Boomers

Boomers

Rita Sommers-Flanagan

Copyright © 2018 Rita Sommers-Flanagan

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1981191185

ISBN-10: 1981191186

Editing and formatting by Self-Publishing Services, LLC

Quote from Pilgrim Creek Reprinted by the permission of Russell & Volkening as agents for the author. Copyright © 1974 by Annie Dillard

Quote from ''Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'' By Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright ©1952 by Dylan Thomas. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. 

Cover Photo: Theresa Vandersnick Burkhart

Dedication

To John. Always.

Acknowledgments

This book has lurched along to publication with serious amounts of support and encouragement. Thanks. To Marianne Spitzform, Brooke Barnette, Sara Kerr, Theresa V. Burkhart, Connie Keogh, Carrie Thiel, Roberta Parrott, Jean Larson, Scott Wolff (and friends), Rylee Sommers-Flanagan, Maya Perleman, and my idea-buddy, Jeanne Twohig. I goaded them all into reading, they goaded me into publishing. Then along came Danica Winters with know-how, youthful vision, enthusiasm, and a warm laugh. She and her team have been excellent birthing coaches.

The years teach much which the days never knew.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

CHAPTER ONE

Pie

September arrived, but Dave Olson wasn’t heading back to the classroom or screaming his lungs out at hopeful fat boys on the football field. His disposition, which would not have been described as cheery under the best of circumstances, had taken a decided downturn. So far, the score was Retirement:1, Olson:0. And it wasn’t going to get any better for some time.

Dave slammed out the back door with a nasty snarl. He had been snippy for days, taking things out on Patty because wives are handy for that sort of thing. Patty wasn’t much of a fighter, but having been married to Dave for an eternity, she had her ways. Sure, a pie would cheer him up, but she wasn’t all that concerned about cheering him up. She was more intent on revenge. If this was how retirement sat with him, she might just have to send him back to work.

She filled a crust with the deep-purple magic of huckleberries, slipped it into the oven, and found Dave yanking weeds in the backyard. Making a pie, she said. The last of your birthday huckleberries.

Dave’s mood lifted. He flashed a sexy wink and made a grab for Patty’s ample bottom, but she slapped his hand away. And I’m inviting Millie over.

Dave peeled his gardening gloves off and threw them on the ground near Patty’s feet. This was neither the first nor the last fit Dave would throw in honor of Millie. But the consequences were about to change.

Well, why in the frickin’ universe would you do that? he asked.

Patty said nothing. She hadn’t deployed the Millie bomb for a while. Patty’s smile widened as Dave’s face darkened. The mere mention of Millie invariably set him off. And sharing pie added insult to injury. Dave turned his back and resumed his attack on the weeds, muttering Huckleberry pie, for God’s sake. Not so damn easy to come by.

Dave had a late August birthday, when huckleberry season was just about over. He always made a pilgrimage to his secret location for one last bucketful. Dave picked berries with an intensity that rivaled Patty’s knitting when she was stressed. It let him escape and arrive home too tired for any birthday nonsense. Patty couldn’t understand this. Now on her birthday, she liked a cake and a few practical gifts. Even a little party. But Dave picked berries. Alone.

An hour later, Millie screeched her rusty pickup to a stop in front of the Olson’s house. The odds and ends in the back of her truck shifted forward. A broken elk antler hit the rear window and startled her. As Missoula’s most popular taxidermist, Millie didn’t need the attention she got by leaving various body parts and tools in the back of her truck. But it wasn’t advertising, it was expediency—along with a general lack of organization.

As she threw the door open, Millie noticed, for maybe the millionth time, her own hurried behavior. She took a moment to collect herself, one foot in and one out of the messy cab. Like everything else in her life, living frenetically was getting old, and in this case, ironic. Rushing to an afternoon with Patty, with Dave around—now that was funny. She started to take three deep breaths, as her yoga instructor had urged her to do, but as she took her first slow inbreath, she noticed Patty and Dave’s neighbor, George, in his front yard digging around in a large gardening box. Damn it. What was I thinking? Pie isn’t worth this, she thought. Maybe, if she hurried, she could get to the front door before he took his head out of that box.

But Millie underestimated George. He’d noticed her arrival long before the truck came to a halt. He’d been deadheading the petunias. George kept his petunias blooming long after anyone else, pinching back the wilting blossoms almost before they wilted. Even before his wife died, George kept a beautiful, green lawn, and his garden beds provided flowers, fruits, vegetables, and plenty of time to keep track of the neighbors.

