Hendrick, a resident at a nursing home, spends his days crafting needle-felted birds in isolation. One day, Mildred's nephew Arthur visits and Hendrick takes an immediate liking to him. They bond over Arthur's interest in Hendrick's needle-felting. Arthur promises to visit again to learn the craft, bringing Hendrick joy and purpose during his solitary days at the home.

1. 1
Waiting Wool
Christine Lavosky
Before I met my dear Arthur, I was not so different from the other
inmates of my nursing home, just a withered old man spending my last years
with only beams of light and needle-felted birds as my companions. Sitting in
my bed in hospice care, after my release from the hospital, I can’t help but
wonder if Arthur will hear of my critical state and finally visit me after these
five long years. I wonder if he has heard somehow, perhaps from his aunt
Mildred, my only friend at the nursing home, of my failed open heart surgery
and the ninety days I spent in the hospital being inserted with tubes and
watching my own blood trickle out and medication trickle in through an IV drip.
As I adjust my glasses, peering through their frames at the New York
Times, I can’t help but to get distracted by Arthur’s lingering image–a
reflection in my lenses. I wonder if my life would have continued on the same
way if he had never come to derail it from its monotonous course. I spent day
after day sitting at my desk in the middle of my square room, growing so weary
of seeing the same surroundings everyday that on several occasions I almost
jumped out of my own skin. At certain moments it was so quiet that I could
hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway marking my excruciating
passage into each coming second. In those moments I wished I could just float
through existence, as if I were in a dream instead of experiencing each solitary
second.

2. 2
In the early mornings, a glimmer of light would let itself in through the
cracks in my Venetian blinds. Sometimes it darted to my night table, and
glinted off of the small circular-framed glasses perched there. It turned them
white, obliterating their reflections, and then a few moments later, darker
again, revealing a miniature version of my desk and of me sitting there. I
resented it for reminded me that my hair was thinning–a series of grey and
white wisps. The glimmer whispered to me about all the life outside, the world
that continued on, while I remained cooped up in the nursing home, seldom
allowed outside because of the risks that could be posed to my failing heart.
My father wanted a son to mirror himself, one eager to go fishing and to car
shows with him, a grinning young boy in a coonskin cap ready to learn how to
shoot a rifle. But unfortunately the only trait I inherited from him was his
heart’s tendency to spasm and accumulate plaque, rupturing arteries. My dear
friend, the light glimmer, told me about the rapidly turning wheel of the
government. The world did not stop because of death or illness, not even that
of the president. The light glimmer informed me of Calvin Coolidge’s
immediate replacement of Woodrow Wilson after he died from a heart attack.
But then, just as soon as it had dropped by, just as we were falling into a
conversational flow, my incandescent guest would leave me.
But no matter, my true friends were my birds, except for Mildred,
although I don’t know if I could truly call her a friend since I had to conceal a
significant aspect of my identity from her in order to maintain our relationship.
I relished in soft bundles of wool molded into majestic creatures. Until the

3. 3
emptiness, the lethargy of the room crept into my consciousness. At my best
moments, entire days, spanning from the morning’s golden hour, to the
evening’s could be compressed into mere minutes, my attention so consumed
with the crafting of my birds. Such was the case for my proudest creation, the
Kingfisher. She fit perfectly into the fold of my palm so that I could pet the top
of her head with my thumb. She was an Oriental Dwarf, one of the most
colorful varieties of Kingfisher, resplendent in shades of dandelion, magentas
and fiery oranges. I rolled a mass of white wool into an oval shape for the
body’s base and rested it on top of my beige sponge mat then stabbed it
repeatedly with one of my larger needles to stabilize its shape. Even after
years of crafting needle-felt creatures, the process still felt like magic to me.
Once stabbed by a barbed needle, the fibers of the wool clung together
forming a definable, no longer amorphous shape. The wool’s fibers were so
close once coaxed into friendship by my needle. The needle rubbed the
minuscule scales on the fibers together locking them into place to form the
condensed material, the felt that my little friends needed to grow into their
true forms. Before I relieved them from their stifled states, their unrealized
identities, they waited in my baskets, their true selves–birds, tree branches or
flowers–stewing inside them.
It wasn’t that I chose these inanimate animals and light glimmers as my
friends…at least, they weren’t my first choice. I tried at first to befriend the
other inmates of the nursing home, I just… became too nervous around them to
stay in their company for very long. Since I seldom attempted society with

