The Perfect Supper by Mel Grieves

© 2011 Melody Grieves.

Even with a tight grip on the walker his family insisted he use, Walter Pritchard nearly fell over backwards when his daughter walked through the apartment door.

He turned and snapped at his wife, Gladys. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“We did tell you. Lotsa times. You just don’t remember.”

“Oh.” Walter knew he was losing his memory, but he kept forgetting that he knew it. All the old stuff he remembered like it was yesterday. In fact, the older the memory, the more quickly he could bring it into focus. He figured the most recent thing he remembered clearly was his 85^th birthday when he’d told Diana, this daughter who’d just stepped through the door, not to send him any more books because he could no longer remember what he’d just read on the previous page. That was his only clue that they weren’t lying when they told him now that he doesn’t remember something. How long ago had that been? Now Diana was here again, out of the blue, all the way from Seattle.

He dared not loosen his grasp on the walker as she gingerly hugged his shoulders. Her hair smelled wonderful, like pine trees and salt water. Or was he just remembering their trips west to visit her?

“Hello, Dad. How are you feeling?”

He tried one of his old lines, hoping to make light of the situation. “Okay for an old feller.” Then he forgot what situation he was trying to make light of. He felt tears come to his eyes. “What are you doing here, Di?” Then to his wife: “Does this mean I’m dying?”

“I just came to visit, Dad. That’s all. I have a few extra days off and thought it would be nice to spend them with you. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Gladys raised herself from the sofa and limped across the living room to greet Diana. “Hungry, honey?” Diana followed her mother to the tiny kitchen.

Walter made his way to the table that separated the kitchen from the living room. He hated this cramped apartment and missed their old two-story house in town. “She’s here two minutes and already you got to start eating?”

“She’s here two minutes you gotta start with the criticisms?” his wife shot back.

Walter might be losing his memory, but his powers of observation, when he was awake, were fully intact. He saw the eye-rolls exchanged between his wife and daughter.

Walter reconsidered sitting at the table and tottered back to his recliner. More comfortable than the straight back chair and, if he switched off Gladys’ soap opera, he’d still be able to hear them talking. He straightened the granny-square afghan, carefully turned his backside to the seat and slumped into it.

“Every time he feels his heart skip a beat he thinks he’s dying and wants to go to the hospital. I don’t know how many midnight ambulance rides we been on. I think he just likes the attention.”

“Oh Mom. Something must be wrong. He’s not making it up, you know.”

Damn women talk about me like I’m not here. “I can hear you, you know! You’re as loud as you are fat!” He glanced up to see them both scowling at him, his aging wife of God knows how many years and the daughter who could have been her twin 35 years ago, if you could do that with time. In his mind, you could. He scowled back. “Well, at least maybe Diana will believe me about dying.” Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

The women’s voices faded and gave way to a parade of recollections marching through his mind. He remembered when Diana was a little girl, how she had loved to stretch out on the back seat of the Chrysler and pretend to sleep, but still listen to what her parents were saying up front. She told him once that the conversations sounded “dreamy,” like they were happening in another world, one degree away from reality. He smiled to himself. They were a lot alike actually, both dreamers in their own ways. Except lately, everything seemed dreamy to Walter, and he had trouble telling real from unreal.

Walter dozed off amidst the kitchen chatter and the smell of potato soup bubbling on the stove, then awoke with a start when he felt his heart alternately racing and stopping, pounding hard, then not beating at all. “Call 9-1-1! I’m having a heart attack!” He tried to sit up but couldn’t get the La-Z-Boy into its upright position. When he looked up, two women stood over him, one on either side, peering down at him.

“See?” Gladys said. “This is what I’m talking about.”

The other woman held his hand and felt his wrist for a pulse. He jerked away. “You’re not my nurse!” He squinted at her. “Diana! When did you get here?”

“A little while ago, Dad.” She pulled the chair handle and pushed on the back so he could sit up. Then she sat in Gladys’ chair beside him, still holding his hand, and asked him what he was feeling.

He tried to explain it, but could only point to his chest. He felt his hand trembling. He wanted to cry. Please, don’t let them see me cry.

“Okay,” she said. “Try this. Breathe in deeply. All the way into your belly. Come on, do it with me.”

Walter watched his daughter’s abdomen balloon outward as she took a long, deep breath. He couldn’t help matching her breathing pattern. She’s hypnotized me. When did she learn how to do that? Several more breaths and he felt calmer. His heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. He reached over to stroke her hair with a steady hand.

This daughter used to hold my hand when we crossed the street, when she was just a babe, small and fragile. When did she become such a big lump of a woman?

