Category: Fiction Factor

Ezra Reuben rubbed his hands together while sitting on the park bench, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the Living With Loss group.

After his wife of 43 years had died, it had taken him two months to leave the house and a month more to resume any semblance of a routine. Opening up about his loss was an even bigger step, especially in the setting of grief counseling.

“Everyone, please welcome Ezra,” said Debbie, the group coordinator, gently patting the man on his shoulder.

Ezra raised his head slightly.

“Uh, my name’s Ezra, and I lost my wife, Arlene, a couple of months ago,” he said to the other bereaved gathered in the park. “We were married more than 40 years, and I’m 68 so we were together a lot longer than we weren’t. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s gone.”

He finally looked around, seeing friendly if unfamiliar faces among those taking part in the outdoor session. He doubted going out in public and sharing his pain would help, but gentle nudges from friends finally convinced him to at least try – and get some fresh air in the process.

“We knew this was coming for a while,  so when she finally passed, I had braced myself as best I could. But you can never prepare for something like that … not really.”

Ezra then forced a smile.

“Right there at the end, we told each other we loved each other, of course,” he said. “But you know what the last thing she said to me was? She said, ‘Ezra, you’ve got to go on because you have to take care of the cats.’ So, I guess now I’m just waiting for the cats to die.”

The couple had no human children, but animals had been part of their world throughout their marriage. Over the years there had been dogs as well as cats – even a ferret at one point. But at the time of Arlene’s death, the couple was down to 15-year-old Barfolomew and 17-year-old Ferris Mewler – both ginger tabbies.

“Those boys miss their mama,” he said. “But they’re good company – and they make sure to let me know I still have to feed ‘em.”

Ezra didn’t expect to spend his sessions on the bench talking about cats, but it made him feel better when he did – and that feeling seemed to be contagious.

One visit to the park led to two meetings of the Living With Loss Group and two evolved into six. It wasn’t long before Ezra was quite comfortable chatting with everyone in his group. And oh, how he loved talking about his kitties.

Three months into his meetings, however, Ezra showed up for a session with tears in his eyes. Ferris had finally succumbed to kidney disease.

“I was taking him to the vet every week to give him fluids,” he told the group. “But by the end there wasn’t any quality of life left for him, so I had to let him go.

“It’s just Barf and me now.”

Ezra knew all too well the trauma of losing a four-legged family member. He had often said the price you pay for spending some of the best years of your life with an animal is having to endure that one horrible day when you lose them. Coming so soon on the heels of Arlene’s death caused the loss to hit even harder.

It was several sessions before he became “chatty” again, but once he did, he expressed concern about Barfolomew.

“He won’t eat,” Ezra told Debbie after a meeting. “I think he misses Ferris … and Arlene.”

The Living With Loss group met each Thursday, and late on a Wednesday night, Debbie got an email from Ezra.

“Barf is gone,” it read. “I went to check on him before I went to bed and found him dead on the bathroom floor.”

Debbie felt horrible for Ezra, but she was also worried; of all the things he had said during the support group meetings it was the line “I guess I’m just waiting for the cats to die” that concerned her most.

She didn’t want to overstep, but she also feared what the widower might do.

“I’m so sorry about Barf, Ezra,” she emailed back. “You’ve had to deal with a lot in a short period of time but please, please come to Thursday’s meeting. Get there early and you and I can talk.”

Ezra emailed back with an ominous answer: “I’ll try, but I have a decision to make tomorrow.”

Debra spent most of the night pacing, wondering if she would ever see Ezra again. He had made so much progress, but the deaths of his cats had surely been a setback.

When morning came, she decided to drive over to Ezra’s house and do a wellness check.

She rang the doorbell, but there was no response.

She then knocked frantically, but again, nothing.

The garage was closed, so she couldn’t tell if his car was there or not.

But just as she decided to call 911, Ezra pulled up in his driveway.

He got out of the car and waved, then walked to the passenger side and opened the door.

He retrieved a cardboard pet carrier and began walking toward Debbie.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I was worried about you,” she said. “What have you got there?”

Ezra opened the box and pulled out a black cat – an old boy graying around the mouth and missing a left eye.

“This is Snake Plissken,” Ezra said. “That decision I told you I had to make? It was either getting a kitten or a senior cat, and the minute I saw this guy I knew he needed me – that we needed each other.”

Debbie reached over and scratched Snake’s chin, and he responded with a vibrant purr.

“Arlene told me to go on because I have to take care of the cats,” Ezra said. “From the looks of the shelter, there are a lot that need taking care of.

“I guess I’ll be here for a while.”

The big glass door at the Meadowdale Diner slowly opened, giving way to the pressure of Henry Brady’s right shoulder push. Once inside, he gave the place a quick once-over.

It was already filling up with the lunch crowd; many of the patrons were dressed in their business attire, having ducked in for a quick bite before heading back to the office.

But Henry?

He was wearing what appeared to be a mylar emergency blanket (with holes for his arms to go through) and light blue slippers.

Patrons began stepping away as he shuffled toward the counter.

“Can I get a cup of Joe?” he asked the young man working the register. “I don’t have any money on me but my co-workers will pay for it. They should be here in another 10 minutes or so.”

There was one small, open table in the corner of the restaurant, and Henry made his way over to it, easing into the hard, plastic chair and letting out a long sigh.

While most of the customers had already stopped staring – if you look hard enough you can see just about anything in the downtown of a big city – the manager kept his eye on the man, who had settled into his spot and had his arms crossed and propped on the table.

“Sir, are you OK?” said the manager after nervously walking toward Henry.

Henry looked up at him, saw that his name tag read “Jim,” and smiled.

“I’m fine, Jim … and I’ll be even better after I get that coffee,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

The manager leaned down on one knee.

