No Kiss, No Hug
by Charles C. Cole
Alma Toothier, middle-aged widow and cat-mother of two, stepped outside her duplex to check her mail. An unfamiliar old man sat on her stoop, quietly watching the world go by. He must have been pushing 90. He was eating half a tuna sandwich on crustless white bread, the other half loosely wrapped in wax paper beside him.
“Can I help you?” asked Alma.
He shook his head. “No, thanks. Waiting for someone,” he explained. “Name’s Jacob Whitshaw.”
“Your name or theirs?”
“Mine. Both. Theirs, too, but they go by Junior.”
“Do they live here?” She indicated the adjacent front door.
“I thought we were going on a picnic, so they said. They just tossed me out of the car like the morning paper. Left me on your stoop like an orphan in a basket.”
“I’m Alma. Pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand. “Sir, do you know where you’re supposed to be?”
Jacob mulled over the question. “Not anymore. Dead and buried, I guess, but I just keep living.”
“Mr. Whitshaw, what I mean is, why are you here?”
“’Cause that’s when the mood hit him, I guess.” He glanced back at the duplex. “Must have looked friendly enough as we were driving by. He did an illegal U-turn and came back.”
“Who did?”
“My son. Junior.”
“Do you have a phone, sir?” asked Alma, sounding a little more demanding than she meant to.
“No, why? Do you need to make a call?”
She spoke slowly as if the words would better sink in: “To tell them you’re waiting.”
“They know,” said the old man. “They dropped me off, so it’s hard for them not to know.”
“And when are they coming back?”
The old timer shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Alma made one last push. “What did they say when they left?”
“I’m paraphrasing for brevity and out of politeness, but the gist of it was: ‘Bye, Dad. Sorry to leave you like this. You understand. Have a nice life.’ No kiss. No hug. Car door slams. Then he salutes. Because I’m retired Air Force. Not out of respect.”
“He was probably teasing,” suggested Alma. “He’s gonna go a few blocks and circle back. Did you have a fight or something?”
“I gave him my house now, rather than waiting till I died. That was a mistake. Guess they had plans for it.”
“Do you want me to call the police?” she asked.
“Why? Am I breaking the law?”
“No, but they might be.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” said Jacob. “Maybe they’ll come to their senses when it gets dark.”
“Do you know their phone number? Is it written down in your wallet, with your emergency contact information?”
“Nope, it’s new, like his young ladyfriend. They disconnected their house line for one of those new pocket phones. I don’t know the number.”
“Does he have a work number?” asked Alma, persisting.
“Not for a while. Retired. Golfs a lot now, though he’s not very good.”
“At the municipal course or a private club? Maybe we can track him down.”
“Not likely. It’s out of state. They were just visiting. Now that I think of it, I guess they came down to move me out and sell the place. Complete a transaction. Surprise!”
“Is there a retirement home nearby? They could have gotten confused, missed it by a block?”
“’In spite of everything, I still believe people are really good at heart.’ From one of the last entries by Anne Frank. I think his partner in crime, Moira something, was tickled by the peace sign on your mailbox. She has a tattoo above her ankle just like it. She said it was a sign.”
“Jacob, I’ll bet you’d love a glass of something to go with that sandwich. I’d invite you in, but if they drive by and don’t see you, they might forget where they dropped you off. They might panic. I know I would. Do you like iced tea?”
“Have you got any whole milk?” asked Jacob.
“Sure. Are they really not coming back? What about your belongings, your clothes?”
“Wasn’t room in the car. It was one of those small, sporty ones, two-door, the kind basketball players can’t fit into.”
“I’m gonna call the police. They can help,” said Alma.
“Please don’t. I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I thought his mother and I raised him right, but I kept hanging on. I was a distraction. He wanted to have some fun while he still had the energy, the money. My money.”
“Okay. Listen, my son’s away at school; I have a spare bedroom. Let’s put you in there while we come up with a plan. How’s that sound?”
“Better than a park bench,” said Jacob, “but I don’t have a toothbrush.”
“I think I can find a spare. We’ll put together a supply list. Are you on any medications?”
“Healthy as a horse. That was the problem.” An awkward silence. “You have a nice neighborhood. He could have left me in a rundown part of town behind a dumpster with a big box to call home.”
“But he didn’t,” said Alma. “Instead, he picked the house of a softy. We’re gonna make this work. You seem like a nice man. How do you feel about cats?”
“I’m allergic. But it’s usually not so bad unless I pick them up.”
“Like I said,” Alma repeated, “we’re gonna make this work.”
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