4. 4
them, their relationships with each other were much stronger than mine with
any of them. I couldn’t help but to fixate on how difficult it would be insert
myself into these friendships at such a late stage. Moreover, they reminded me
of my own sorry state too much, waning souls whiling away our last hours
reading recipes for dishes we’ll never make, knitting ill-fitting sweaters for
grandchildren who will accept them with a smile, but never wear them,
counting the dust molecules on the rusted wall sconces. Truly, I only sought out
their company to lessen my own loneliness, and at a certain moment, I decided
that this was not a worthwhile reason.
But, then one faithful day, my resolve weakened–prompted by utter
weariness with myself I was drawn downstairs to the parlor. Mrs. Havisham sat
rocking back and forth in her wicker rocking chair threading a needle into her
embroidery. Old Sir Charles sat perched on the tweed settee reading one of his
Civilwar novels, his face sagging into a deep frown. Vincent sat at the piano
playing quite a belabored version of Debussy’s “Golliwog’s Cakewalk,” as
though he doesn’t want to give up the instrument, but also does not want to
worsen his arthritis too much. A crystal bowl of bon bons sat on the coffee
table, their colorful wrappers fading. Vincent had just stopped to turn the
page, when I heard Mildred chattering away in the kitchen. I had caught her
just in time for her mid-afternoon biscuits and tea! Right hand to her forehead,
heart, left shoulder, right shoulder, she leaned over her food and whispered
the lord’s prayer to herself. Every day she did this. Always the same. I heard
two voices though the white lace-curtained door leading from the parlor to the

5. 5
kitchen. She was not alone. I lingered by the door, unsure of whether or not I
should enter.
“Hendrick! Come in, come in,” she said. “What are you doing there,
creeping about? Come, come meet my nephew. He’s just recently moved back
to Cranetown. Come to see his old auntie!”
“Mildred. Nephew, sorry what was your name?” I said lingering by the
sink, pretending I was searching for some treat of my own.
“Arthur, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said holding out his
hand. It was so young, the skin so smooth and unblemished. As I grasped his
hand in mine, I felt that old familiar yearning return and with it, its old
familiar companion, fear.
I took his hand, shaking it slowly, relishing his tight grasp.
“And you as well… of course,” I replied.
So there we sat, at the kitchen’s circular table while the servants made
preparations for dinner around us. Mildred catching up her nephew on the
mundane details of her life he’d missed since his last visit, years ago. I didn’t
say much, but instead listened intently to Arthur’s own recapitulation. Mildred
was dismayed when Arthur told her he’d left the army. “But why?“ she asked,
drawing out the last word.
“Well, you see, Auntie, there are just some people they don’t want in
there. It turned out that there was some miscommunication during my initial
inspection and they forgot to check my feet. They’re flat as a carpet!” At this
point he looked at me intently, as if relaying a message that his aunt didn’t

6. 6
understand, one that only the two of us understood.
“They forgot to in inspect your feet? This is the American army, not
some slipshod band of guerilla fighters. I’m afraid I’m missing something,” she
paused, “I sincerely hope you aren’t repeating your old mistakes,” she said,
her fingers tightening around the cross at her collar.
“Well, you know, Auntie, everyone overlooks things sometimes… even
the most authoritative institutions. I bet, even, even the U.S. and Foreign
Securities Companies makes mistakes…they lose money once in a while,” he
said, his eyes scanning the ceiling. Mildred looked into my face, searching, as if
I knew what was really going on. Which I think I did actually. But I simply
shrugged, dusted some loose crumbs off the table with my fingers and admired
Arthur’s dark, buoyant curls and blushing cheeks through what I hoped were
casual glances.
Mildred’s palms gripped the table, her knuckles turning white. She was
quiet for a moment, pursing her lips together in an angry line.
“I’m sorry Arthur, but I must ask. Why you can’t you just stick to
anything? I don’t understand how you can be so ungrateful for all you’ve been
given. Your parents spent a whole semester’s worth of tuition on you, money
they invested in you, trusted in you to make them proud with and you wasted it
all by dropping out. Then you went to the army and we thought at least you’d
found the place for yourself, but now you’ve gone and botched that too.”
“Auntie, I–well–it’s just that–” Arthur trailed off and glanced up at me as
though apologizing for his aunt’s outburst.

