Herb sat on a park bench. He wasn’t far
from home, less than three blocks. He walked there every morning when the
weather was good. It didn’t have to be perfect. As long as the sun was shining.
Or the wind didn’t blow too hard. Or it wasn’t raining or snowing. It was good
enough. Even in hot weather. He’d go home for lunch and that was always early
enough to miss the heat of the day.
Herb picked up his cane and walked
across the street to the Seven Eleven for a coffee. Their coffee was good
enough. He’d never drunk that Starbucks. Went in there one time, looked
at the prices, figured out that what they called a tall was actually a small
and walked right out again.
Most days a friend or two would come by and they’d visit. Trade war stories. Not too many fellows still around
that remembered The Big One. Even Art was too young for that. He’d been in
Vietnam. Just a young whipper-snapper. But he was all right.
Still in good shape, too. That Art. He
said it was dancing that kept him fit. Herb thought it was probably the women
that kept Art in shape.
Back on his bench, Herb listened to the
world around him and sipped his coffee. The thing about coffee was the aroma.
It brought back those early mornings with Madge. He always got up first and put
the coffee on. She was practically unconscious before her first cup. Then she’d
make breakfast. He’d wake the kids and they’d all eat together.
When the kids got into high school,
breakfast was often their only meal together. Come to think of it, Herb Junior
would have been about the same age as Art. Sixties. Somehow he didn’t
think Herb Junior and Art would have gotten along all that well. Herb Junior
was a quiet, thoughtful lad. A good son.
The sun was warm on Herb’s back as he dozed
and dreamed of a different time and place. His father’s farm. Lying in the
wheat, looking up at the sky. All he could see were green leaves and blue
skies. The sun was warm on his face and bare chest and he could hear red-winged
black birds whistling to each other. There were chores to do, but he could lie
here a few more minutes.
“Hey, Old Man!” The girl with the spiky,
black hair skated toward him smiling. “You gonna sleep all day?”
“Tina, how’s things?”
“Fine, Herb. How are you feeling today?”
“Better than I have any right to.”
A quick spin in front of him, and she
was off again.
Herb had a daughter. Genevieve. She used
to be young, too. With brown hair and bangs so long, you’d think she couldn’t
have seen a thing. She was an intense young woman always working for one cause
or another. She would have been one of those Peaceniks Art complained of.
Her hair is white now and she has bad
knees. It was hard for him to think of her as a grandmother.
The morning sun soon had him sleeping
again. The kids were grown and gone. Herb Junior was working in Washington,
D.C. Gen had sent them new pictures of the grandkids. It was just him and Madge
camping in the piney woods. They were sitting back to back on a big rock in the
middle of the creek. He could feel the warmth of her against him. He could hear
a woodpecker working a tree somewhere nearby and smell the pines.
Something woke him. Art was sitting at the other end of the bench. The two of them just sitting while the
street in front of the park filled with police cars, sirens blaring, lights
flashing.
A group of policemen moved past them.
One peeled away from the pack and asked, “You guys seen anybody come past here
on a bicycle? Mighta been wearin’ a green knit cap.”
Herb looked at Art and Art looked at
Herb. They both shook their heads. And the officer hurried away.
“So, Art. You got a green knit cap.”
“Sure do, but it’s too hot to wear in
the summer time.”
They sat there in the sun a little while
longer. They watched the policemen and talked about the excitement, whatever it
was. The officer hadn’t said. They talked about the weather and how it was getting
pretty warm.
Herb stood up using his cane for
support. “Well, it’s about time for some lunch.”
“See you around,” Art said making as
though to tip his hat.
Herb walked away, a little
stoop-shouldered, a little shuffle-stepped.
Art got his bicycle from behind the
bench and rode away from the police activity.
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