HOME | DD

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

He rifles through his oak-veneered drawers, selects the navy dressing gown, his good sheepskin-leather slippers. Christmas Eve dinner! At last, something actually worth getting out of bed for.
Mouth and mind watering, he slips into his evening finery. Ah! To think: buttered yams, turkey, rich brown gravy, juicy pink hams, cranberry jelly. Plum pudding and brandy custard. All coming his way. Even better, someone else was on clean-up duty.

The halls are empty—was everyone already down there, tucking in? He lopes along faster, bypassing the entrance to the main room / dining hall, until at last he's at the end of the corridor, right outside the kitchen door. Time for a sneak preview. Cracking open the door with the toe of his slipper, he takes a glimpse inside:

The main cook is chopping parsnips and carrots alongside an enormous grey pot, steaming away madly. There is a distinct lack of turkeys. Of hams and cranberries. Of yams, buttered or otherwise. Another cook appears, bearing a second pot to the stove. He takes a pair of two-litre milk bottles from the fridge, empties them in, followed by three carefully-levelled spoons of milo. A large-handled wooden spoon is brought out. The powdery brown granules dissolve, malty swirls chased by the spoon's long handle, until the milk takes on a vaguely off-white hue.

Speechless, he backs away, heads for the main room. It's been a while since he checked his mail. Who knew: maybe there'd be something worth being conscious for waiting at reception for him.

Jessie is on reception tonight. Sweet, dumb Jessie. Plump like a plum dumpling. And so far as he can tell, about half as smart, or thereabouts. He can see her playing solitaire on the reception computer's monitor. Badly, by the looks of it.

"Any mail?" He leans across the formica countertop.

She doesn't even look up. "Sorry, Mr. Thomas. Not today."

Not today! Christmas eve—and not today. Not so much as a card, one measly insincere mass-produced card. He sighs. Even manufactured, fake cheer was preferable to this, sweet bupkis. How many had he sent out himself, to all his children and grandchildren? Had he forgotten even one of them? He shakes his head. Look at him, getting all worked up over it; doubtless they've all barely spared him a single thought!

What a non-entity he has become. It's his own fault though, he should never have agreed to being locked away in this dank miserable hole. Better he'd died without aid in his own house, with his own garden in the window frame, his own pine floorboards beneath his feet, then to have his lifespan artificially protracted for years in this cabbage-reeking purgatory of a resthome.

As usual, Bill is waiting for him in the corner table with the domino sets. And as usual Bill's ears have those tufts of hair coming out them like a wire dish brush.

He takes his seat and takes the dominos, starts to set them out across the table . "Enjoying your dishwater-Milo?"

"Milo? You crazy?" Bill tilts his mug forward to show the contents. "Milo! Geez, Jim. I don't need that sort of nonsense, the state my colon's in. This, sir, is Horlicks. "

"Horlicks!" He fingers at his pile of the little black oblongs.

"Half a teaspoon. All you need."

"And you can actually taste that."

"Well, tastes good enough to me."

"Good enough!" he snorts.

"Yes, good enough."

Suddenly, he's no longer in the mood for dominos. "Don't you want more?" He pushes his pile back in to the centre.

Bill furrows his brow at him. "More Horlicks?"

"No! Not more Horlicks, just more Bill, from life I mean."

"Meh." Bill shrugs. "Not really. I used to have a life, you know. But I'm sick now, and all this," he gestures about the room, "isn't so bad. Time comes, you just have to accept your situation. You know?"

"No. I do not know."

"Aw come on," Bill pinches his forehead, waves him off. "Don't pussyfoot around with me, Jim. I know my days are numbered."

And you're content to just watch them prancing off? he almost retorts.

He moves past the couches facing the broad main windows, watches the street outside through the clumps of flax, dribbles of light rain slipping down the glass. The road outside is eerily empty. None of the neighbourhood kids are out, even the usual light traffic seems to have petered out. Everyone at home with family. And why not, it is Christmas Eve after all—wasn't that what you were supposed to do on Christmas Eve, spend the evening with those you cared most for?

Whereas he’s stuck in this place instead. It stinks. Literally: burnt white toast and mushy peas, lemon pledge, stale body-odour, plus that faint, unidentifiable general sourness that's always in the air.

He wrinkles his nose,glances behind him at the fake leather couch. Look at old Doris there, perched like an awkward elderly parrot, still working away fruitlessly at her preschooler's puzzle, and then Fred too, so profoundly asleep in the corner he might as well be comatose, save for the fine white foam, the spittle bubbling on his chin. Had they had any visitors tonight? Any cards from loved ones? Had they even any loved ones left anymore?