7. 7
“’He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to
sin and live in righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed,” Mildred
said, “Christ died on the cross, sacrificing himself for all of us, and you can’t
even commit to any kind of career, you’re making a mockery of all He did so
that humanity could live in his image.”
Arthur seemed to be at an utter loss for how to recover the room’s
casual ambience after Mildred’s attack.
“I’m sorry,” Mildred said, boring holes into the cabinets behind Arthur’s
head with her eyes. Her voice lowered, “I didn’t mean to air out our dirty
linens in front of you like this Hendrick.”
My rescuer from this unpleasant situation, Nurse Labonne stepped into
the kitchen. “Mildred. I see that you have a visitor here, but it’s time for your
bath, we just got in a new muscle-relieving salt.” After mild protestations,
Mildred went, knowing that this time of day, before bridge and book club was
best.
“Your nephew has the fine company of Hendrick here,” Nurse Labonne
said smiling, oblivious.
My shoulders stiffened and I continued to peruse the table for more stray
particles.
“Sooo, ah… you’re Mildred’s nephew…” I said. Arthur nodded. I almost
followed this with, ‘how is that?’ but stopped myself. “You were in the army…
seems like an interesting choice for a young man like yourself,” I said skimming
his oxford shirt and cherry-blossom patterned tie. “But I’m sure you have your

8. 8
reasons, I–I didn’t mean to– “ I said, fumbling for words.
“Oh, no, that’s alright,” Arthur said. He seemed reluctant to look me in
the eye. “I do have to say, it’s a relief, in a way, to be out of it now.”
“You didn’t enjoy your time there then?... if I may ask,” I said.
“Well… I suppose it was what I needed just then, but I didn’t really
belong there.”
“And where do you belong…?”
“Back at home with my parents, I suppose, for the time being at least.”
His dusty blue eyes were set in a resigned expression, lacking the
glimmer of youth. They betrayed some beaten-down property. As if he’d given
up on something. He shifted his gaze to the table.
“Well… you’re always welcome here,” I said. “But don’t feel compelled
to visit of course, well your aunt, sure, but not–,” I stop talking, I must have
sounded like some senile old man to him.
His head tilted back upwards, one vertebra at a time. His pasty irises
met my own muted green ones. “Thank you.”
. . .
Despite her open display of the disappointment he caused her, Arthur
came every week at four o’clock to visit his aunt. The chagrin that came and
left his face during these meetings made me speculate that his parents were
pressuring him to visit Mildred, using his company as their own contribution to
their ailing relative’s well-being. But he was also gentle with her at times.
When she descended into her coughing fits he would take her hand and ask if

9. 9
he should call one of the nurses over. I made sure to always drop in at one
point or another during these visits, sometimes staying the entire time, others
feeling intrusive and excusing myself halfway through so Mildred could have
some alone time with her nephew. I never really wanted to leave her alone
with him, though. I always feared that the moment I left she would take full
advantage of the opportunity to berate Arthur about his failure and attempt to
inspire him to walk the path of light by spewing more bible verses at him.
One afternoon, about two months after Arthur’s first visit, the two of us
were sitting with her in the lesser parlor on the first floor. She was having
trouble keeping her eyes open. The nurses had just started giving her a new
medication and she was suffering the side effects. Jolting awake, her head
flailing upwards after nodding off, she left the room with embarrassed
apologies and let a nurse escort her to her bedroom.
Shortly afterwards, Boris, Miller and the rest of their posse of burly men
barreled through the door. Boris informed me that we were encroaching on
their weekly poker game.
Exiled to the living room, I asked Arthur, “Well, my room is just up the
stairs… but you probably want to be getting home now, you came here to visit
your aunt…” I expected him to make an excuse, to say his parents were waiting
for him, but he didn’t.
“I suppose I could stay a little longer,” he said.
I led him up the stairs to my room, such an energized, young body
compared to those decrepit figures. They released wet, gargling snores from

