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Palindrome For all the pleasure mankind can
gain The old woman reclined in a wicker rocker, near the dark side of a huge elm tree, the only shade tree fronting the white framed homestead. The elm provided relief from the hot sun of the Androscoggin valley, although it had not greened much this year—distant neighbors opined that it was a matter of years before old age killed the great tree. The sun cast long shadows late in the afternoon, prompting the woman to move the wicker chair twice to avoid the relentless autumnal rays of an Indian summer. Each time she moved, she lifted the dented green picnic can of crushed ice; ice was expensive—she was careful not to spill it. She moved a Colliers magazine, crinkled and dog-eared, the cover graced with a Maxfield Parrish print of a thin, homely man dressed in a white robe speckled with dizzying black polka dots, sitting on a stool holding a book. The woman had mused, through the years, as to whether the artist intended the figure to be a scholarly sage or a village idiot—sometimes only a shadow separated the sane from the insane, she knew. Shifting on the straw filled cushion, the woman reached for the insulated can, removed the cover, and then scooped ice into a porcelain tea cup. She bent toward the cup, taking ice into her mouth. Every few minutes she wiped tears from her cheeks with a white cloth. The woman scowled and shook her head, then looked down the road past the whitewashed Fairchild farm, tilting her white head toward the sound of a gasoline engine. Grimace lines spliced the wrinkles of old age. After a long minute a black Model A roadster appeared. It came to a stop, canvas break pads squeaking. A slope shouldered, middle-aged man in shirt, vest and bow tie got out slowly, with a hand grasping his lower back. He took a plaid bandanna from a back pocket and wiped dust from his face and hands. When finished, he kicked a tire, and caused dust to spew from the spokes. He reached in the passenger side and removed a black leather bag and a three-legged milking stool. Thus armed, he hurried toward the woman. "About time, isn’t it Doctor?" the old woman said in a loud, clear tone, attempting to smile. The man in the shiny gabardine vest stared respectfully at the old woman, and then nodded. He put a billiard shaped smoking pipe in his mouth, and searched his vest pockets for a match. "Yes, Anna, it is about time and I am sorry." He found a kitchen match and ignited it on the brass escutcheon of his worn leather bag. He lighted the pipe, and then set the bag on the parched grass. He shook the dust from his bandanna. "Elwood Fitzsimmons died this morning and he needed tending to before he went. I’m afraid there was more pain than he could stand." He removed wire rimmed spectacles and blew on each lens. "Poor Elwood," the woman said. "Was it the cancer?" "Yep, the cancer got him, Anna. It took out most of his tongue and soft palate." He returned the glasses to his face. "Ugly as I’ve seen." "Try the beefsteak, Doc?" "We put beefsteak on his tongue at night, because he wanted us to – though any medical person knows it doesn’t do any good." He pushed his glasses toward his eyes with a forefinger. "Well, some folks say the cancer might eat the beefsteak instead of the tongue." The doctor knocked the cake of tobacco from his pipe with a thwack on his open hand. "Wish it were so, but it doesn’t work that way, we did it because Elwood asked us to try it, but that type of medicine belongs in the last century." The woman reached for more ice. "Maybe I belong there too." "Don’t put yourself in the ground yet, Anna," the doctor said, stooping to place the milking stool near the woman’s side, working to push the legs into the earth until the stool leveled. "Are you sure you are ready for this, Anna? You know, I don’t mind having a glass of your famous birch beer before taking a slow ride home to supper."` "Doctor, my eyes tear up all day and night," she uttered, voice breaking. " I never had pain like these teeth cause me." "And you’ve had your share of pain, Anna." He kneeled beside her. "Let me have a look." The woman clutched the folds of her black silk dress and sagged in the wicker chair, opening her mouth. She smelled tobacco and shaving soap as the doctor sat on the stool. The doctor took a white towel out of his bag and poured rubbing alcohol on it, stubby fingers moving quickly. He wiped his hands, and then picked out a mirror attached to the end of a wooden shaft. He peered in the woman’s mouth. After several seconds he removed the mirror. He shook his head. "They’re all seeping pus, Anna. I don’t know how you stand it." "We all have crosses to bear, don’t we, Pip?" The doctor threw back his head. He coughed softly, and then laughed. "Anna, you haven’t called me Pip since the fifth grade, when I called you