“Come eat some soup, Walter. It will make you feel better.” Diana helped him to his feet while Gladys continued to babble. “I keep thinking he just can’t get no skinnier. Look at him. Nothing but skin and bones. I think even his bones are shrinking.”

It had been a marriage-long battle between them. Gladys adding weight while he lost it. Gladys forever trying to cook him the perfect meal she hoped he would savor and compliment, and he finding fault with every dish, screwing up his long nose in disgust and often leaving the table early. As Gladys and Diana had gotten heavier, he’d dwindled to lean, then scrawny, then almost anorexic. And even though he knew, in truth, that Gladys was a fine, salt-of-the-earth cook, he’d never been able to withdraw from the fight.

Walter sat at the table and waited for Gladys to serve his lunch. He felt the warmth of her hand when she lightly rubbed the back of his neck after setting a bowl of soup in front of him. Then she unfolded a paper napkin and tucked it into his shirt collar. Walter picked up a Saltine, broke it in half, set one half on the rim of his soup plate, and spread a thin coat of butter on the other. He dipped the buttered half cracker into his soup, and brought it to his lips, carefully testing the soup’s heat. He never wore his dentures when he ate. They hurt. He wore them only when he had to go out in public. Gladys usually took her suppers in the communal dining room of their assisted living complex. She loved people. He hated people watching him and ate most dinners in his La-Z-Boy with Dan Rather as company. He still missed Cronkite. He gummed the cracker and stared across the table at Diana. She grabbed half a dozen crackers and crumbled them between her palms and into her soup. Then she added a dollop of cold milk and a squirt of ketchup, extra salt and several grinds of pepper, and stirred it all into one mushy glob. It just about turned Walters’s stomach.

“I can’t eat this,” he muttered and reached for his walker.

Gladys reached for it too and pulled it away from him. “You have to eat, Walter. What’s the matter? You don’t want no lunch?”

Out of habit, he corrected her. “Don’t want any lunch.”

Diana touched his arm. “Really, Dad. You do need to eat. And you usually like potato soup.”

Did he? At that moment Walter couldn’t remember. “All I know is that nothing tastes the same anymore, Di. I don’t feel like eating anything.” He steadied himself with the table’s edge as he rose from his chair and his glare met Gladys’. She finally shrugged and pushed his walker back to him, and he shuffled off to bed.

* * *

Two days later Walter found himself feeling pretty good and checking his image in the mirror over the mantel. He noticed he was dressed to leave the apartment. He shifted the baseball cap that sat on his thick white hair, not greasy but clean today, patted the pack of Kools in the navy Polo shirt pocket, checked the fly on his khaki-colored Dockers, and then stared at his feet. What the hell are those monstrosities? “Gladys! Where did I get these shoes?”

Someone else answered. “We bought them Friday, Dad. Remember? The doctor said a good pair of walking sneakers could improve your balance.”

Walter smiled, suddenly remembering that Diana was visiting. “You’re still here.”

“Yes, for one more day. Have to go back to Seattle tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” He considered his apparel again and made a guess. “Are we going for a ride?”

“Just waiting on Mom. Any place special you’d like to go?”

“No, the usual.”

For years now, whenever Diana made a trip back to Michigan, they would climb into the current Chrysler — Walter always bought Chryslers — and take a drive over all the back roads, past farms where his parents and aunts and uncles had lived, through the town where Diana and her sister had grown up, the house they lived in for so many years, and out to Clear Lake where he and Diana had spent many a morning fishing for that elusive Mr. Trout. Today, apparently, their ride would be Chrysler’s latest invention, the PT Cruiser Diana had rented at the airport. He did remember, to his immense irritation each time he did so, that he’d been forced to give up driving when his wife and daughter had confiscated his keys and sold his last Imperial. Walter grunted as he crawled into the back seat. “I can’t believe Chrysler made this thing.”

“Brand new for the new millennium, Dad.”

“Hardly room enough to lie down back here. Good thing I’m a lot skinnier than either of you.”

Gladys frowned at him from the front passenger seat. “If you’d ever take time to notice, neither me or Diana is very heavy any more. You just don’t want to have nothing to pick on us about.”

“Don’t want to have anything,” Walter said. But as usual, she wasn’t listening.

Diana countered, “It’s okay, Mom. I stopped listening to Dad’s snipes years ago.” She revved the engine, checked the mirrors and turned on the radio, twisting the dial until they heard Ernie Harwell’s voice describing a double play like no other baseball broadcaster could. “Harwell’s retiring after this season. Did you know that, Dad?”

Walter didn’t answer. He had already stretched out as much as he could on the back seat and had snuggled in to that dreamy place. If he did fall asleep, he counted on Gladys to rouse him when they passed things he might want to see and when they stopped at Webber’s Country Market.