“You just look – I don’t know – like maybe you wandered out of a doctor’s office or a hospital or something,” Jim said. “I just want to make sure no one is looking for you.”

Henry laughed.

“Ah, you just want to make sure I didn’t escape,” he said. “Trust me … I couldn’t even I wanted to. And really, I don’t want to … I’m just on my lunchbreak – like a lot of the other people in here.”

He then looked past the manager and out the window facing the busy side street outside the diner.

“That thing across the way … how long has that been here?” he asked while pointing.

“You mean the public parking deck?” Jim said. “I really couldn’t say. It’s been here as long as I can remember … 10, 20 years at least, I guess.”

Henry squinted to get a better look.

“Hmmm,” Henry said. “About 100 years from now … maybe not even quite that long … there’s gonna be what’s called a hover station. It’ll be a place where people can store their gliders. There won’t be any more cars, at least not how you think of cars now.

“But this place will still be here. Well, I don’t think it’s called the Meadowdale Diner anymore and everything is automated, but I can still come here and get coffee.”

Jim knew there was something amiss with Henry the moment he walked in, and his nonsensical rambling confirmed his suspicion. Perhaps he had wandered off from a mental health clinic down the block. Or, maybe he had undergone an outpatient procedure and had yet to fully shake off the anesthesia. There was a hospital satellite office less than a mile away.

“Sir, do you remember where you were just before you came in here?” Jim asked.

Henry nodded.

“Absolutely … I was across the street,” he said. “In fact, I was right in the middle of where that parking deck is – or was. After they started that energy pattern transmission company there wasn’t much need for gliders anymore. And then when scientists decided to mess around with time jumps, these quantum shops – the place where I work – began popping up all over the place.

“It’s been fun for me. Been with  the same shop for about half a century now. As a tester I don’t go to a lot of different places, but I get to go to a lot of different times, which I like better. I get to see how the climate has changed, how people have changed, changes in infrastructure … then I file a report.”

Henry got up, stretched, and waved at the two men who had just materialized near the diner’s exit.

“Well, Jim” he said. “There’s my ride. If you can just give me my coffee to go, one of them will settle up with you. I don’t miss much about the 21^st century but man, you guys did coffee right.”

Most of the runners snaked their way along the sidewalk of the city center, negotiating the course with relative ease. But a few – the few who couldn’t keep pace – weaved out onto the main road as they struggled to keep up.

“Get out of the street, you idiots!” squawked the man. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is? Morons …”

Once a serious runner himself, Jeremy Browning had made it his mission to serve as something of a monitor, spending every Monday and Friday eyeing the crew from the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club – and yelling at them. The runners from the organization put in two mini-marathons per week, starting their journey under the cover of early morning darkness and finishing just as the city came alive with both human and vehicular traffic.

At the outset, they were often the only people anywhere near the street, save for the occasional dog walker or casual jogger.

Jeremy would give them a loose follow during the predawn jaunt, just to make sure they were staying in line.

His role as a keen observer increased dramatically, however, as they neared the end of their run. This was the point where many became tired – and careless.

“Hey, Pink Guy,” he bellowed at the pale, sweating man who was bringing up the rear of the line of marathoners. “Get your ass back on the sidewalk before you get run over.”

There was no acknowledgement, although once the runner side-glanced the slow-moving car as it moved past, he stumbled back toward the walkway.

“I can’t always be your eyes and ears,” Jeremy said. “At some point you have to show some common sense.”

Jeremy didn’t know the names of any of the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club members; there had been so many different ones over the years, it would’ve been difficult to remember them all anyway.

Instead, he identified them by their appearance.

“Pink Guy” had been around only a couple of months, and Jeremy didn’t think he was fully committed to the discipline and stamina needed to be in such an organization.

Then there was “Fish Britches,” the sobriquet he had given the man who always wore salmon-colored running shorts (and matching headband) and seemed more interested in fashion than exertion.

“Richie Rich,” “Sweaty Butt,” “Pencil Legs” … Jeremy was always able to identify a few who didn’t follow the rules of the road, and he wasn’t at all shy about shaming them when they got out of line.

“I guess I need to start calling you Road Kill instead of Sweaty Butt,” he shouted as the fellow with the perpetually damp shorts foundered toward the thoroughfare. “Mark my words … the next time you stagger out here on the asphalt will be your last. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Jeremy remembered another occasion when Sweaty Butt was clipped by a Honda Civic when he ran in front of the compact in an effort to keep pace with the rest of the group. The injury wasn’t serious, but Jeremy was livid.

He’d anticipated the event moments earlier and hollered as loud as he could to warn the runner. Sweaty Butt looked up in time to avoid a more serious crash, but had he been paying attention he could’ve steered clear of it altogether.

“Why don’t they listen?” Jeremy would often mutter to himself.

Of course, he had to believe they were listening, even if they might not even realize it.

They never so much as looked in his direction when he started vocalizing his displeasure, but somehow, he always seemed able to keep them out of harm’s way.

Yeah, there was Sweaty Butt’s incident with the Honda. And then several years earlier there was the guy – “Terrycloth Drawers” Jeremy remembers calling him – who was on a collision course with a minivan before darting out of the road and into a sticker bush.

Jeremy screamed with such force he was certain he’d busted a blood vessel.

When he thought about it – and it was basically all that he thought about – everyone in the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club should thank him for what he did.

Every time they did their weekly runs, he was serving as their lookout. And when Monday and Friday were done and the same number of harriers who started also finished, Jeremy felt as though his goal was accomplished.

And that was a good feeling, albeit a bittersweet one.

Because if he’d had a ghost looking out for him all those years ago, maybe he’d still be alive today.