A Simple Meal

It was a cold winter day in early February as the man drove down the city street beneath a misting of light rain. Moments earlier he had been in the drafty old house where he lived in a rented second-story apartment. His mother had called him on his cell phone. Her voice was shaky, uneven, strained.
"He's still in the hospital. We need you, honey."
"I'll be right there," the man answered. He put on a battered wool jacket and grey hat, stuffed a book in the inside pocket of the coat and went out the door of his flat. Driving down Sumter Street his mind was lost in thought. For a few punctuated moments his thoughts drifted. He was trying to recollect the last time he had felt light and free inside. He was trying to summon the image of the last time he had felt joy. It escaped him. Just then a shadowy figure appeared on the rain-slaked street before him. It was early afternoon and the sky was gray and fallen, tiny pellets of rain kissed the windshield of his truck as the heater blew warm air through numerous vents. The darkened figure came more into view and he could see that it was a man in a wheelchair. He was slowly rolling himself up the wide city street. The sidewalk of the street had been blocked off for repairs so the dark figure had taken to the street. As the man came upon him he noticed more details of this person. He wore dark clothing and a black stocking cap and where his legs should have been there was nothing, only space. The truck moved soundlessly by and the dark figured receded from view.

Several blocks ahead the man maneuvered his truck into a parking space next to the large brick building. He killed the motor and sat for a moment and took a deep breath. Stepping out of his truck and onto the broken asphalt pavement he made his way through the light rain and into the brightly lit building. Scanning the hospital register he found his father's room number and proceeded to snake his way through the cavernous hallways to find it. At last he came to the door, knocked lightly and let himself in. Here he found his father and mother. His father was sitting in a chair beside the bed where he had slept the night before. Tubes were twisting out of his arm and snaked loosely to a stainless steel carriage upon which a clear bag of fluid hung. It dripped eternally slow. His father had grown a beard. It was by turns shades of gray and white. The skin of his face hung loosely where once it had been round and full. His clothes hung off of his frame. The belly, which once had been so round and full as to be the subject of joking was flat now, non-existent. The man realized that he was now larger than his father. He weighed more and he took up more space. The man's mother rose from her spot on the tiny couch and greeted him. He held her to him and squeezed her in his arms. He felt the softness of her hair on his own whiskered face and kissed her softly on the top of the head. Then he took his father's thin hand into his own and squeezed it gently. His father was slumped in his chair, dazed and confused. When he spoke the words didn't make much sense. The words were there. The sentences were intact, but the meaning behind them was absent. All the man could read from them was that his father was confused and angry. His eyes had the look one sees in a frightened horse, wide, incredulous, untamed and moments from fury. On a rolling table the same shade of shiny silver as the carriage that was tethered to his father sat an eaten meal. Prior to entering the room the man had spoken to a nurse who had asked him to try to get his father to eat. The man mentioned the food and tried to persuade him. Instead his father offered it to him.
"Nooo, I'm fine...I'm good, You have some."
"I've eaten Dad. The nurse said you should eat some."
"Yeah, they've been saying lots of things," he seethed angrily.
Unfazed, the man prodded on, "Hey, look here, banana pudding. That looks good!"
"Have some, son," his father urged.
"Why don't you have some, dad?"
"Nawww, I'm good. You have some. Taste it. Go on taste it."
His mother picked up the little dish of pudding and began to taste it herself.
"NO Suzanne! Let Mark taste it! I want him to taste it!" the father growled, his eyes widening wildly and pierced with fury.
Mark gave his mother a compassionate look and took the pudding in his hand.
"Mmmmm..this is good, Dad! You should really have some!" Mark encouraged.
"I don't want any. You go ahead."

After this went on for a while Mark gave up on trying to get his father to eat. Instead he turned his attention to trying to distract his Dad from taking the tubes out of his arm.
"It's nothing," he said, "The doctor said it's fluid but who the hell is he kidding?!" he laughed resentfully.
"It is fluid, Dad. You're dehydrated."
"Everybody knows what's best for me. Is that it?!"
"No. But Dad, you have to try to understand you're not in your right mind right now."
The old man's eyes grew more incredulous. He smacked his knee with his hand.
"Is that so?! Is that right?! That doctor is a dumb, lying son-of-a-bitch and that fairy nurse is even dumber. They're all jackasses."
"No one's against you, dad. They're only trying to help."
"Oh I know. I know," the old man answered unconvincingly

Recognizing that this tact was not working either Mark instead tried something else. He remembered the book he had brought. He felt it in the breast of his jacket, nestled against his heart. He had thought his father would be lying in bed, half-asleep. He had planned on reading the book quietly to himself while sitting there at his father's bedside. Instead he offered to read to his Dad. Pulling out the thin paperback volume from his jacket he asked if he could right to him.
"Sure. Sure," his father, answered.
"Just let me know when you want me to stop, okay?"
"Sure. Sure," his father nodded, his chin resting on his chest.

His mother now seated back on the tiny sofa and his father seated beside him, Mark opened the book and began to read. The book was about a man growing up in a small town in Ohio at the beginning of the 20th century. Only a few sentences in and he could tell his father was actually listening to the words, paying attention. A few more sentences in and Mark was heartened to hear his father chuckle at a humorous passage. He continued to read about the life and characters of this small town and his father began to relax, his eyes softened. After a solid twenty minutes of this, Mark noted that his mother had drifted to sleep on the small sofa and although still awake his father's manner had grown more subdued as he sat listening to the sound of his son's voice and the tales the author was weaving.