Then almost without realising what his legs are doing, he's hightailing it out the lobby and towards the main exit.

And he's outside. In the light, soft drizzle, the summer rain. And also his dressing-gown: probably not the best thing to get too wet in. He hurries round the back of the resthome's main building, heading for the overhang of the kitchen's back entrance. All this dashing around pumps fresh blood through his neck in ways he barely recall. The euphoria fades soon enough though, as he at last arrives behind the main building: it's not really much of a destination.

There's a big rubbish dumpster, stained with haphazard streaks of unidentifiable brown, a moldy old downpipe, a few stacked milkcrates. That's it. Out of the frying pan and into the... what, exactly? Ah yes. This was his perpetual problem, wasn't it. Always so keen to escape his problems, he forgets to worry about where it is he's escaping to, exactly.

He sighs. Fool. Fool, fool, fool! Couldn't he see that it was exactly this sort of nonsense which got him stuck in this damned resthome in the first place—

Something moves beside him, something rustling about in the shrubby Corokias. Frowning, he steps around the bush, cranes his neck without getting too close:

Ah! Would you look at that: a beautiful little calico kitten, a tiny wee thing, with dainty white socks and a flourish to match on the tip of its tail.

"Well! Hello there, chap," he bends down, despite his knees instant protest.

The bedraggled little thing mewls at him, sneezes.

"Say fella, this is an oldfolk's pen—no place for a young chap like yourself. Not on Christmas Eve! Where's your momma-cat at, hmm?" He beckons it closer with a finger-twitch.

The calico hobbles over, a clear limp in its left hindpaw.

He shakes his head, tsks. "Well now, look at you. Injured and sick and out in the rain on a night like this. What's the world coming to, hmm?"

The kitten sneezes again, and then peers up at him, mewls quietly. A shiver wriggles down its spine.

Poor scrawny wee thing. By the looks of it, life so far hadn't exactly been too friendly. "You know what," he scratches it under its chin, "you need a warm fire and a bowl of cream my young chappy, that's what I reckon. And maybe a pet doc to take a look at that bung leg of yours."

Hmmm. There was one vet place just a short ways away, wasn't there. Down on the main road, past that hippy cafe, halfway to the day-glo yellow supermarket with the dirty carpark?

The puddle by his left slipper is still. He lifts his head, holds a hand out. Rain's stopped—that was a sign of sorts, wasn't it. The air is thick though, has that musty scent that augurs more rain, any time. Probably best he got a move on. Careful not to frighten the poor thing, he cups his age-blotched hands behind and under the kitten, scoops it up and nestles it inside the folds of his dressing-gown. Right.

Fifteen minutes of walking, and he's standing outside a thoroughly closed vets. No lights. Not a peep. He racks his brains, hard, but the only other vet place that comes to mind is the one round the corner from his son Jason's place, over in Mt Eden. Mt Eden! Now that was a trek-and-a-half, let alone in his dressing-gown and good leather slippers! He sighs, and then, glancing to his right, spots the traintrack crossing.

He peers down at the furry little bundle pressed into his chest. Well. He's come this far, hasn't he.

At the Mt Albert train station he finds the board with their special holiday times up, all ringed with suitably festive baubles and ivy, displaying the reduced services. The next downtown train that'll go by Mt Eden is in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. He glances down, frowns at his watch: half-four. Means he'd get to the vets, what, quarter-past five, maybe even half-past? Would they even be open, at that point? For that matter would they even be open today at all?

A splodge of rain hits him between the eyes. A couple more fall, and then faster, heavier. Making an executive decision, Pulling the dressing-gown's folds tighter round the mewling kitten, he trots off down the station concourse towards the nearest train-shelter.

When the train pulls in he makes a beeline for the nearest carriage. It's near empty, save for a dreadlocked kid with a guitar case and an overweight ticket inspector. The chap eyes him real as he sits down, takes a good hard look at him, and then at last comes waddling over.

"Sir..."

"Hmm?" Careful, discreet, he attempts to shift the folds of his robe, enhance their cat-camouflaging properties.

"Sir... is there something you have there?" The chap is standing over him now.

"Sorry? Something I have?" he frowns at the man. "I'm afraid I have lots of somethings, you'll need to be more specific."

"There, sir," the ticketman gestures at the ball of fur nestling his chest—no longer shivering, thankfully. "Beneath your robe? Can I check?"

"The hell? Check beneath my robe? What you want to look under my robe for, you some kind of pervert?"

"Sir, no! But still, I'm afraid, I must insist—"

"Sorry? You'll have to speak up—I'm wearing a dressing-gown!"

The man sighs and shakes his head. "Sir, may I see your ticket?"

