Life's Rich Pageant - III

When I moved into my first house there was a couple who lived next door named K and M. They were pretty old-fashioned, and argued with each other more than they conversed, but each was wonderful in unique and special ways. We were in our early thirties, K & M in their sixties, and they took us under their wing. They shared neighborhood gossip and history. They took in packages for us, I shoveled their sidewalk. We'd sometimes meet in one driveway or the other on summer evenings and discuss the news of the day. M was planning on retiring soon and they talked about all the things they wanted to do.

Then, K got sick. Real sick. I've not seen too many old Russian men cry, but M sobbed when he stopped me in the driveway to tell me. He said it was inoperable, and she had maybe a month, more likely a couple weeks. I said anything I could think of.

The next day he stopped me again and told me the doctors had offered them an option: a new surgical procedure that just might save her life. He was cautiously elated, and I said all the right things.

A couple of days later he said the operation had been a success and K would be home in a couple of weeks. He was having the back room on their house renovated so she didn't have to climb stairs. I told him how happy I was.

When K came home I went over to visit. She didn't look very well, but who would, right? In the following weeks I went over to do some chores for them, and once or twice I had to lift K because she'd fallen out of bed. She seemed to be getting better some of the time, but not all the time. I told M she looked good.

Within a few months K started to slide downhill again. She went back into the hospital, and M had no good driveway news this time. K died about a month later.

At her funeral M was sobbing. I said all the right things, if there are right things at a moment like that.

The months rolled on and life returned to normal. We'd wave to M and he'd wave back, but there were no more driveway chats. Until one evening, when he looked particularly ragged and I stopped to ask him if he was okay. He said he was tired of working, that his company was trying to push him out and bring in a younger salesman, but that he couldn't let them do that. I asked why he didn't just retire, relax a little, like he'd planned. He turned to look at me and said, "The insurance fuckers wouldn't pay for K's operation - they said it was experimental and not worth the cost...well, I couldn't do that. If there was a chance for my K I had to take it...so I took all my retirement money and paid the fucking hospital and fucking doctors. It gave her four fucking months, but if I had it to do over again I'd do the same. There's nothing left. All I have is this house. I gotta keep working."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want an old Russian man to see me cry, so I hugged his shoulder and saying nothing at all hurried across the driveway into my house. I think he understood.

M died about six months later.