Then, without warning, the peace the man had created by reading aloud from the book was shattered by the nurse returning to the room. Again his father grew agitated. He stood up and began pacing with the silver tube carriage, attempting to remove the iv and arguing with the nurse. After the nurse left the man went to work again with the book. Reading aloud his words were pronounced and carefully spoken. The old man began to settle down again. This time he said he'd like to lay on the bed for a while.
"A Victory!" Mark thought as he helped his father navigate the iv carriage and get situated in the hospital bed. Once his father was settled Mark moved his chair closer to the bed and began reading again, his words filling the sterile room with lovely imagery of a time long past. Corn rows and berry fields sprouted along the floor, saloons and general stores made their storefronts on the latex paint-covered walls. One could almost smell the fresh horse manure and hear the daily train rumble in from across the prairied plains. He read on and his father relaxed ever more so. Mark felt he had him right on the edge of sleep. He kept reading. He kept casting the fabled yarn in hopes that the pastoral web he was spinning would catch his father and suspend him drowsily in its comforting net. He was almost there when...again the peace was obliterated by the coming of the nurse. Now Mark was beginning to get agitated. If they had been actually doing anything to help his father it would have been one thing. But every interruption was a fool's errand.
This little play went on in this manner for two or three hours until the old man had the mother and son convinced that he just needed to go home. It was clear to both of them that he still wasn't in his right mind but nothing was getting done here. He was only being kept for observation and at that the staff were only annoying and disturbing him. Against medical advice he was allowed to check out. Still paranoid the old man left the hospital escorted by his son and wife. Mark walked them to their car and helped his father into his seat. He walked to his own truck, keyed the ignition and drove the twenty miles out to the family home, the home where he himself had grown up, the home which had seen many an adolescent fight between the father and son. The house had been witness to countless Christmases, Easters, birthdays, graduations, news of newly born grandchildren, marriage proposals, divorces...all the rich pageantry of American family life.
Mark arrived before his parents and waited for them. He sat on the back steps with the two family dogs. They nuzzled against him and warmed their odorous coats against his legs as the light faded from the winter sky, the drizzle stopped and evening began to drop her mysterious veil. The wind was cold against the skin of his face and he took the dogs in his arms, one on each side and brought them closer to him. He kissed them each softly on the nose and petted their warm pink bellies.

A short while later his parents arrived home from the hospital. His father came in followed by his mother. His father found his way to his leather recliner and eased his fragile bones into the soft cushions.
"Whatdya feel like eating, Dad?" Mark asked, hoping that the non-chalance of the question and the comfortable surroundings would invoke a different response than was given earlier.
"How about some eggs, pancakes, and bacon?" his father answered, much to Mark and his mother's surprise and delight.
"You got it!" Mark answered enthusiastically.

Now the man was in his element. Here was something he knew he could do to help his father. The worst part of his father's suffering, for Mark, besides just the fact of it, was the helplessness he felt to do anything about it. So when the call came out for eggs and pancakes he jumped at the opportunity. In a blink of nothing, pancake batter was whipped up in a bowl. A bowl Mark had remembered from childhood. A bowl he recalled licking clean after his mother had put together a batch of brownies, a bowl that had seen countless birthday cake batters, a bowl that had held Halloween candy on nights long ago in another time, another epoch. Mark laid out bacon on an ancient baking sheet and began rendering it in a hot oven. Eggs were beaten, potatoes sliced, syrup warmed, butter set on the table. There was loving action. And all the while the father sat, comfortable at last, in his leather recliner. Mark began portioning the batter into the hot skillet and flipping pancakes, quickly building a stack on a large plate beside by the stove. The smell of bacon wafted through the kitchen, down the halls of the house, and filled the rooms. His mother set the table with silverware, place mats and napkins. A sense of normalcy developed and began pushing out the madness of the afternoon.

The sun had drifted beneath the horizon of stately pines and the fading light disappeared slowly to the west. Mark set the plate of pancakes on the dining table, a platter of freshly scrambled eggs and bacon, a bowl of fried potatoes. The three of them took their seats, bowed their heads, reached for one another's hand. In the silent mystery of the family home they prayed. Mark thanked the Lord for this day, this family, these blessings. He thanked the Father for His Son. He asked the Father to bring health and vitality again to his father's body and mind.

"In Jesus Christ's name we pray. Amen."
"Amen," the father and mother spoke in unison.

The three of them ate the lovingly prepared meal with egerness. The father had not eaten in days. Although still not of an appetite that he once enjoyed he chewed and swallowed the soft, light fluffy pancakes with relish, enjoyed the eggs, potatoes and bacon, washed it all down with a glass of cold, clear water. A calm settled among them, a peace, a stillness not in danger of being shattered by a stranger's unannounced intrusion.
After they had eaten their fill, Mark cleared the table, put away the leftovers and cleaned the kitchen. Then he sat in a rocking chair across from his parents as the football game began on the television. Before long his mother had drifted asleep lying peacefully on the couch. Darkness had now descended and covered the pine-forested land outside. Inside the home the ambiotic light of the television flickered on the faces of the two men watching the game.

"Thank you, son." the father said in between plays.
His heart filling with gratitude the son answered,
"Thank you, Dad."

(too tired to edit tonight. MG)