“You shoulda been a boy, Diana,” said Gladys. “Still nuts about baseball. If Uncle Will was still with us, I bet we’d be spending the day at the farm so you could go fishing and ride horses.”

Diana upped the volume on the radio, but Gladys kept talking.

“Who’da ever thought my pretty baby girl would grow up to be a fireman?”

“Fire fighter,” Diana corrected, for the millionth time.

Walter damn near giggled.

After a quick tour through town where they stopped in front of the old house and commiserated over its disrepair, they headed toward the lake via Territorial Road, so they could pass by Uncle Will’s old place. Walter remained upright during this part of the drive. This scenery brought back his earliest memories, still clear, so close he thought if he concentrated a bit harder he would be able to touch them. His teenaged summers spent working the fields, the huge farmhouse where he and his cousins lazed on the screened-in stone porch when it was too hot to play baseball, the kitchen where Aunt Polly “cooked for thrashers” during harvest time. Now those were perfect meals!

Walter was pleased to see that whoever owned the place now had kept things up. The barn was recently painted, the garden well tended, the house looking as proud as it always had, maybe even a little fresher. He wanted to ask Diana to stop the car so he could go press his hands into his father’s palm prints, left there for posterity when he had poured the cement for the stone porch, long before Walter had been born. But his gaze shifted to the lane ahead, the one that led from the back pasture to the road.

“Whoa! Stop! That pinto is loose out here!”

At the end of the lane stood a brown and white quarter horse stallion, not yet in the road, but looking as if he was considering it. Looking as if he owned it.

“Turn in!” Walter told Diana. “Turn in and block his path!”

Diana did as he told her. Thank God she’s not arguing, for once.

“Now just inch forward, get him moving back toward the gate.”

The horse stood his ground until the Cruiser’s bumper closed in. There was room to go around the car, but as Walter had guessed, the horse thought better of it, turned and trotted up the lane, snorting and tossing his head wildly.

“Keep going. Get him cornered down there at the end.”

Diana followed instructions and angled the car to allow less room for escape. The gate to the pasture was still open, but the horse made no move to go through it.

Walter, forgetting his age and frailty and feeling empowered by his new sneakers, opened the back passenger side door and literally hopped out of the car. He staggered hurriedly toward the horse, waving his arms. “Hyah! Get in there! Get!” He felt like a hero, protecting not just the horse from possible danger, but somehow his wife and daughter, too. Then he heard Gladys screeching at him, and then the Cruiser’s “ah-ooga” horn. He knew Gladys had been the one to honk the car horn. Diana wasn’t that stupid.

The noise was too much for the horse. It reared high and dangled its hooves over Walter’s head. His heart pounded and he felt faint. He tripped as he scooted backwards, and tumbled to the ground, rolling into a ball on his side. The stallion’s feet landed just inches beyond his own. Walter knew that horses preferred not to step on people, but this one seemed crazy enough to buck nature. He closed his eyes tight and opened them moments later to an incredible sight. Not to hooves hovering over him, ready to send him to his next life, but to Diana bracing her tall, powerful body in front of the stallion, punching the horse squarely in the chest and screaming “MOVE!” And the horse did, turning sharply and saunterint into the pasture as calmly as an old mare. Walter wasn’t sure which amazed him more — the horse’s sudden change in attitude, or his new vision of his strong and capable daughter.

Diana closed and secured the gate and ran back to kneel beside Walter. “Dad! Are you okay? Where do you hurt?”

“Where in hell did you learn to do that?”

“From you. From those stories you and Uncle Will told me, years ago. Never mind that. Are you hurt?” She gently tested his limbs, moving them slowly, and checked his head for bumps and cuts.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Soft grass here. Just help me up.”

By that time Gladys had wrangled Walter’s walker from the back of the car and hobbled over to them. Eventually they all made it back into the car, Walter and Gladys sharing the walker, and Diana supporting both of them.

After they had all settled back into the car Diana slowly backed down the lane. “You sure you’re okay, Dad?”

“I’m fine, Di. Don’t worry.” In fact, he felt better than he had in a long time. “Let’s get over to Webber’s. You women have some cooking to do.”

Suddenly the back seat of the Cruiser felt as comfy as his La-Z-Boy. The Tigers had won their game and Diana changed the station to easy listening. Gladys hummed along with Dean Martin. Walter made a mental note to say something nice about his wife’s singing voice, but at the moment he was busy practicing the deep breathing Diana had taught him. He eased into a light sleep and popped wide-awake when the car crunched gravel and came to a stop at the market.

“We’re here, honey,” Gladys chirped. “What you want for supper tonight?”