10. 10
their places on the couch, let nurses tend to them, lifting their yellowed feet
onto ottomans and taking their temperatures.
Arthur gazed at the needle-felted birds lining the rows of the
latticework structure I created as a compartmentalizer. My prized birds, the
ones exhibiting my best handiwork were showcased in the three middle squares
on the top row of the structure. A Rose-breasted grosbeak and an oriole, the
third space was empty because I’d taken out my Kingfisher to sharpen her
cerulean flecks earlier that day. He picked it up as though we were old friends,
comfortable enough to pick up each other’s possessions without asking. He
petted the bird, taking in its colors, its stark contrast to the dull grey of the
home.
He seemed interested, so I told him about how the birds are crafted.
When I told him about the varieties of birds, I expected him to stop me, or
grow weary after just a few, but he listened intently to all 27 names, nodding
knowingly as if he recognized some of them from a taxonomy book. His eyes
drifted to my birdhouse and feeling confident, I told him what kind of wood it
was built from and what techniques I used to achieve its Dutch Colonial style.
I’d never had anyone to share all my knowledge about wood tingeing, sanding,
and all my needle-felting techniques. But Arthur, Arthur was rapt as I plunged
deep into the intricacies of dovetail joints and how to create smooth curves on
needle-felted creatures.
“I used to embroider with my grandmother as a child,” Arthur said, “My
mother resented her for teaching me,” he said chuckling, “But I’d love to

11. 11
return to crafting…perhaps you could teach me this, needle-felting…”
“Whenever you want. I’m here all the time,” I said and watched a shy
smile spread across his pale face.
After I’d exhausted my litany of craft explanations, a silence grew
between us.
Peering over my wool-crafted companions, out the window Arthur asked,
“So, are you married?”
“Oh, no, no,” I said mumbling, “I was never so lucky… There was a girl
once, quite a nice girl actually, but, well, things just didn’t end up going as
planned. Funny how that happens sometimes, isn’t it?” I said, looking up him at
him through a forced grin.
My, my, what a long time ago that was. How strange it was to think
about a time when I allowed myself to be molded into my parent’s vision for
me; raw wool shaped into an object of their design instead of my own. What a
delusion it was, to think Eleanor and I would get married. Of course, I feigned
interest as best as I could, to appease my parents. I traded witty banter with
her during family dinners and took her on long walks through the garden, but
she wasn’t a moron. After all the excuses I made to avoid visiting with her
alone and my utter lack of the sort of advances she was expecting, she knew
just as well as I did that I wasn’t interested in marrying her. Her plump lips and
silken mane were wasted on my muddy green eyes always darting in every
direction but hers. She was the epitome of a respectable wife– well-read,
knowledgeable about art, a marvel in the kitchen and a model of perfect

12. 12
etiquette. Yet, I couldn’t muster more than a feeling of platonic fondness for
her, and she didn’t need any more friends.
Looking up from the mantel piece, I found Arthur watching me, his eyes
bright and searching and I had the curious feeling that he’d been right there
with me, in my mind, hearing my thoughts and knew exactly why I’d never
married. And in that moment I knew that the attraction was mutual, I saw it
clearly in his lips, turned up at the ends and in his unflinching gaze. In that
moment, a quandary I’d had ever since the Eleanor entanglement was erased.
I’d wondered if I should have just married her, if perhaps being with someone I
didn’t truly love would be better than being so inescapably alone.
. . .
A few days later, Arthur’s parents came to visit Mildred, perhaps
deciding her deteriorating condition finally warranted a visit. Mildred had been
bedridden for days, shuddering from pneumonia, spewing yellow and green
morsels of mucus from her hacking coughs. Unable to make it even downstairs
to her weekly bridge-game or any of the other activities on her enthralling
nursing home roster, Mildred had been isolated in her room. Arthur’s parents
had come to visit her earlier in the day. Not wanting to risk arising suspicions, I
gave them no indication of Arthur and my acquaintance, but posed simply as
Mildred’s concerned friend, keeping vigil over her. I heard Arthur’s mother, a
slender blond woman with flared nostrils and a pinched voice, tell Mildred that
Arthur hadn’t come with them because he’d gotten another job interview, this
one at a delicatessen. The owner was a friend of Arthur’s parents and they

