He was used to waiting, she supposed. The creak of that rickety porch swing became some sort of sad melody. Back and forth, he swayed, picking at the rusting chains with his perpetually cracked, filthy fingernails. He waited for hours on end each week, sinking into that swing. He never told her what or who he was waiting for. She watched him wait through the kitchen window. She leaned her chin against her palms, balanced on their counter.
“I’m waitin’, darlin’, I told ya,” he muttered crossly when she asked with trepidation on a breezy November evening. He pushed his toes against the chipping white railing in front of him to creak and sway. It was like wanted to creak loud enough to avoid her question.
She drew in a slow breath and placed a hand atop his, trembling with age. “Who, Charles? Who’re ya waitin for?”
She asked him almost daily, and the answer was always the same. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the inevitable answer.
“I’m waiting for Robert, sweetheart,” he grunted without taking his eyes from the silent dirt road. “He’s gonna get off work soon. It’s almost seven.”
She turned her face from him even though he made no motion to look at her. He’s never said that before. It was always, ‘Oh, you know who!’ but he never gave a name. Until now.
His tone was flat and she grimaced, finding her heartbeat again and pushing her heart from her throat. It wouldn’t be worth it to remind him. It wouldn’t be worth the renewed wave of horror and flood of questions she was exhausted of answering.
Robert has been dead for twelve years.
“Charles,” she breathed, slipping an arm around his shoulder, standing beside him on the swing. “It’s supper time. You gotta come in, or you’re gonna forget to eat.” He didn’t take his unblinking, gray, watery eyes from the road before him. He had asked about Robert before, but never admitted he was the one he always waited for.
“Robert’s gonna be here soon, we can wait,” he insisted quietly.
She held her breath, heart pounding dully. She pulled on his unfurling sweater gently. “It’s okay, hun. Come on in.”
With an indignant grunt, he hoisted himself to his feet and slowly straightened up from his porch swing. His wife offered an arm to his ailing husband of eighty-one. He wrapped a wrinkly, war-scarred hand around her elbow and the two hobbled inside to their kitchen.
Her mind whirled with memories of their son who died of a heart attack a decade earlier. He had his father’s eyes, her soft cheeks and fingers. Robert always played with his left earlobe where he used to have it pierced, and spoke with daggers when something didn’t go his way. His touch was delicate and cautious. She missed him, and it hurt that Charles didn’t remember that he was dead. She couldn’t bear to explain it to him.
“Martha, wh...where does Robert work again?”
Charles sudden croak and brought her back to the moment. She furrowed her eyebrows and spoke carefully, like the words were fragile in her mouth.
“Robert doesn’t work anymore, honey.”
Charles tsked in disproval. “Well why the hell not?” he demanded, slamming a palm on the wobbly wood chair. She kept her eyes lowered as she pulled out the chair for him and helped him settle into it.
“Well, you see, Charles,” she began precariously, easing herself stiffly into the chair across the tiny table. She reached across and took a shaking hand in her own, running through the script she’s rehearsed for years. Even though he’ll forget overnight, she needed to tell him the truth, and not use his dementia against him.
“I’m afraid Robert won’t make it home for dinner.”
Charles’ eyes unfocused as he tried to make sense of what he head. “Why not? He didn’t leave town already?”
Martha held a steady gaze with her husband. Bite the bullet. Now or never. “Roger isn’t here, darling. He passed away.”
Several heartbeats passed between them, and she waited in trepidation.
“Wh-what?” he whispered at last. Nothing hurt her more than seeing the pain on his face, the face that she’s loved for decades. It hurt her even more than this hurts him, but he didn’t know it.
“A… couple years, Charlie. For a few years.” In an instant, his old, frail face crumpled before her. She hissed a breath through her teeth against a wave of anguish and gripped his hands gently.
A shuddering wail echoed through the house, but it wasn’t Charlie’s. Martha broke down as the tan, soft face of her son flashed before her eyes. She had to relive his death every time Charles asked about him.
Charlie’s voice went flat, face expressionless. His eyes went blurry as tears clouded his gray eyes. “No, he can’t be. We just… we just saw him… this morning,” he gasped.
‘This morning’ was twelve years ago before he was hit with a heart attack on the way home from work. Roger’s face was as pale as Charlie’s sweater on the evening they held their son for the last time.
Charlie didn’t know any better. He didn’t remember.
Martha wanted to escape to that porch swing, creak back and forth, hear her son’s laugh over the moan of Charlie’s waiting swing.