Cards of Comfort
by Charles C. Cole
Merwyn was a retired widower with too much unstructured time on his hands. A casual acquaintance from church knew he sometimes narrated kids’ stories at the library and suggested he volunteer at the White River Senior Center as a reader of personal correspondence. For some bedridden residents, though they appreciated being remembered, struggling through cramped, tiny cursive was a painful endeavor.
Merwyn waved greetings as he entered the bright lobby. A woman in white relaxed behind the desk with both feet up on another chair. She was busy whispering into a cell phone: “I know, right?”
“I’m Merwyn Winslow. Someone’s expecting me.”
“Sign in: name and name of resident you’re visiting,” said the woman. She had wide Egyptian-like eyebrows and a gold nose ring.
“New volunteer,” he explained. “Mrs. Ross, your boss, said I could start today. Reading mail to the residents.”
“News to me.” She shook her head as if to say: “When is administration going to learn to communicate?” No introductions. “There’s a stack of letters in the break room. They have the room numbers on them.” She pointed to a small room to her left. “We ask that you put on a staff ‘lab coat’ and a volunteer badge, so we can tell you apart from the riffraff. Read as many or as few as you feel comfortable. They’re mostly boring.”
Merwyn made his way behind the counter, stumbling over a pair of wet boots. “Watch yourself!” He felt yelled at and reacted as such. She softened. “I wasn’t expecting to train someone today.” To the phone: “Give me a minute.”
The lady in white stopped talking while watching him put on his lab coat. “There’s a badge on a lanyard hanging from the doorknob.” He lowered the lanyard over his head. The loop was snug, but he managed. Someone had written in red marker: “Mr. Volunteer.”
“Mr. Winslow, respectfully, there are definite tear-jerkers in the bunch. You don’t have to read them word for word if they start getting to you. Skip to the good parts. Also, you might want to preview them in case you get an angry one.”
“Noted.” He grabbed a half-dozen.
“If the privacy curtain is pulled around the bed, the resident’s either sleeping or they don’t want to be disturbed. Just go to the next letter in your pile. If they’re not in the room written on the envelope, they’re probably discharged or deceased. Long-term residents don’t usually walk out on their own volition.”
He saluted. She half-smiled. Before he took a step, she continued into the phone: “Now, where was I?”
The postmark date on the first two was from over three weeks ago. The addressees did not have their names on the specified room doors and were, therefore, evidently deceased. The third, Rupert Grover, was in a room by himself with the privacy curtain pulled. Merwyn listened as someone behind the curtain loudly emptied the last of a drink through a straw, punctuated by an unexpected burp. Merwyn applauded.
“Who’s there?”
“Mail call.”
“Not expecting anything.”
“It was sent a few weeks ago.”
“I can’t read; it hurts my eyes.”
“I can read it to you. That’s why I’m here.”
“They pay you for this?”
“Volunteer.”
“A glutton for punishment, you are. Go ahead.”
“It’s a ‘Thinking of You’ card with a crayoned picture of flowers in a vase and a poem. ‘Dear Grampie: Roses are red, violets are blue, Mom says I wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for you. Happy 85th birfday (with an F)! Love, Dusty.”
“He’s a good kid, but hyper as a puppy. Can’t spell. I wonder what bribe his mother gave him.”
“Maybe he misses you.”
“Of course, he does; I let him do whatever he wants, watch whatever he wants, eat whatever he wants.”
“Wow!”
“I used to tell my children that kids were the worst thing to happen in a marriage. I wasn’t the best father. I’m making up for it as a grandfather. What’s your name?”
“Merwyn.”
“Do you take dictation, Merwyn? Can you write a letter back to the charming hellion? Maybe a poem. Just use the back side of the card and the return address. I don’t have a place to keep it anyway.”
“Sure.” Merwyn grabbed a clipboard and attached pen in the letterbox on the wall. “Fire away.”
“Dear Dusty, your dad’s cheeks are red, your mom’s mood is blue, next time you visit, we’ll suck the shells off peanut M&M’s. Love, Grampie.”
“Do you want to sign it?”
“You do it. He won’t know the difference. G-scribble. Off you go. Nice meeting you.”
Merwyn returned to the main check-in desk a bit worn for his efforts. The woman in white was not to be found. On the way home, Merwyn bought a silly card with dinosaurs in wheelchairs. He copied the poem and dropped it in the mail.
Late the following week, there was a response from Dusty in the mail basket. Merwyn’s heart skipped a beat. He felt like Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, secretly building a lasting relationship between two otherwise uncommunicative parties.
Merwyn stepped outside to a nearby picnic table for staff smoking, for a preview. He opened the letter with a pen in his pocket. Adult handwriting.
“Dear Dad, Dusty loved your silly card. Thanks for making the effort. I think he likes having a pen pal. He’s even been asking about visiting. I told him the weekend after next. We’ll bring the M&M’s. Love, Nancy.”
Merwyn closed the card and walked briskly toward the room of Rupert Grover, who he predicted would be tickled pink. The privacy curtain was open, but the bed was empty. Mr. Grover’s name was no longer on the door.
Merwyn moved to the next room: Agathe Bouvier, retired drama teacher. She sat up as he appeared in her doorway.
“My turn, just like you said!” Agathe cheered. “Don’t forget to read with passion.”
Merwyn half-smiled. At the end, his listener was so delighted she applauded.
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