George rubbed his big-knuckled hands in anticipation as he watched Millie park. When anyone visited Patty and Dave, it meant food. Tasty food. And Millie provided an even greater attraction. She and Dave engaged in endless verbal sniping, and George loved to watch as they each took aim and tried to take the other down. He ducked his head into his gardening box, looking for that pair of hedge clippers he’d borrowed from Dave a while back. This would be an excellent time to return them.

Millie pushed her door shut with a clumsy shove behind her back, feigning interest in something down the street, away from George. She caught her scarf as she slammed the door behind her. Because the long scarf was stylishly double wrapped around her neck, her first step yanked her backward by the throat. She lost her balance, fell sideways, and banged her head into the wing mirror. The scarf unwound as she smashed onto the sidewalk. Otherwise, Millie might’ve strangled herself.

A wave of nausea hit, and she fought to stay conscious.

George hadn’t missed a second of the drama. He galloped over, waving the hedge clippers in the air in great alarm.

Oh, no, he shouted. Dave. Help! He dropped the clippers and knelt down by her head. Millie. Gawd Almighty. You okay, Millie? He touched her cheek and peered into her face, almost nose to nose. His breath was atrocious. She blinked and instinctively tried to turn away.

Don’t move, George yelled, his mouth very near her own. Don’t move at all. DAVE. PATTY. Help! Millie’s down.

The shouting and body odor jolted Millie back into full consciousness. Despite George’s protests, she sat up and ran her fingers over the side of her face. Her right eye was swelling, and some scrapes were oozing blood.

Dave got there as Millie tried to get to her feet. George held one arm, scolding her for moving and trying to steady her. Dave took her other arm and looked her over with the eye of a seasoned football coach. She’d taken a hit, but she’d be fine. He and George walked her to the house. George made sure he slipped on into the living room.

Millie’s head pounded, and her face felt hot with embarrassment. She was furious with herself for being a clumsy old fool. She was already fed up with life. This was insult to injury.

That’s gonna be a real shiner, George said. Yessiree, a real shiner. By golly, you took quite the dive. Boy howdy, quite the dive.

Millie drew in a long ragged breath that hurt her ribs and sat down on the loveseat. The unpleasant aspects of this visit had increased exponentially. She wanted to go home. Of course, Patty wouldn’t hear of it.

You stay put, Patty said as she gave Millie a warm cloth to wipe her face. We need to make sure you don’t have a concussion or something.

I’m okay, Millie said. Just a stupid stumble. The scrapes had stopped bleeding, but the side of her head still throbbed and she could barely see out of her swollen eye. She mustered a weak smile to prove her point.

Patty patted Millie’s shoulder. Okay, then. No reason to go home if you’re fine. The pie’s done.

Foiled by her own argument and, to her surprise, still tempted by the huckleberry pie, Millie nodded. Patty tucked a blanket around her and went to check the oven.

I’ll get some ice for that lump, she yelled from the kitchen. Need anything else?

A new body. And maybe a new head, Millie said, still hell-bent on chastising herself for every aspect of this rotten afternoon. She should’ve known she couldn’t drive up without George noticing. He was always in the yard. And Dave was a pain in the ass. Always had been, always would be. And Patty was so inane. Millie understood why Patty had married the idiot—biological clock and all. But how they’d stayed together was a mystery. It puzzled her as much as how she and Patty had remained friends through it all.

A mouth-watering aroma permeated the living room where George stood, watching Patty fuss over Millie, waiting for an invitation to stay. He’d managed to drag along the hedge clippers, which dangled from one hand. Dave saw no way out. There wasn’t going to be anything left of that damn pie. But if he behaved, maybe there’d be a chance for some pie-sex after this was all over.

May as well stay for pie, he said to George.

George flashed a lopsided grin and put the hedge clippers by the door. He scratched behind his ear, tucked in a shirttail, and hitched up loosely belted jeans, a size too big and in need of laundering.

Pie! Now who could turn that down? he asked. No wonder you were driving like a bat outta hell, Millie.

Never drives any different. Always on her way to a fire, Dave said.

Millie caught the scorn on his face. Sheesh, she thought. You’d think he could be a bit kinder. My head hurts like hell.

