Willard Wanted In

Willard wanted in. It was the second night in a row that he had fallen asleep on the armchair instead of in bed next to her, and this displeased him. He sat on the edge of the bed pushing his body against her to alert her of the problem. June stirred in her sleep and lifted the comforter a few inches so that he could weasel his way into the warm black space between her torso and the lips of the blanket. He curled his back in so they fit together like the silver spoons her grandmother kept in the mahogany box. They slept until the morning.
Gold September was one of the few remaining retirement homes in the state of Indiana that allowed pets. It was because of this that June consented to move there eight months ago at her daughter’s decree. Willard had been her only comfort after Bill passed away and she would have been as broken as the plate she threw at her daughter that day if her only friend was to be removed from her living quarters. So Willard and June were packed up and sent to Gold September, both howling and crying for the hour in the car.
The morning was a sacred time. Willard stayed curled up in bed in a desperate attempt to absorb the remains of June’s heat from the mattress. But June was gone. Out by the window in her beige armchair, she could see the sun coming up over the strip mall across the street. The golden light crested over Lucky Liquor and poured onto the patched asphalt. She liked to watch the day grow hot and imagine summers in her garden. She and Bill were so proud of their garden. Tomatoes, lettuce, raspberries, blueberries, pumpkins, melons, peppers, corn, spinach, asparagus, potatoes; they could grow pretty much anything on that acre of land. After Bill died, there was little June could do to keep it up by herself. She tried for a while to tend the small flowerbed near the house. When Willard was a kitten he used to play in the piles of weeds she would free from the necks of her bleeding hearts and black eyed susans. The annuals would probably be green and strong today she thought. It was another hot day in July and the heavy rain last night would have promised growth.
Nine O’clock at Golden September was breakfast. The time was later in the morning to give the women time to dress. June always felt pity for them. Despite her age and arthritis, she retained the ability to select and dress in a clean outfit each day. Today it was a corn blue sundress and a white cardigan. She pinned a broach onto the right side of the sweater. It was a golden piece, twisted into the shape of the sun. Her granddaughter had given it to her four years ago at Christmas. June thought it looked nice with the dress, which reminded her of Bill’s cloudy blue eyes in the days they had in the garden.
The dining hall was nearly always empty when June took her place at the table by the window. It faced the dark courtyard with the geranium pots, and not the strip mall. The room itself was large, high ceilings which seemed several stories high compared to the cramped quarters where Willard and she resided. The staff of Golden September kept the walls a clean eggshell color. The curtains were faded gold tapestry. June thought there might have been flowers embroidered into the fabric at one time, but the thick coats of dust had dulled the color into a cloudy hue.
June noticed the various groups of men and women trickling into the wide dining hall. She spotted her companion Joyce and nodded in a gesture of friendship. Joyce was never a talkative lady. They would sit in silence together and sip their morning coffee. The nursing staff didn’t like to serve the residents too much coffee, but June’s health had been good so they allowed her the standard cup with cream. This morning Joyce was wearing a maroon pant suit. She had a vanilla blouse underneath that was buttoned improperly. June thought it best not to mention it; Joyce had been so sensitive lately about her lost vision.
“I had another one of those dreams last night, darn things.” June always had to start the conversations. Joyce pretended to listen as she prodded her breakfast toast with her silver knife. “I dreamt that Bill was in my room with me. He looked young, the way he was right after the war. He was lying in bed beside me and I glanced at his belly and it was black. He started to melt sort of; he started to sink down into the bed like a puddle. Like molasses.” June paused and looked at the red geranium pot to her left beyond the glass. “And a nurse came to change the sheets and washed him right down the drain.”
Joyce muttered something about her jelly being apricot instead of raspberry, and how apricots tasted so queer and how they weren’t even grown in America.
June spent the rest of the day in her room. She had a little garden separated out into small pots that took up the floor space beside the window. They were carefully arranged around her chair so that she could squeeze her eyes half closed and hum to herself and pretend she were in the garden.
When the children were grown, she and Bill would go out to the garden darn near every day. There was one afternoon in September she remembered. They had been picking the raspberries, walking up the long rows in the dry heat. Even the flies and gnats that loved to feed off of June’s ivory ankles were suffocated by the temperature that day. After June’s pint basket was filled she lowered herself down by the large oak tree at the end of the garden. It was older than she was, and she liked thinking about that as she slouched down against the rough bark. Bill came over as well and sat beside her.
“You know,” he said, “I think you’re just about the sweetest raspberry I’ve ever tasted.” He leaned over and brushed his mustache against her and kissed her dry mouth. When they were done, it didn’t seem like the heat in the air mattered at all.
June had her dinner brought to her room. She called the cafeteria and said she was too tired to walk down to eat. She didn’t like to lie like that, but she would rather sit in silence with Willard than with Joyce tonight. She couldn’t finish all of her food. Liver. She had hated it since she was a little girl, but some of the men insisted it be served at least once a month. They thought the slimy filet served up with some overcooked onions was more valuable than gold. She left it sitting on her dinner tray.
There was a knocking on the door. “Eight O’clock.” She said quietly to herself, “more pills.” Nurse Karen let herself in and stood in the doorway, the orange light from the hall poured into June’s quiet sanctuary.
“Good evening Miss Baer, I’ve got your evening meds ready.” She took a small plastic kit from out of her cart. It had the words “J. Baer” written on the top of it in permanent marker. Sloppy shorthand, June thought, she hated writing in short hand.
“Now I know your heart medication is too large for you to swallow, so I’m going to mash it up in some of your food you’ve got here and you just eat it up as best you can.” June looked down at her basil plant and heard the clink of the jello dish against the dinner tray. After complacently swallowing the little pills, Nurse Karen left her alone with the desert remains and pushed her cart back into the hallway.
Lying in bed that night, all she could think about was Bill. How many more sleepless nights would there be before they could be together again. She liked to count seconds in her head to help her sleep, and before long, she was.
Willard was content with sleeping near the end of the bed tonight. She felt the weight of his little furry body push down against the comforter. He seemed heavy, but didn’t they all feel heavy these days.
In the morning, she woke up early as usual. She dressed and sat in the armchair to watch the sunrise. It was a golden morning. She walked over to the bed to wake up Willard so she could make the bed; June liked keeping the bed tidy. She touched his black fur lightly; it brushed gently against her fingertips. It felt like the velvet of royalty. She tapped him harder and felt his body cold. Heavy and cold, black and dead. Willard had died in the night.
June sat next to him on the bed. Her eyes moved across the bedside table to the day old dinner tray, the liver filet was half eaten. Tiny bits of white chalky pebbles were mixed in with the wormy onions. The liver had begun to smell. It was dead flesh.
So she cried. It was a thick, strong cry that poured out of her. It was not a wet and sticky weep, but an angry song for justice. She screamed and tore at the edges of her cotton nightdress. She cried until her wrinkles were tired.
June wouldn’t get dressed that day. She lay in bed in her nightgown, staring at the white tiles of ceiling. They looked so pure, so organized. They looked like the golden gates of heaven.