by Anne Anthony

Three months ago, Bob’s hospital offered a ‘buy-out’ to anyone employed over twenty years.

“It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” he said, attempting a Godfather impersonation.

My husband worked at that same hospital through college, medical school, his internship,  his residency, and finally his fellowship training as a cardiologist. He spent endless hours away from home during those decades. As a therapist, working out of my home office, I kept the family fires burning.

The first month of his imposed retirement was like the vacation decades before when our then 5-year-old daughter said, “Mommy, I like Vacation Daddy more than Dr. Daddy.”

But after two months of leisure, Vacation Daddy mutated into Retirement Dad—bored, restless, and a constant irritant underfoot. My foot.

“What’s this about?” I ask, walking into the kitchen. Dozens of pots and fry pans line the countertops next to stacks of plates. “Bob?”

He’s crouched next to a lower cabinet by the refrigerator. “Rearranging. Ordering by function. Not sure why we haven’t done it before.”

“What order?” I ask, surveying the disorder.

He pulls out an omelet pan. “Everything in this cabinet are things that fry.”

He returns the pan, opens the other side, and pulls out a saucepan. “Everything in this cabinet are things that boil. You see the logic, right?”

I arranged this kitchen when we first moved into this house, a time long ago and faraway, when I alone ruled my queendom.

“Let’s talk later, okay? My client is due in five minutes.”

His shoulders go slack, the empty saucepan he holds in his hand flops to his side.

“Just finish by four so I have space to prep dinner.”

“Oh, I’m cooking tonight. It’s all set. Make your life easier,” he says, giving me a quick peck. “And here, a sandwich and spring water for your lunch. You said you were back-to-back with clients so…,”

He hands me a brown paper bag containing an egg salad sandwich, orange slices, and a chocolate mint. Where am I?

***

“I’m thinking of starting a band,” Bob says while passing the mashed potatoes.

I nearly spit out a mouthful of chardonnay. “A band? What does that mean exactly?”

He gives me his ‘gotta-tell-Katherine-bad-news’ look. I take a breath.

“So, you know, I’ve been teaching myself guitar for over ten years, right? The next step is to start playing with other musicians.”

“And?”

“And, this guy down the street plays accordion and his friend plays drums, so we figured we could form a trio. Play gigs at music festivals like Enofest.”

He looks down now as is his habit before setting off a bomb.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, hoping he’d say before my potatoes freeze over.

“We have to practice here. In the garage. Totally around your client schedule.”

“You want more wine?” I ask, after gulping mine, and grab his empty glass before he answers. In the kitchen, I stumble over a step stool, usually stored in the pantry but now leaning beside the trash bin. The shattering of two wine glasses brings Bob racing into the room where I stand barefoot.

“Are you okay?” he asks, avoiding the shards. “I’ll get the dustpan and brush from the guest bedroom. Don’t move.”

“Why are they in there?” I call out as he rushes toward the downstairs bedroom.

“I changed things around. To make more room. The pantry was getting cluttered,” he says while sweeping the last of the broken glass into the dustpan and dumping it into the trash. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? Mind? How could I possibly mind you changing everything I’ve arranged and organized everywhere? That’d be petty of me, wouldn’t it? Might think I’m some kind of control freak.”

Three months into his retirement, and I lose it. I need air. A skyful of air. Searching past whiskey tumblers, shot glasses, and cordial glasses, I finally find a wine glass in the cupboard now marked ‘things that hold alcohol,’ and give myself a healthy pour, before storming out to the back deck.

This morning, the hibiscus bloomed; its giant red blooms attracts hummingbirds. A tiny bird flits in and out in search of sustenance. Like my husband. Behind me, the sliding glass door opens and closes. His arm wraps my waist.

“Been underfoot, haven’t I?”

“I’m sorry. It’s, just….”

“Unbearable? Yes, I get it. Here’s the thing, Katherine. I spent my adult life holding beating hearts in my hand. A person can’t go from that to nothing.”

“I get that. It’s just. I miss time alone in the house. The quiet to think. And now that you’re here, I can’t…,”

“Be alone with your thoughts?”

A hummingbird flying past hovers mid-air two feet in front of us, remaining so still while frantically moving its wings.

“Look, Jim called yesterday. Talked about creating a drop-in clinic at the Senior Center. Asked if I’d help. Not a practice, just health information.”

“You like Jim,” I say, turning toward him. “His kid stories made you laugh.”

“All grown now, moved away,” he says, “Anyway, I’d be out of your hair for a few hours. Can’t come close to holding a heart, but it’s something.”

A gentle breeze jangles the wind chimes hanging from a branch.

“Say, where are our Halloween costumes?”

“In the attic, big box marked ‘things for pretending’ beside the air filters. Why?” Bob asks.

“Want that tambourine I bought for my gypsy costume,” I say, lifting my hand above my head and shake it. “Maybe, your trio can be a quartet?”

Photo by Robert Thiemann via Unsplash