Now Davey-boy, George said. "You didn’t have anything to do with this baking project, right? Last time I ate something you baked, it was a near-death experience."

Dave rolled his eyes. Some people can’t remember things that actually happened, but George here remembers things that didn’t. Like me making pie.

George distinctly recalled a venison pie Dave had made a few years back that he choked on. It hadn’t required the Heimlich maneuver, but still, it’d been a dismal, gristly dish, shaped like a pie. George dug both hands into his back pockets, straining his belt, and formulating a comeback, but he was too slow.

Millie cut in. George and Dave could go on with inane banter for hours. Dave’s mention of memory gave her an opening. God, she said. Memory. She shook her head, her gray ponytail swishing. The action caused her a stab of pain. For a minute, she’d forgotten that she’d just fallen out of her pickup. Don’t you love that why-did-I-open-the-fridge thing? Or looking in the mirror, wondering who in God’s name is that old lady in my bathroom?

Dave glared at Millie, unhappy she’d interrupted his ribbing routine. Yeah, he said. Or wonder how the old fart could be taking so long. Some days I spend half my morning on the john, grunting things out.

George looked away. Dave liked to talk about bowels. George did not. He shuffled his feet and pulled on his ear absentmindedly.

Millie sighed. Oh, sure, Dave. Potty humor. She leaned her aching head to one side. How old are you now, fifty-eight? Fifty-nine? Long time since diapers—don’t worry, though. They’re waiting in the adult products isle.

Dave gritted his teeth. Millie was always taunting everyone to make herself appear superior. She’d studied too much philosophy and psychology. It gave her some ridiculous, irritating ideas.

He sat rigid, trying to think of a fitting retort, but Patty interrupted, yelling from the kitchen. Hey hon, didn’t you pick up ice cream this morning when you got the groceries? I can’t find it.

After a momentary blank look, Dave slammed his fist into his palm. Sheee-it! he said. It’s still in the car.

George guffawed and slapped his thigh. Ha! Even I can remember where the ice cream goes.

Dave stomped to the garage, Patty and George trailing behind.

Across the back seat of the car, a sticky lake of white stuff leaked from the carton. Dave couldn’t think of a way to blame Patty, nor could he think of a single funny thing to say.

Patty held her tongue, too. On another day, she might have fussed at him and rubbed things in a little. But today, not only had she invited Millie over, she’d baked a pie. A huckleberry pie. Those dark, iridescent berries packed into a luscious circle of golden crust always put Patty in a good mood. While Dave and George mopped up, she returned to the kitchen, waving at Millie, who was holding ice to the side of her head. This pie didn’t need ice cream anyway. Thick, purple juice oozed out as she lifted the steaming pieces from pan to plate.

Huckleberry pie played a key role in Dave and Patty’s history. At a Halloween party not long after they’d met, Patty did something wildly out of character. Dave had come as a nerd: high-waisted, tightly belted polyester pants, plaid jacket with pocket-protector, and thick, black-framed glasses. His hair was slicked to the side, and he was wearing a set of large buck teeth. As usual, Dave was drunk, inviting every woman he saw to kiss him. What was unusual was that Patty had downed a few more than she could handle, and the idea of pie-ing Baby Dave was irresistible. He was the dangerous younger man of her dreams. She’d poured her thirty-five-year-old body into a fairy princess costume and was flitting about, fearless and sexy.

There’d been plenty of pumpkin pies on the table, but Patty chose the exotic and rare huckleberry pie to rub into Dave’s flirtatious face. Maybe it wasn’t completely obvious, even to Patty, but she wanted Dave’s full attention. In fact, she wanted Dave—all hunky twenty-nine years of him. And it worked. As he wiped the delicious mess off his face, licking his fingers seductively, Dave saw Patty in a whole new light. Tasty. Outlandish. Purple. The color of passion. And the few times they’d had sex before the wedding, it was like huckleberries. Forbidden fruit, rare, something to be savored. But after marriage, after baby Sarah came along, the sex turned bland. More like pumpkin: thick and orange. Pumpkin comes from the heart of autumn, with winter closing in. With the right spices, it can be tasty. Safe and homey. But it will never be as audacious or indelible as huckleberry purple.

Millie gobbled a few bites of pie and then slowed herself down. Again. She took a conscious breath and looked at her friends. Well, we’re there, huh? The Golden Years. Wrinkles, constipation. Tumbles, bruises. Misplaced ice cream. Not sure what’s so damn golden.