Mrs. Adams." "Just a slip from an old woman, Doctor." The doctor smiled, and shook his graying head once more. "If it had not been for you, Mrs. Adams, I wouldn’t have been allowed to finish grammar school" He took out a crescent shaped pan from his bag, along with several pairs of shiny pliers. He wrapped a white sheet around the woman’s torso. "Asa just needed a lot of convincing, that’s all. May he rest in peace." "I can’t imagine my father resting anywhere, especially in peace," he said, raising his eyebrows. "By nature he was an angry man. Life just wasn’t quite good enough for him. You do want it done out here, Anna?" The woman pointed to upright stone slabs set behind a leaning picket fence, her finger bent in an arthritic hook. "Two sisters and a husband are buried over there, Pip, and I figure I won’t have far to go if something happens. Besides, this is a glorious day—the good Lord intended for us to be out in a day like this. Have you ever seen such a brilliant blue sky, Doctor?" The man turned slowly to look at the horizon, where the burnished yellow of the late summer cornstalks met the periwinkle blue sky. "I can’t say that I have, Anna. No, I can’t." He scrubbed his tools with alcohol, stainless steel reflecting the sun. "Now, Anna, can I persuade you to drink a stout jigger of corn whisky? There is not much else I can do about the pain. If you would come to town, we could try the ether." "No, Pip, but I don’t mind if you partake," she replied, managing a wan smile. The doctor emitted a chuckle, in spite of the task ahead of him. The smile faded. "Anna, I may be overstepping my bounds on this, but people tell me when they go by here they see you out by the road, as if you were waiting for someone. And, last month when I delivered the Witham baby, I drove by at three in the morning—you still had that lamp burning in your Harold’s bedroom window." "Yes, I still wait for my son, Doctor," she replied, putting her hands over her face. Her torso shook slightly. The doctor rubbed her thin shoulders. "Anna, your son was declared missing in action—the Great War ended fourteen years ago." "Fourteen years and two months," she cried. "Harold led his company at the battle of Belleau Wood. He was not heard from again." "Anna, his unit saved Paris, but none of the Marines under his command were found alive. Isn’t it about time?" He patted her brow with a damp cloth. "Oh, Pip, he could have suffered from a concussion and lost his memory—and then he might have been captured by the Germans." The doctor said nothing, wetting the cloth with distilled water, and then applying it to her forehead. "Anna, I think it is time to let it go." "But didn’t Harold look handsome in his uniform after getting commissioned? He told us he hated to leave the farm, but he just needed to defend this Great Republic." The doctor looked out toward the setting sun, his head shaking gently. "And you know Anna, just the other day the old vets at the Bethel Grange talked about the no-hitter he pitched against those Colby Mules. Nobody getting to first base." "Yes, and Harold blushed with embarrassment when anyone talked about it. Oh, Pip, my chest aches so much. I love him more than anything." Her voice broke, but she caught herself. "No doubt about it, Anna, he would have made the world better, in a big way," the doctor said solemnly, again turning his gaze to the far fields where crows circled noisily. "Yes, Harold always did so much for those who had little." "Anna, why don’t you consider moving in with Millie Haskins? She thinks the world of you. In town you would have the bridge games, the plays at the music theater." "For now Pip, let’s get to the task at hand," she said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. The doctor smiled, then took on a melancholy expression. "Anna, at Bates they had an award for the toughest football player in the senior class. It was called the Broiled Bobcat Award. I never got it, but in my mind, you deserve a similar prize." He held up the water bottle. "A spring water rinse, Anna." The woman nodded, and opened her mouth. The doctor reached in with angled needle-nosed pliers, holding her jaw with his other hand. "Start with the easier ones," he whispered. When he twisted the pliers she felt a jolt of hot pain, then it subsided. He dropped the tooth in the metal bleeding tray—clank. Gently, he patted her gums with alum gauze. Next, he put a tin cup to her lips. "Rinse, Anna. We’re getting there." She opened her mouth again. He reached in, twisted the pliers, and another tooth came out. "It’s good when they come out with the roots, then we don’t have to do more digging, thank God." Another clank. Perspiring, he shook his head. "If the pain gets too intense, you must let me know." The woman shook her head, leaned back and opened her mouth.
Seven more teeth were extracted in the next fifteen minutes.