He proffers the slip of paper.

The man glances at the ticket, and then sighing again, walks off.

When he gets off at Mt Eden it's stopped raining. He squints up, at the patch of blue now clearing in the cloud cover, and snorts. That was Auckland summer for you.

At length he arrives at the vets, only to find this one shut too. "Hello!" he raps his knuckles on the glass. "Hello—"

"Hey!"

He turns.

A swarthy, Turkish-looking chap has stuck his nose out from the bakery next door. "Nobody there, mate. Went home just after lunch."

"Went home."

"Yeah. Hey, what you got there?" The baker gestures at the bundle of mewling Calico.

"This?" He glances down, shrugs. "This is a new young friend of mine—a little worse for wear at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Is that why you are after the vet? For him?"

He nods.

"Look, the vet, he is kinda a pal of mine... I probably shouldn't do this, but considering..." The man takes a pen and pad from his back pocket, scribbles something down.

There's a rustle in his dressing-gown. The kitten peeps its head out, as if curious.

"Here." The baker tears off the note, hands it to him. "His home address, the vet's. Say Jake sent you, okay? He won't mind. Too much."

Ten minutes later, he's knocking on the vet's front door. After a moment it cracks open and a frown appears through the gap.

"The baker sent me," he shrugs apologetically. "That Turkish-looking chap, right by your clinic there. Said you and he were real buddy buddy and you might take a look at my sick young friend here," he gestures down his dressing-gown front with his chin.

There's a loud sigh, and then he's ushered inside, offered a seat in the lounge. The vet scoops up the kitten, and carries him off into his study.

The chap does the whole works in record time. Barely ten minutes have passed, when the study door opens up, and his little calico friend is returned to him transformed: hindpaw bandaged, fur dried off, all fluffed up. A whole new cat, almost unrecognisable.

"Wow," he says.

The vet shrugs. "It's nothing. Merry Christmas."

He nods. "And to you, my friend."

The vet closes the door behind him and he heads back onto the street.

It's getting late out: he glances at his watch. Hmmm. High time he started heading home, really.

Just one more stop-off on the night's agenda.

"Geez—dad!"

Jason almost falls over when he opens his front door. "Uh, hey. What are you doing here."

"It's Christmas," he shrugs.

His son rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know it's Christmas, dad. I mean what are you doing out of the home?"

"What am I doing?" The question confuses him.

"I mean... are you allowed out?"

"Um... not sure, actually."

Jason frowns, points down. "Dad."

"Son," he reciprocates.

"Is that a cat you have there."

"A calico," he nods.

"Listen dad," his son scratches the back of his head, "I... I can’t stand here and chat too long, I'm afraid. We've got guests over tonight."

"Guests," he says.

"Yeah. Guests. Hey look, was there anything real important?"

"Anything real important? No, nothing really important, Jason. Look, don't worry, I didn't come to make a nuisance of myself. I just wanted to, well, you know."

Jason's brow wrinkles. No, he does not know.

"I just wanted to say Merry Christmas, Jason." He starts to head back down the porch stairs.

"Hey, yeah—same to you, Dad. Enjoy the cat."

He shakes his head at himself as he heads back up the street. What had he done? What had gone wrong, so wrong, that this is how his own son greets him, on Christmas Eve of all things? He pinches the bridge of his nose. What sort of father was it, that let things come to this. This wrongness between them. So many things he would do over, if he somehow had the chance. So many things.

He catches the night's last train back to Mt Albert. Though it's practically empty, for some reasonit's a whole seven carriages long, with only one ticket inspector roaming them. Tough break fella. All the other collectors were probably long home now, all merry and cosy with their families. When the chap finally comes round he checks his ticket and then just walks on, says nothing about the kitten. Assuming he'd even noticed.

It's getting dusky out as he comes trudging round the bend and at last face to face with the resthome again. The western sky above the serried Waitakere ranges is burnt orange, the dipping sun half-hid behind the rainforested mountains, behind wisps of cloud lit up bright like parrot feathers.

He has to bang on the entranceway's double-doors for a good minute to get attention, the glass panes rumbling in their frames.

The night orderly shakes his head as he opens the door.

"What's that," he gestures.

"This? This is a cat—you can tell by the whiskers here, plus the tail and ears and so forth." He feels he has had to explain this basic fact more times tonightthan was strictly necessary.

"Well you can't bring it in here." The orderly thumbs over his shoulder. "You know the rules, squire. No pets."

"I know."

"So..."

"So I just need to grab some things," he gestures down the hall.

The orderly frowns. "And what things would they would be."

"They would be my things. I'm leaving, moving out." He shrugs. "I got a life to live, you know?"