Dave could contort his features far beyond the run-of-the-mill scowl. Leave me out of your geezerhood summaries, he said. No way was the forgotten ice cream on par with her stupid face-plant. He hoped his well-aimed glare would shut Millie up, but it didn’t faze her. She’d endured decades of Dave’s facial gymnastics.

Oh, I’d be happy to leave you out, Dave. But you’re in, all on your own. We’re old. She raised her voice a notch. Face it. Old.

Patty smoothed her skirt and looked at her nails. George plucked at a crusty spot on his jeans, put one foot on top of the other, scratched at his head, and cleared his throat. Everyone waited, knowing George was working up to saying something.

What’s old, anyway? Take me, staring down the barrel of seventy-one, he finally said, with an edge of defiance in his voice. This was not his favorite topic. Lately, his older son, Jeff, had been at him about downsizing; he wanted George to move into one of those damned old-lady retirement places. And then, all night, TV commercials harped on about the wonders of reverse mortgages, or getting life insurance to pay for your own funeral.

Whatever, Millie said. Dave squirmed. We’re Boomers, George. Yes, even you, Baby Dave. Tons of us are arriving at Boomerville. And whatever you call it, it sucks.

Millie was disillusioned and disoriented. Her life was diminished in so many ways that sometimes she wished the rest of it away. Of course, she’d never do anything to traumatize her children, but she lived on an existential teetering point between giving up and fighting back. And now, win or lose, she had the nagging sense that not much mattered in the end.

This was heightened when she spent time with Patty and Dave. She glanced over as she took another deliberate bite of pie and caught them making eyes at each other. Oh my God, they’re thinking about sex, she thought. She knew the pie story all too well. Maybe she should gobble and dash after all.

So, we’re Boomers, getting old. Whoop-de-doo, Dave said, breaking eye-contact with Patty and hoping to irritate Millie so she’d hurry up and leave. Not much we can do about it. Beats the alternative.

He knew he was spouting trite drivel. Millie annoyed the piss out of him.

Never one to back down, Millie shot back: That’s stupid. There’s plenty we can do about it. We could be a…a…well, a national resource, but we’re a big, whining bubble of self-indulgence and indignation.

Excuse me there, preacher, Dave sneered. In his opinion, Millie had just described herself. Didn’t you say it sucks a minute ago? Sounded like self-indulgent whining to me.

His words twisted Millie’s gut. Guilty, she said, eyes down. "But…but…who says I have to be consistent? ‘Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’ She narrowed her eyes at Dave and repeated little minds" as she took a very slow bite of pie.

A Ralph Waldo Emerson quote. Ha! George snapped to attention.

Well, he said. "Emerson said a foolish consistency." He looked around, pleased with himself. His wife, Emma, rest her soul, wouldn’t have approved of him showing off like that. But George thought of it as a dig at Dave, and that justified pretty much anything.

Okay. Foolish. But back to my point. Millie was nothing if not dogged.

Dave groaned and crossed his arms across his chest. I figured the homily wasn’t over.

He appeared to be listening, but Patty knew he was waiting for another chance to insult or derail Millie. Dave hated this topic.

Millie paused for a nanosecond, then continued on. Well, humans refuse to believe they’ll get old and die, so reminders are demonized, she said, as if revealing something quite insightful. She stabbed her fork in the air for emphasis, wincing as she bumped one of her bruised spots. A bit of purple pie flew, landing on George’s lap. He picked it up, wishing he could eat it, but instead, he put it in his napkin.

Patty glanced at Dave protectively and pulled her knitting bag from under the table. She was working on matching hats for the grandkids. Knitting helped with so many awkward moments in life. The needles began their comforting clackety-clack.

Now Millie, she said. We don’t need to dwell on this, do we? What good does that do? She lifted her meticulously penciled eyebrows, moving her eyes from Millie to Dave, hoping Millie would take the hint. Millie was hitting below the belt. She wasn’t talking about Dave’s demented mom, but Patty knew that’s how Dave was hearing it.

Millie noticed the raised eyebrows and flashed back to an image of Patty, examining her eyebrows in the steamy mirror of the women’s bathroom on their dorm floor. Even then, Patty was a stickler for detail.

