Background
Thirty something, Jameson meets seventy something, Iris and they bond over coffee. This is the story of their unlikely friendship.
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This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter will be labeled as to who is narrating.
So far, Jameson meets seventy something, Iris. She helps him cope with an impending divorce and he stands by her as her heart condition worsens.
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JAMESON
The little girl in the story is named Violet. I had toyed with the idea of calling her Iris, but this is a work of fiction. I've only written four or five pages but they came to me so easily. I used to struggle. I fretted over every sentence, wanting to sound like Dickens or Hemingway. This was different. I just wanted to tell the story.
Now, comes the true test. Will she like it? Or will I see the look of dismissal that Claire used to give me. I used to feel so guilty when Claire would catch me writing. In her eyes, I was wasting time, and not just my time. I was wasting her time. After a while, the guilt outweighed the pleasure of writing.
It's what I am though. I'm a writer. Maybe I'll never be famous, or even published, but I can't stop. Seeing my messy scribbles on a piece of paper makes me happy.
I hook the leash to Heston's collar and take him for a long walk. I figure if I get him really tired he'll behave at Iris's.
After the walk, I put him in the car. I turn to face him. "You will be a good boy. You will be on your best behavior. No jumping on her or her furniture. No excessive sniffing. Lift your leg on anything in her house and you're dead meat. Got it?"
Awkwardly, he circles around on the backseat before plopping down.
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Iris is sitting on her front porch when we pull up. Her smile broadens as she sees Heston's big head poke through the half opened window.
"Good. I was afraid you wouldn't bring him." She holds out her hand as I walk him to her.
Heston pulls hard on his leash, trying to get to her. "Knock it off, Hes," I say.
"Let him go. He's fine."
I let the leash fall from my hand and hold my breath, praying he doesn't run full force and knock her over. But, as eager as he is, he crouches in front of her, his head resting on her knee.
"It's getting very warm. Let's go inside," she says.
I follow her in and she motions for me to sit at the dining room table. She goes into the kitchen and takes two glasses out of the cabinet. "Sweet tea, coffee or water? "
"Water's fine."
I watch as she takes deep breaths. She's struggling. Doing the simplest things and she's struggling to breathe.
"I have an idea. Why don't you sit here and pet Heston while I fix the drinks and heat up the soup."
She doesn't argue. She can't. Her blue eyes are faded and her cheeks flushed.
I put the pot of soup on the stove and stir it as it heats. "So, is your friend, Gertrude, a good cook or am I going to be grabbing a burger after I leave here?"
"She used to be. Nothing fancy but she can hold her own."
I carry the two bowls of steaming soup to the table.
"If it's no good, we can toss it and order pizza." She raises an eyebrow and winks.
She eats several spoonfuls then puts her spoon down.
"It's gotten pretty bad, hasn't it?" I ask. I can't pretend I don't notice.
"They're delivering an oxygen machine on Friday."
"That's good though. It'll help you."
She nods but I can see the humiliation in her eyes. She's a proud lady. To be dependent on a machine for every breath must be like a punch in the stomach to her.
"You know what sucks about getting old, I mean really old?" She doesn't wait for me to answer just looks at the half eaten bowl of soup in front of her. "From the moment you take your first breath of life, people are telling you what to do. They teach you words, how to use a fork and knife, to read and write, to drive. But then, it somehow goes awry. No one tells you how to die. You have to figure it out on your own. They can tell you what's killing you, but then it's up to you."
I wait for her to cry or tear up but she doesn't. She simply looks me in the eye with a slight smile and taps the table lightly. "And, that sucks."
She doesn't want my pity. All she needs is someone to listen.
We put Heston out to run around in her backyard. He is busy sprinkling every bush, tree or flower he sees.
"Now, I'd like to read that story of yours," she says as we go into the living room.
"It's a rough draft. Just remember that." I hand her the pages.
She reads each page, a smile gracing her face as her eyes travel across the page. She looks up after she's finished. "You are so gifted. I can't say talented because lots of writers are talented. You have a gift. I could see it all. I could feel the breeze and smell the rain as it started to get close. You captured the feeling of childhood."
"You liked it?"
"Very much. Promise me you'll finish it." she says.
"Do you have any pictures of you and John from your childhood? "
"Sit right here. I'll get my albums."
Iris goes to one of the bookshelves and pulls a worn black album off. "This is mostly filled with pictures before I was married. Not in great condition but this is it." She sits beside me, the book open on her lap. She tells me about her parents, there are several pictures of Daphne, her old Wolfhound. "This was John." A black and white photo shows a boy about six or seven standing next to her parents. He was a cute kid.
"John passed about four, no wait, it's been five years now. Started smoking as a teenager, got COPD and caught pneumonia after Christmas. Was gone within a week." She traces her finger across the picture. "Best little brother anyone could want."
"I'll bet he thought you were the best big sister."
She shakes her head. "He said I was bossy." She grins. She sits back on the couch. "In just a couple of minutes I'm going to tackle that kitchen."
"No, you're going to sit back and tell me some of your childhood adventures while I clean up the kitchen."
"If no one has ever told you this, Jameson, you're a God send."
While I clean up the kitchen, Iris takes me back with her to play in the fields with John and Daphne.