13. 13
thought that there was a good chance he could advance quickly there, given
their connections. Mildred was pleased with this information. The three of
them were very hopeful.
I wondered if he would visit less when he had a job, or if he would be so
busy that he would stop coming altogether. Arthur’s mother told her sister that
he would come to visit her later that day, perhaps with good news. When she
laid her palm on Mildred’s shoulder, squeezing her nightgown between her
fingers, I could see how much they were all wagering on this one interview,
this one mundane, artless career. I tried to tell myself that they would much
prefer the life I could give Arthur if he continued to visit me– one in which I
would teach Arthur crafts he actually cared about. Maybe we could open a
store and sell woodenbirdhouses and needle-felted animals and then he would
fulfill their industrious expectations for him. Biting my lower lip though, I
couldn’t believe my own delusion for long and began to wonder if I’d ever find
myself trapped in a headlock between Arthur’s father’s muscular arms making
desperate pleas to the God I ignored till that moment.
Luckily the interview seemed not to have gone well. Arthur couldn’t
even look at his aunt as he mumbled something about bad first impressions.
Tears welled in his eyes as his aunt’s stony stare bore into him. His failure
seemed exacerbated by her weakening physical condition. Tears trickled from
his reddening eyes. After muttering some inarticulate threats about pulling
himself up by his boot straps, Mildred sank back into her cushions, her eyes
drooping closed. Between the two woodenchairs brought into the room for

14. 14
visitors, I took Arthur’s hand my own in my own shaking one. I thought he might
drop it, ask me what I thought I was doing. But after a moment I felt him
squeeze my palm, his glassy eyes looking down into his lap.
. . .
It had been two weeks since Arthur’s last visit. I resented him for
neglecting me for so long, but I understood how difficult it was for him to
tolerate Mildred’s endless disappointment in him, especially since I was sure he
received plenty of that at home.
Dressed in a raggedy button-down, a lavender handkerchief tucked into its
pocket, I sat the kitchen table waiting for him. Mildred’s condition had
improved enough to resume her daily teatime ritual, if not her other activities
and she was expecting Arthur to join her. She ambled by me and emptied the
last Madeleines from a box onto a plate. I greeted her then leapt up from my
seat and started fixing myself a cup of tea, to feign a purpose for being in the
kitchen. We exchanged some mild banter about how she was feeling and the
weather (not we partook in it as more than window spectators). As I caught
Mildred toying with the delicate golden cross around her neck, I hoped she was
too distracted by her illness and disappointment in Arthur to wonder why I so
often appeared at their visits.
“These young ones, they’re never on time,” Mildred said looking up at
the clock which read 4:03.
Mildred sat, eating her biscuits until a quarter past when she thrust
herself out of her seat and muttered something about disrespect, said she’d

15. 15
grown weary and was well overdue for a nap. She told me to wake her up if
that “ungrateful boy” ever showed up.
I sat at the circular table tapping my foot in rhythm with Vincent’s piano
playing which was creeping in through the sliver between the door and the
doorframe. I sat there until I could no longer feel time passing, yet entire hours
must have gone by.
Night had long fallen, the door creaked open, and a scuffed yellow
galosh stepped through, a sheet of sideways rain blown in by the wind following
it. A dazed Arthur appeared before me.
Something seemed peculiar about him, a characteristic I had not
observed in anyone for a long time, a sluggishness, a dulling of his full
capabilities. He walked toward me in a zigzag instead of a straight line. He
burped, or perhaps that was a hiccup. I could smell whiskey on his breath.
“Well, hello there, sir!” he said, the syllables tumbling out from his lips
instead of deliberately marching forward. His feet sounded heavy as they
walked towards me, slapping against the hardwood floor so loudly, I worried
that they would fall off his ankles, break through the floor and land in the
basement somewhere.
“Arthur, perhaps you should–“
The dear boy tripped on a loose nail in the floorboards and fell into my
lap. He whimpered, was perhaps crying. I couldn’t quite tell because of the
tendrils of wet hair covering his face. Was that a black eye I saw under the
cover of his hair? He seemed to be bruised. Oh, the poor boy, he was clearly

