most of his hobbies had been abandoned. His vision was too cloudy for the firing range, and his condition precluded physical activity. With little to occupy his time, he found himself dwelling on the past. There was no future. Unafraid, he waited for the end that would surely come.
The airport was crowded with weekend travelers, and he almost stumbled as two children raced in front of him for the food stand. The edges of his mouth tipped upward as the aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted toward him. Had it really been over forty years? His grin broke into a smile as the memories flooded back in such detail that it could have been yesterday.
"Babe, your couch is in the hall."
"It has death cooties."
"I knew there would be a good explanation."
It had been over forty years since he'd made good on the deal, forty years since he'd been ruined for all other women. In the brashness of youth, he'd sincerely believed it would be the other way around. He'd been with scores of women since that night and had used them mercilessly, but had been left wholly unsatisfied. After the deal, nothing had been the same. Had he told her that? He should have told her that. He should have told her a lot of things.
While struggling to get his carry-on in the overhead compartment, he felt the familiar twinge that had been with him since the Scrog shooting. He'd had laparoscopic surgery on the shoulder three times to clean out the joint, but the twinge had never gone away. His surgeon had suggested replacing the shoulder with an artificial joint as well, but he'd refused. He needed the twinge. He needed the persistent reminder that he really did have a daughter, that his seed would continue on this planet. Julie's address and phone number was with his attorney. When the time came, she would be notified of his demise, and she would dutifully attend the funeral of the father she barely knew. Ron had walked her down the aisle years ago and given her in marriage to a man he'd never met. She had two children, his grandchildren. He dared to dream that they possessed dark hair, dark eyes, his courage and cunning. Why it should matter to him now, he had no idea.
She sat on the desk, stretching her long exquisite legs in front of her, while he fed her the sugary sweet icing.
"You know, it's going to be dull around here with just one Ranger."
"Babe, one Ranger is all you'll ever need."
The voice of the pretty, blond attendant jolted him back to the present. Her indulgent smile sickened him.
"Please, sir. Allow me. I'll be happy to take care of that for you. Would you like a pillow?"
"Thank you," he said surrendering in frustration while she stowed his bag. The previous night's restlessness had left him tired and irritable, and he dozed before the plane lifted off the runway.
Leaning against the door jamb, he drank in the sight of her soft sleek body. The scent of Bvlgari lingered in the air. Funny she should use his shower gel. Sensing his presence, she woke and clutched the sheets around her.
"What are you doing in my bed?"
"I needed a safe place to stay."
"And you think this is safe?"
"It was until you came home."
"What scares you more, getting thrown out the window or sleeping with me?
"Don't flatter yourself. You're not that scary."
As if by instinct, her warm body snuggled into his as soon as he laid beside her. "Wake up," her sweet voice said. "It's time to wake up."
"I don't want to wake up."
"It's time to wake up. Sir, the flight's landed. You have to leave the plane." It was the young attendant again. The cabin was silent and empty except for the two of them.
"How long have you been trying to wake me?"
"Not long. You looked so tired that I let you sleep while the other passengers departed. I retrieved your bag from the overhead. You are Mr. Manoso, aren't you?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I've arranged for your bags to be delivered to the main exit. No need to go to the luggage area."
"Thank you. You're very efficient." He started to reach for his wallet.
"No, sir. Please don't tip me. This is part of my job. There's no price for this."
"There's no price for what we give each other, Babe. Not financial, not emotional."
"Wait just a minute. I want to know more about this no emotional price thing."
"It's the way it has to be."
"I can't do this."
"I know. You need to repair your relationship with Morelli."
Boy, when I'm wrong, I am really wrong. The price he had paid had been enormous. Sighing, he walked down the ramp of the plane to be greeted by the welcoming smiles of dear friends. Tank was still just as tall, but his muscle mass had deteriorated, and he stood slightly bent as he held onto the back of Lula's wheelchair. It was no longer necessary for him to shave his head, and deep lines etched his face. Lula's eyes glimmered with tears as he approached.
"You're still as hot as ever, Batman," she said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek.
"What a liar you are! How the hell are you, Lu?" he asked.
"You know, some days are better than others."
"It's the same for me." Turning to his old friend, he said, "Tank, it's good to be here. I've missed you." Tank started to shake his hand but he pushed it away and enveloped his tall body in a bear hug. It seemed foolish to hide his emotions at this late date.