Walter had been dreaming about his Aunt Polly’s cooking. The all-time best meal she ever cooked was for his twelfth birthday. “I want pork chops with milk gravy, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, tomato pudding and cucumber salad. And apple pie for dessert.” He winked at his wife. “And no lumps in the mashed potatoes.”

Gladys smiled back appreciatively, probably savoring this tidbit of flirty good humor. But still she argued. “You know you can’t eat all of that. And you couldn’t eat corn on the cob even if you put your teeth in.”

“Let me worry about that, Mom. You make the pie, I’ll cook dinner. I know what I can do with that corn, but you’ll have to tell me how to make tomato pudding.”

Walter decided to stay in the car and let Gladys and Diana do the shopping. He waved a greeting to Pike Hendershot and Pike wandered over to say hello. They agreed it was a fine first week of September. When Walter told Pike about his supper order, Pike smacked his lips and said Walter was in luck. This was the time of year when late corn met up with early apples. Walter nodded to himself as Pike walked off. “Yessiree. A purely magical time.”

Diana raised the hatchback and deposited bags of produce, then plunked down in the driver’s seat.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She ran into Ruth Webber and they’re having a chat.”

“Oh Lord. We’ll be here for half an hour, at least.”

“That’s okay, isn’t it? You doing all right?”

“Sure, I’m fine.” Walter saw the doubt in Diana’s eyes as she squared around in her seat to face him. “Well, not fine. We know that. At least you and I know that. Your mother doesn’t seem to.”

“She’s just concerned about you, that’s all. We all are.”

Walter again fought back tears. “It’s hard some days to hang on, Diana. If it weren’t for Gladys, I’d have died months ago. I’m ready to go, but I worry about how she’ll get along after I’m gone. We were always sure that she’d be the first to go, with all her ailments.”

Walter hoped he wasn’t laying too much onto his daughter. But he figured if anyone had the right disposition to cope with his honest thoughts, it was Diana.

“But then I started to fail. I was doing great until I turned 84 and I had that little heart thing. I thought I’d get back to normal, but by the time I was 85, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.” He glanced up to see that Diana’s eyes were wet, too. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Diana sniffed and swallowed. “Well, it’s not your fault, Dad. Life happens. I’m just sorry that you’re having such a hard time.”

Walter let out a long sigh. “I’m so tired of living, Di. If it weren’t for your mother…”

“You don’t need to worry about Mom. We’ll take care of her.” After several minutes of silence she added, “I don’t want to lose you, Dad, but when the time comes, I want you to know you can let go in peace.”

Walter had a hard time meeting his daughter’s eyes again, overwhelmed by her compassion and generosity after all the years of his barbs and criticisms. If I were Diana, I’d be stomping me to the ground like that stallion tried to do.

“But with the way you’re acting and conversing today, I think you just might be on the mend.”

They smiled at each other, and Walter wondered if she really believed what she’d just said. He knew what he believed.

Gladys got into the car and chattered all the way back to the apartment, all the way down the hall and all the while they unpacked the bags, sharing the gossip she’d gleaned from her friend. Walter relaxed into his recliner, took in one deep breath after another, and purposely brought forth his oldest memories, until he could feel the harvest sun on his skin, hear his mother’s lullabies, smell the sweet smoke from Uncle Will’s pipe, and taste Aunt Polly’s Parker House rolls and freshly churned butter.

He dozed intermittently, awake often enough to keep track of the progress in the kitchen. Gladys schooled Diana on how much butter, brown sugar and tomatoes to add to the bread cubes for the pudding. They could bake it along with the apple pie, she said. Mmmm. I really should admit to Gladys at least once before I die that her piecrust is the best I’ve ever tasted. He heard Diana explain to her mother how she planned to scrape the corn kernels off the cobs and sauté them with a little green onion and minced red pepper. Maybe I’ll wear my teeth to dinner. He awoke at one point to a crash in the pantry when Gladys sent Diana in search of the potato ricer, her secret to lump-free mashed potatoes. When he smelled the blessed aroma of sizzling pork chops he went to wash up while Diana stirred up the milk gravy. He’d missed the mixing of the vinegary cucumber salad, but it was there on the table when he came out of the bathroom and sat down in anticipation.

Walter didn’t exactly chow down like his 12-year-old self, but he did eat a portion of each dish offered, and savored all of it. He even asked for a scoop of ice cream on his apple pie. Then, when he was more sated than he could ever remember being in his entire life, he smiled at the two women he loved most and said, “Thank you. That was a perfect supper.”

Gladys beamed, never having heard those words from him before. Diana looked at him a bit curiously and leaned in to gather up dishes. He tried to cover up a belch with his napkin, and they all laughed.

After he’d settled into the La-Z-Boy and pushed it to the far-back position, Walter closed his eyes and let go. Walter finally felt at peace.