16. 16
out of sorts. He needed help and so I took care of him. I swept the wet hair off
his face and combed it with my fingers from his forehead to the base of his
neck, touching just the top of his spinal cord. I couldn’t remember the last
time I’d touched someone that way. The moisture from his rain-soaked pants
melded into my own lap, joining our bodies in cold, dank continuity. A smear of
mud was pressed onto them as well. They were my favorite pants, starched
khakis with burgundy stitching, but I didn’t even mind.
“Arthur, what’s happened to you? Are you alright?” I asked, rubbing his
back.
He just shook his head back and forth, raindrops splashing from his wet
hair like a dog. “I’ll tell you later.”
After peeling off his mud-caked galoshes and sopping pea coat, Arthur
let me arrange his arm over my shoulder and we limped up the grand staircase
together. Ironic, the old man, wavering on decrepitude, helping the young man
up to bed. Arthur collapsed onto the sheets without even responding to my
query about pajamas. He just fell asleep in his button-down shirt, the collar
and shoulder area of which seemed to be missing–ripped off of him.
My bed being built only for one person, there wasn’t much room left for
me to sleep comfortably. So instead of lying down next to him, I chose to move
my desk chair next to the bed and watch over him while he slept. I didn’t want
him to vomit in his slumber and then choke. I lifted the lilac comforter over
Arthur, my fingers tucking it under his stomach, creating a cocoon for him. I
stroked his back, hoping to lull him into a serene state. He seemed in such

17. 17
strange spirits. I was so grateful that he’d come to me though. I knew I could
make him well again.
. . .
The sun woke me up as it always did, creeping in through my Venetian
blinds. I sat awake, watching the ballet of the first light glimmers of morning
until I saw Arthur stir next to me. I’d anticipated that Arthur would be quite
alarmed whenhe woke up, having only the haziest idea of where he was, thus
was surprised at his calm.
“Good morning, Hendrick,” he yawned. Squeezing my shoulder, he said,
“Thanks for taking me in last night… I was having quite the rough go of it, I
promise, I don’t usually arrive at people’s houses in such a state.” He seemed a
tad embarrassed, but the shy smile playing on his lips conveyed more gratitude
than apology.
“I suppose I owe you–and my aunt–an explanation–“ he said. I sat down
on the edge of my bed and looked into his dewy-complexioned face.
“Oh Hendrick. It was just awful, you’re the only one who could ever
understand. I hope Auntie is not too upset with me for missing tea…”
I lay down next to him on the tiny bed, fitting my chin into the crook
between his neck and shoulder. “Dear Arthur, she’s the least of your worries.
Don’t let Mildred and her bible- squawking upset you so much. We’ve wokenup
next to each other and that’s the closest thing to a ‘blessing’ I’ve been granted
in a while,” I said crossing myself and kissing my fingers, sending them up to
the lord in mockery. He doesn’t laugh, just looks back at me with that soft,