"I've missed you, too. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances," Tank replied.
"So do I."
"Let's go to the house. Lula needs to rest this afternoon before the...you know..."
"That's fine. I could use some rest myself."
Some things never change: the loyalty of good friends, the bittersweet ache that occurs when revisiting old haunts, the rotten Trenton weather. The winter sky was its characteristic gun metal gray, and the whipping wind bit his skin as they departed the terminal. This cold air would sure as hell play havoc with his joints in the morning. Tank led the way to the black handicapped van and operated the electronic controls that automatically loaded Lula's wheelchair.
"Have you thought anymore about moving to Miami? I think the weather would be good for you,
Lula," he asked.
"We can't leave Trenton, Ranger. It's our home. Besides, we don't want to move too far away from the grandkids."
"That's understandable," he said as he pulled himself into the passenger side beside Tank. Now, he was the one riding shotgun. "What are the plans, Tank?"
Tank hesitated a moment. This was really hard for all of them. "They'll be a visitation tonight and a graveside service tomorrow. It will be very brief. She wanted it to be simple; she didn't want to put the kids through anymore turmoil."
That was so like her. Lost in his thoughts, Ranger turned his face toward the window and silently watched the dreary landscape roll by.
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A torch has definitely been passed. The crowd at Trenton Eternal Rest Mortuary, formerly known as Stiva's, was much younger and unfamiliar to him. "I don't see any of the old crowd," he whispered to Tank.
"Not much of the old crowd left, Ranger. And the ones that are left, most of them aren't able to attend. I was thinking that you might like to visit Santos while you're here." Lester Santos had suffered a stroke six months previously and resided at the Trenton Home for the Aged. "Look...there's Anthony."
"Jesus, I would've known him anywhere. He's the spitting image of Morelli," Ranger said as the young man carrying a toddler on his hip approached.
"Ranger, let me introduce Anthony Morelli," Tank said. "And, this, is little Stephanie."
"Little Stephanie," Ranger said. Smiling playfully, he chucked the little cherub under her chin.
"Call me, Tony. Mr. Manoso, I've heard so much about you."
"Tony, I'm so sorry. First your Dad, and now this. I can't tell you how badly I feel for you and your sister," said Ranger.
"Thank you. We're just grateful she didn't suffer at the end. My sister, Anna Claire, is sitting with the coffin. She's very anxious to meet you for some reason. She has been since Uncle Tank told us you were coming. Would you mind speaking with her for a few minutes?"
"Of course not," Ranger replied and ambled into the salon to see a pretty young woman standing beside a coffin draped with yellow roses. His stomach lurched when she turned to face him. She had curly brown hair, flawless pale skin, and clear blue eyes. Those innocent blue eyes glimmered as they searched his face.
"Are you going to help me, or what?"
"This is going to be fun. This here's gonna be like Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle does Trenton."
"Mr. Manoso?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Yes. You must be Anna Claire. I'm so..so sorry, Anna Claire. Your mother was an amazing woman, brave...kind. She was remarkable. This is a terrible loss...for everyone." The tear that had been threatening to brim over began a slow descent down her cheek, and he drew her against his shoulder.
After a few moments, she raised her head and looking into his face said, "This is difficult, Mr. Manoso. My mother became confused, incoherent near the end. However, a couple of days before her death, she was still quite clear." Her voice trembled and she paused, momentarily. "I need to finish this before we are interrupted."
"I'm not sure..."
"Mr. Manoso, I loved my father. He was a good man."
"Yes, he was. He was a good man, and he loved your mother very much."
"Before my mother died, she was certain you would come to the funeral, and she insisted that I give you a message."
Fearful of where this was leading, Ranger started to back away. He couldn't take it. Not now.
"Anna Claire, I don't think I want to hear this."
"Mr. Manoso, please. It was her last wish. She wanted me to tell you that she always lov.."
"No, no...it's too late...no." Ranger turned away. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face, and his throat constricted painfully. The Master of Emotion was gone, never to return. "No...too late..." His faltering steps drew him to the doorway. A stricken expression appeared on the face of Tank, who watched in compassion from across the room.
"Please, Mr. Manoso. Don't walk away from me. You were the great love of her life."
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This poem if for Alfonsina.d. It is one of the poems that my mother used to read to me when I was little. The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendall Holmes,as well as Alfonse's story, inspired me.
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone!"
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago--
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.