“This is were you live.”
John peered through the side window at the large frame house. The aluminum siding had once been bright white, but now appeared faded and somewhat gray. The front porch was screened in, and he could see a vague figure, like a wraith, moving around just behind the front door.
“You must be mistaken,” John said. Dread started to flutter in his stomach, a strange, source less dread. “I would never buy a house like that. It looks-- shabby. Why, it's not even brick.”
“It's your son's house,” Mathias said.
“Oh, sure,” John said, as if that explained everything.
Just then the front door opened, and a woman stepped onto the stairs. She was wearing jeans and a light blue t-shirt. Her hair had obviously been dyed blond, and looked wild.
“Your daughter-in-law,” Mathias said.
John grunted, staring at the woman, not much liking the looks of her. She looked like a boozer, he thought-- the type that lays about the house all day, drinking and not doing any housework.
Two kids, a boy and a girl, about seven- or eight-years-old, squirted past their mother and ran down to the walkway to goggle at the police car.
“Kids?” John muttered. Already he could hear their squalling over any little thing. He knew there had to be some mistake; he couldn't possibly live under the same roof as a couple kids-- no way would he be able to tolerate that!
“Your grandchildren,” Mathias explained. “They're twins.”
All John could do was release a dejected moan. “They probably trample anything I'd plant in the garden, I bet.”
“They have a nice little basement in-law,” Mathias continued, sensing already the old man's reluctance to leave the car.
“Basement apartment,” John muttered. “Damp basement-- must be wonderful for my arthritis. You're sure you're not making a mistake.”
“Positive,” Mathias said. “We've been through this before.”
“Have we?”
“More than once.”
“Oh,” John said, the utterance hanging hollow in the hush of the squad car.
“You better go now.”
Mathias watched as John fumbled with the door handle. It was as though he couldn't get a grip on it, his deformed knuckles not letting him close his hand enough to grip the handle.
Mathias suspected it was just a ruse-- an excellent acting job. He had seen his kids do the same; as soon as bedtime arrived, suddenly, inexplicably, doorknobs didn't work, toothbrushes vanished, and bellyaches began.
“You need a hand with that?” he asked.
“No, no,” John said irritably. “I got it-- it's just stuck a little. You know, a bit tricky. But what do you expect from a city vehicle, huh?”
Mathias watched as the old man struggled out of the squad. As soon as he had shut the door behind him, the two kids rushed toward him, and, each clutching a hand, towed him forward faster than his legs wanted to allow. The old man grumbled and griped something as he was tugged toward the house, but soon he seemed to accept his fate. They guided him down the gangway that led to the white picket gate that opened on a tiny yard. The old man was looking as though fascinated up at the side of the house, at the cracked walkway, at the flowers that bordered the house. Everything must seem new to him now, Mathias figured, the good and the bad, the happy and sad.
After the old man disappeared from sight, Mathias started the squad. Before he pulled away from the curb, he noticed that the woman was still standing on the front stairs. She raised her hand and gave him a weak, embarrassed wave-- the way she had every other time he had returned the old man home. Every time there was an unspoken promise that this would be the last time, but it would only be the last time until the next time.
The old man would never have a last long walk home.
Kathy