She loved Patty, but while Millie smoked dope with the war-protesters, Patty drank Coors with the athletes. While Millie did yoga and martial arts, Patty led cheers for the Grizzly football team. Patty taught sixth grade, married Dave, and had one daughter, while Millie went to graduate school in philosophy, became a taxidermist, had interesting affairs, and produced twins with a guy who turned out to be gay. Patty made meatballs. Millie made sushi.

Millie pulled herself back into the present and raised her voice, glaring at Dave. "Wrong, Patricia! We do need to dwell on it. Face it. What, should we just wait and throw old people on the trash heap? Worse than animals. Let them suffer? Aging and death should be natural. We should plan for it. That would change how we lived."

Knit two, purl two. Patty gazed down. Millie might be right, but this kind of talk was bad for Dave. He hated it. But Dave was a big boy. He could defend himself. Her knitting got tighter, and she was pretty sure she’d counted wrong on that last row.

Millie’s head throbbed, her ribs hurt, and she wished she could curl up in a ball and disappear. Her eyes were close to tearing up.

George rubbed the arms of his chair. Dave didn’t look so good, and Millie was floundering in her own turmoil. He suspected what he had in mind to say wouldn’t help, but he thought he’d give it a try anyway.

Say, I don’t supposed anyone knows that poem, Do not go gentle into that good night? Emma, ah. We read it, when, ah. His voice trailed off and memories engulfed him.

Patty shook her head and Dave stared out the window, but Millie nodded in amazement. George. What a strange guy—a bony old bag of bad breath who was also a retired soil scientist who loved to garden, read poetry, and philosophize.

Yeah. Dylan Thomas. Strange you mention it. I was just talking about that poem with my friend, Cooper. You remember Cooper, right? she asked. Patty glanced over in time to notice Millie’s eyes brighten and cheeks redden.

Patty nodded, her eyes lingering on Millie’s face. Yeah. Hospice chaplain, isn’t he?

George scratched behind his ear, stretched out a scrawny leg, and studied it. The big foot hanging from the thin leg was so out of proportion that Patty wanted to put a footstool under it. I’ve golfed with Cooper, George said. Nice fella.

Millie smiled at the image of George golfing. Yeah. Cooper says that people who’ve accepted death die well. They have time to make amends. Say goodbye. No raging.

Even though he’d brought it up, George didn’t want to talk about Emma or the way she died, so he changed the focus. Well, my mom’s ninety-one. And when it comes to dying, she’ll be like that. Wisest person I know. Takes it all in stride. Still grows strawberries for the grandkids. Lives a day at a time.

Everyone sat for a minute. Each wished they had some of George’s genes. Millie’s parents, obese chain-smokers, died in their seventies. Patty’s father had died of a heart attack, and her mother cut off all relationships and settled into a bitter, reclusive life in Florida.

Dave hardly knew his father as he was growing up and had no idea if the man was even alive. The chump had sired three children, bang, bang, bang, and then left. His mom raised Dave, his sister, and his brother on the little farm she’d inherited, often working two jobs in addition to farming. All three kids were college educated and doing well. But now his mother had advanced Alzheimer’s. Dave hated to think about the burdens and frustrations of the situation. Millie’s comments about throwing old people on the trash heap made him furious. Sometimes, there wasn’t any choice.

And George—bragging about his sharp mother while Dave’s no longer recognized him. During his last visit, months ago, his mother asked him who he was and if he knew who was poisoning her. With shame, he remembered wishing someone was poisoning her so this nightmare could end. Dave struggled to get the image out of his brain.

As he suspected he would, George now regretted speaking up. He worked diligently on his plate, getting the last of the pie cornered. He’d seen death up close. Millie’s term, die well, was unsettling. Emma had not died well. There was still a narrow smear of dried huckleberry residue on his plate. He tried to scrape it up, producing an ear-splitting screech.

Sheee-it, George, Dave snapped. Why don’t you just lick the plate? Saves on dish soap. It could have been funny, but it wasn’t. Dave’s tone was too edgy. Patty and Millie looked uneasy. Not George.

Geez Davey-boy. Never thought you’d stoop to making fun of a hungry old man. He smiled, revealing dark bits of huckleberry lodged in the spaces between his teeth.

Well, heavens, Patty said, trying not to look at George’s mouth. There’s more pie, George. I’ll get you another piece. She put her knitting aside. People loved Patty because she was kind and generous, even if she wasn’t all that insightful. She liked it when Millie put Dave in his place, but if