18. 18
contented expression, snuggles closer to me, and repeats, “Seeing… you… first
thing in the morning.”
Arthur held my cheek in his palm and pressed his lips against it. I closed
my eyes, losing myself. “Well, Hendrick,” he said, “I don’t think you’ll mind if I
start at the beginning.”
I nodded, pressing him to go on. He sat up, prompting me to sit as well
so as not to confine him to a sliver of the bed. We reclined against my pillows.
“Well…,” Arthur looked up as if trying to arrange the whole story in his
head, gathering the memories. He shook his head in the manner of someone
saying no. He looked down at the ground in front of the bed, then looked up at
me.
“You see… it’s been difficult for me to find a job since being sacked
from the army. My parents never went to college, but my dad is a genius
investor so he made our family a lot of money that way. They thought I’d be
the one to bring intellect and class to our family. More than just wealth…But I
just had no idea what I was doing there, all the other students saw their
futures in literature and art, and I was just,” he took a breath, “lost… But, a
week ago, my buddy from the army wrote me, telling me to apply for a job at
his uncle’s auto-body shop, that he’d put in a good word for me. But then,
when I went there yesterday, it seemed that they somehow knew why I was let
go from the army…”
I could tell he was too embarrassed to go on and I could guess what
happened any way. I could just see it in my mind’s eye, as well as I could

19. 19
remember the hostile attacks of my own youth.
It was probably a slow day, the auto-shop employees aimlessly tinkering
around with old engines, shining hoods and playing cards before Arthur came
in. They were bored. When Arthur walked in with his stylish pea coat
unbuttoned, revealing another one of his gregarious ties and a pair of form-
fitting pants, they must have seen just the amusement they needed. Maybe one
of them greeted him in a mock hostess voice, “May I take your coat, darling?”
The other men circled around him, like a menacing gang of grade school
bullies around their victim. Each greeted him with their own threatening joke.
“Where’d you get that coat, pansy? Sak’s Fifth Avenue?”
“Did you actually think you could get a job at an auto-shop, you little
fairy?”
“Can you even lift up the hood of a car with those doll arms?” The man
who asked this last question shoved his face right into Arthur’s, his spittle
landing in Arthur’s neatly combed hair. He looked him square in the eyes, so
even though his question seemed rhetorical Arthur felt forced to answer.
“Well, yes, yes, I can,” he said. The poor boy, he must’ve been
stumbling over his words.
“We’ll just have to find out for sure, won’t we?” he said, looking at his
buddies and snickering. He yanked Arthur closer by the collar of his shirt,
pulling on it so that the collar and shoulder material of the garment ripped
right off. “I thought you’d want to take off your nice clothes before fighting,”
the man said, grinning. The gang tightened their circle around him so that he

20. 20
had no way to escape.
“This is just a standard test we do on all prospective employees,”
another one of the men said and punched him in the face, “Gotta see if you’re
strong enough to work here, you understand.”
Another man punched him in the stomach, then pushed him to the
ground and a few of them started kicking him. Arthur started crying, pleading
with them, begging them to stop.
Finally, after getting his fill of brutal amusement, the ringleader said,
“Well I guess you bent folks are too sissy to work in an auto-shop. Sorry kid,
thought I’d give you a chance, but you just didn’t pass the test.” The beating
ended and the rest of the men started laughing as if this was funniest joke
they’d ever heard. Arthur ran out into the rain, tears streaming down his face.
After that, he couldn’t come straight to the nursing home for his date with his
aunt. He knew he couldn’t talk to Mildred, a devout Christian about what had
just happened. He couldn’t talk to her about anything regarding his
homosexuality. So he ran to Horace’s Tavern instead and drank almost two
thirds of a bottle of Glenlivett instead.
My hand tightened around Arthur’s shoulder and then brushed over his
scalp, through his curls. At that moment, I felt with greater convictionthan I’d
had since my youth, that I had to help Arthur escape his life of victimization
and shame. And at the same time, I would escape from my cob-webbed prison–
my heart had just enough time. I saw it so clearly then, as though it was an
indisputable part of my fate. He would meet me outside the home in the wee