"This is the last one, Anna, the biggest one—the root of your agony." He tilted the pliers—Anna could hear a sharp crunching in her ears; she felt an excruciating stab followed by warm relief. Not in pleasure, but in rest from pain, she recited to herself, extremities shaking from the trauma. The doctor stayed with her for the next hour, sitting on his stool, patting the open gums with cool water and alum. He placed wet wraps on her forehead, and dabbed at the blood seeping from her mouth. "I suppose you got your revenge for the month of firewood carrying, thirty years ago," she said, speaking lowly, without moving her jaw. "No, it was thirty-three years." "Yep, you caught me red-handed cutting off Susie Halsey’s pigtail," he smiled. Then, he moved to look into her eyes. "You can be fitted with a good set of false teeth, Anna. Just as always, you’ll look pretty, and you can chew your food." "It’s a little late for store-boughts, Pip, but I thank you for your concern." "Anna, it is never too late. Tomorrow can be as good, if not better, than today." She smiled and held his hand. "You run along, Pip, and if you forget to bill me I shall not speak to you again." The doctor wiped his eyes, pretending to remove the sweat from his eyebrows. "May I help you inside, Anna, you have been through quite a time—and your face will show a lot of black and blue come morning." "I want to stay out here, Pip. The warm days are ending, the black-eyed Susans tell me that blustery days are soon to arrive." "But you have lost some blood, Anna, maybe you should lie down." He packed his pipe from a brown leather pouch, and glanced toward the western sun. "Those ridges are heaven on earth—are they the Whites or the Mahoosics?" "Both Pip," she replied. "Now, I’ll be fine, Doctor, I will just sit here and gather my strength. I feel much better now without those dreadful teeth." She patted her lips with a handkerchief. "Thank you, Doctor, I appreciate what you have done for me," she smiled, holding up a hand and waving thin fingers. "You are one of a kind, Anna," he said, turning toward the dusty car. He tossed his bag and stool in the passenger seat, and then sat to light his pipe. "Beginning tomorrow morning, rinse out with salt water—keep biting down on the cloth. I’ll be back by in a day or two. You can count on that, Anna." "Pip, don’t you worry, I will manage." He paused. "You know Anna, a smoking pipe probably killed poor Elwood." "I never saw Elwood without that smoking stick," Anna added. Laughing, the Doctor tossed the pipe into the brown gorse. Then he scaled the tobacco pouch further, reaching the corn. Engaging the magneto, the engine sputtered to life. The Doctor departed, grinning broadly, sitting straighter than when he arrived. She put her head down on her chest, suddenly tired, in pain but no longer suffering. The fall sunshine soothed her face, like a hot water bottle. Soon Anna fell asleep under the giant elm, hearing a breeze stir the lofty leaves. She slept, thinking about her lost son, aglow with the sweetness of his taste and scent, and most willing to trade her life if she could see him just one more time. Anna woke with a start, feeling eyes upon her. She blinked away blindness from the angled sun. Standing before a patch of goldenrod was a small boy, looking at her curiously, with a shock of black hair falling over his forehead. "Harold, my darling, you have come home." "Mrs. Adams, it’s me, Nan Fairchild, from down the road ... hello, and this is my son Bob." The woman rubbed her eyes, blinking to focus. "Oh, Nan, my goodness, yes, I remember, of course. I just slept for a moment." Then she stared at the youngster. "This boy—your son, he looks just like my Harold. What did you say is his name?" "Bob," the boy said. "My name is Bob Everett Peters." He held his hands behind his back and fidgeted. "We’re taking a walk," he added. "I haven’t seen you in years, Mrs. Adams," the young woman smiled. "It is so good to see you. Yes, it’s been almost fifteen years." "God bless," the old woman said. "We have come home to live, Mrs. Adams. My husband had an accident, I’m afraid." "My daddy can’t come home no more," the boy said, looking at his mother. "I am sorry." "We will be here for awhile, I guess," the mother said, squeezing her son’s hand. "There is so much to talk about," Anna said. "I hope you will visit me with your handsome son." She smiled, anticipating the prospect. Using finger tips, she felt her lips for dried blood. "Of course we will, ma’am, won’t we Bobby?" Nan took her son’s hand. "Come by tomorrow, please, we will have a cold drink and eat cookies." "We will come by soon. I remember that birch beer that Harold and I used to drink during the hot weather—and your molasses cookies were the best ever." "Will your teeth grow back?" the boy blurted. "Bob!" The mother admonished, pulling on his hand. Anna burst into a laugh, slapping the sides of her legs. "Just had them out today," she said, laughing. "But I’m going to get some new ones!" She dabbed at her lips with the cloth. "Good," Bob said. "If you brush them they will grow back." "See you by and by," the mother smiled, giving Bob’s hand a tug. Then she paused. "I think often of Harold. He was a fine young man." "He thought the world of you, and he would have fancied meeting your son." She patted her mouth with a handkerchief. "My son Harold can’t come home anymore, either." She smiled at the boy. "I’m sorry," the young woman said, eyes to the ground, turning to leave. "Thank you, Nan. See you and Bob tomorrow, I hope." Bob turned and waved awkwardly, grinning. "Bye-bye," he said. "My, oh my," Anna said in wonder, smiling as she watched the two walk down the dry road hand in hand, Bob moving his chubby legs rapidly to match the steps of his mother. The last of the sun fell on the old woman, lengthening the shadow of the gnarled elm. She stood and looked after them, a saluted hand shading her eyes. In the next minute Anna dragged the wicker chair toward the porch. The setting sun reflected from Harold’s bedroom window and caused her to squint; it sparkled with the vermilion intensity of a morning sunrise. Jubilant, Anna repeated herself, "My, oh my." |
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