What It's Like to be Arty

I wrote this short story for my creative writing class. It's based on my grandfather's final years.

I.

 

                 I’m beginning to forget what home looks like. How long have I been stuck in this room? Nothing is familiar anymore. I’m in a prison, and nobody understands. The doorknob jiggles vigorously before the creaky old bedroom door swings wide open. I wait a few moments before attempting to peek around the corner of the scratched wooden doorframe. A lady holding a bright green tray full of food carefully walks toward my bedside and sets the tray down on the table.  

I sit in silence. “Good morning, Arty,” she says as she opens the curtains to reveal a foggy morning and an old oak tree that looks vaguely familiar; I’ve been here before. I continue to sit in silence and pull the table of food toward me. It contains all my favorites: bacon, Texas toast with cheese, and scrambled eggs. The lady reaches for a bright blue semi-transparent container with letters written across it and drops an unknown substance in her hand. “It’s time for your medicine, Arty,” she says, walking over to me. She places two purple pills next to my glass of milk. I look up at her and feel tears building in my eyes.

“I want to go home,” I say as I push the table forward.

“You are home.” She smiles at me and gently strokes my wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.

Why does she say that? I am not home. Where are my wife and children? This isn’t the house I built, of course I’d recognize my own house! I quickly pull my hand away and shove the tray of food onto the floor.

“Stop it! You and that other fellow always lie to me! Why can’t you just let me go? I’m going to call the law! I swear to God I will!”

“Arty, this is your home. See the pictures of Beatrice and Gina?” She reaches over and grabs a dark red picture frame from the area above my nightstand. “See, this is you with Beatrice and Gina when they were little girls.”

I grab the picture with my trembling hands. There is a tall, slender man holding two young girls in flowery patterned dresses. One is laughing and cuddling a raggedy baby doll, the other is crying and tightly clinging to the man.

“Gina would always cry a lot, remember? She didn’t like being too far away from you.”

Gina? Beatrice? Those names aren’t familiar to me. Those aren’t my daughters, and I am not that man.

 

II.

 

             A calm ticking sound breaks the silence in my room. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I lie in bed and stare at the discolored ceiling. I never could afford to have the ceiling redone; I hope Stella isn’t too angry about that. I sit up and hang my achy legs over the side of the bed. All I can see out my window is the black of night. I woke up too early for work, that’s never happened before. I pull my cane toward me and heave myself off the bed, nearly falling in the process. I stagger to the closet and look for my bus driver uniform, it isn’t here. Stella must have taken it out to be cleaned again, I don’t remember dirtying it that much, though. I feel something soft wrap around my left leg. I look down and see shining eyes gazing up at me in the darkness. The creature darts from the closet floor onto my bed. It’s Purdy, that fluffy white cat I bought for my wife as a present on her thirtieth birthday. She cries furiously at me.

“You must be hungry,” I say as I reach out with my shaky hands and stroke her soft fur. I stagger toward the kitchen and grab a can of tuna and a small container then return to my bed where Purdy patiently waits.

“Stella is working late again, I’ll call and tell her to buy you some food on the way home.” She purrs and flicks her tail around as I pour the food into the small cup. I set it down next to her, but she makes no movement toward it.

“What’s the matter? Cats are supposed to like fish, especially you,” I say. She continues to lie there. I become frustrated. “You’ve never been a picky eater before! What’s the problem now, cat?” I grab some meat with my fingers and put it up at her mouth.

“Arthur?” a voice calls from behind. Stella stands in the doorway tying her robe and adjusting her pink house-shoes, her long silver hair wrapped in curlers. “What are you doing?”

“Purdy won’t cooperate, I think she’s sick.”

Stella gives me a puzzled look before walking toward my bed. “Arty, Purdy has been dead for years.” She walks over to where Purdy lay and picks up a bundle of something. She holds the bundle under my nightstand lamp.

“Arthur, these are a pair of new socks I bought you the other day. Why are they smeared in Vicks Vaporub?”

“I was trying to feed Purdy some tuna, you know she refused to eat it? I think she’s sick.”

I turn toward Purdy, but she is nowhere to be found. “You scared her off, Stella!”

Stella sets something down on my nightstand and her hands fall to her sides.

“I’m sorry, Arty. We’ll look for her tomorrow, okay?” She kisses me on the forehead and helps me back into bed.

 

III.

 

           I look out the window and see the oak tree Stella and I planted when we were first married. After all these years, it still looks so strong. I hear the doorknob vigorously jiggle before the door finally creaks open. Stella appears in the doorway juggling a bright green tray full of delicious smelling breakfast.

“Toby is bringing Kayley over for a visit today,” she says as she sets the tray down on my bedside table.

“Toby?”

“He’s Gina’s oldest boy. Toby. Remember?” She sits in the chair underneath the window and grabs the newspaper from the coffee table, spilling some coffee on her gown in the process.

Toby. That’s right, my grandson.

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” I say with a mouth full of scrambled eggs.

“We were at the hospital when she was born,” Stella says as she scrubs the stained spot on her gown with a napkin, “I can’t believe she’s already five years old!”

         After breakfast, I lie down for a nap and listen to the sound of the wind chime from outside. Who made that wind chime, again? I think it was Katie-Lee. She hasn’t stopped by for a visit since we rode our red wagon downhill the other day. She scratched her knee up badly. Her mother is a nurse, so she should be all right. I hate she bloodied her church socks; her mother always makes a fuss over such things.

“Arty, look who’s here early today,” Stella says, standing in the doorway.

A little girl with curly red hair and clutching a stuffed, fluffy brown bunny with big eyes enters the room with a tall man walking not far behind her.

“Hey grandpa, did you have a good breakfast?” the man asks.

Stella helps me sit up and move my feet to the rug beside my bed. I reach over to the jar beside my bed and struggle to get the lid off. The little girl walks over and rests her warm, tiny hands against my hand to stop it from shaking. I remove the lid and reach inside to grab a chewy chocolate chip cookie.

“Here, Katie-Lee,” I say as I offer the cookie to her, “are you feeling better?”