21. 21
hours of the night. A snazzy lavender automobile would be waiting for us and
Arthur would drive us to a secluded cottage near the beach. We would plant
tumbling hydrangeas from window planters and water them together every
day. I would teach him everything I know about needle-felting and carpentry
and he would be my diligent student. On cold days, we would cook big pots of
stew together, standing before the stove taking in the comforting scent of
lentils, carrots and onions. Only there could we live in peace.
I decided to regale him with my plans soon. Without a doubt he would
be excited, but tentative as well, of leaving his family and society behind. It
would be a difficult way to live, in hiding, but weren’t we both hiding who we
really were anyway? However, I imagined he’d come to understand, after I told
him my life story of lies and isolation, that it would come to be his own future
as well if we stayed where we were.
He wrapped his sturdy ankle around my bony one from its place dangling
off the bed. He seemed to sense that I was somewhere far away and wanted to
pull me back, back to that room, back to him sitting next to me. His palms
reached out to hold both of my cheeks, drawing my face close to his. As if he
needed it, craved our face’s proximity. But at the same time, as though it was
the most natural thing in the world. As though this were a ritual we’d
performed countless times. For the first time since high school a pair of lips
touched mine. Cupid’s bow and bottom lip parted, soft tongue emerging,
touching my own. He moved my hand over the metal buckle of his leather belt.
He wanted this, he was letting me touch him. The seconds were all running

22. 22
into each other, fast. And then, it was as if time no longer existed, as if I were
no longer waiting for an elusive change, a distraction from the monotony of my
square room, of having no company but my own. As if I were in a dream. He
turned me over, positioning my fragile body under his own with his careful
hands. He was slow, graceful, easy-going. He became one with me without
breaking me.
. . .
And now it is finally happening. Here I lie in a bed in hospice care after
the hospital gave up on me, after five long years of separation from my dear
Arthur. I admit that I still hope every day that he’ll come visit me. Some nights
I wake up at the slightest sound, a tree branch rustling against my window,
someone’s slippers padding down the stairs to get a glass of water, thinking
that it’s him, come to visit me in the darkness because it’s so much safer than
coming during the day, in broad daylight. There’s no Mildred here to serve as
an excuse for our illicit visits. But he never even returned to the nursing home
after that night, not to visit me or his aunt. And I know it’s lunatic of me to
think he’ll visit me here, as he has no way of knowing the home’s address. I
assume Mildred told him I was here, it would only be natural since he saw me
quite often at the home, but from her perspective there would be no reason to
give him the address, and he could never ask.
I’m sure he was embarrassed about the whole ordeal afterwards anyway.
He was drunk, acting purely on impulse, he didn’t actually want to be with an
old, decrepit man like me. Or perhaps he finally did find a job and couldn’t risk

23. 23
losing it to a tarnished reputation. He couldn’t disappoint his parents again. He
could even be engaged now, a brilliant golden band demanding prominence on
his finger. Still, I’m glad I was there to comfort him after his grievous night. I
don’t begrudge him for not returning, I probably wouldn’t want to be with an
old, sick man if I was young and energetic like him either. The memory of that
one night is enough, enough to let me die content.
This morning I lie in bed, my chin resting in the exact center of my
palm, that hollow between the bones, as my eyes wander to the window. A
woman is fastening the straps of her heels out in the dim light of the early
morning. She fixes her crumpled cloche on her head and smoothes out the
wrinkles in her knee-length dress. It’s quite becoming, a pale olive green, with
a drop-waist and layers of fringe on the torso and hanging from the bottom
hem. She’s wearing it with a long string of knotted–I’m sure costume–pearls.
What’s she doing out so early in the morning? Did she just now leave a
speakeasy or something? Her hand grasps at her thigh and unclips a flask from
what I can only assume is a garter belt, though it really just looks like a series
of blurry black straps from my vantage point. She takes a long swig. So this is
what other people are doing while I find myself burrowed in this house, this
room.
A few moments later she ‘s still lingering on the corner. What’s she
waiting for? Is she possibly spying on me as well? Peering through her
peripherals waiting for the moment when I’m not looking at her anymore to
look at me? A pastel green jalopy pulls up. A black man emerges from the

24. 24
vehicle, turns his head to one side then the other, looking around. He then
takes the woman’s hand, kisses it so quickly his lips might never have actually
reached her palm, drops it, looks both ways again, ducks back into the car, the
woman following his lead, sliding into the passenger seat. I wonder if she’d get
into more or less trouble if the wrong person saw another woman pick her up
and kiss her hand instead than she would in her current situation.