My
grandmother, of course, would have none of it.
“Get
a move on, child,” she ordered, sharp but not really harsh, “Reckon
those baskets gon' walk they's selves in alone?”
What
I reckoned was that if'n one of those ancient, decrepit old men
reached out a hand as I passed, it'd have dirt-rimmed talons and be
likely to draw blood - just the prospect made me queasy - but there
was no way to tell that to my distracted grandmother, now giving me
an impatient glare and thrusting two crinkly, saran wrapped baskets
into my hands.
“Go!”
she admonished firmly, “I'll be right behind you.”
We'd
worked on them for a week, carefully rationing out equal quantities
of everything from soap to shaving cream, toothpaste and Old Spice,
chocolate bars and chewing gum. The Ladies Auxillary had collected
an array of everyday items - packets of coffee and sugar, nail
clippers, dog eared paperbacks and puzzle books, blank postcards and
ball point pens – Miz Clara had personally knitted a dozen pair of
wool socks and it'd had taken a half day to sort through and clean
the second hand eye glasses and magnifyers. We sat around the dining
room table and divvied it all up into the twelve baskets Miz Hilda
had donated, then sealed each one in saran wrap and added the bows
Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi had made from leftover Christmas ribbon. When
we were done, the women drew straws to see who would make the
delivery and Nana won.
“It's
a chore of charity,” Aunt Vi told me as we loaded the old Lincoln,
“Them that has is meant to see to them that hasn't.”
“Yes'm,”
I said innocently. I had no suspicion what lay ahead or that them
that hadn't would be so tragically without.
“Mind
me, child!” my grandmother was saying irritably, “We ain't got
all day!”
To
my dismay, it was worse inside. I could feel the damp from the water
stains on the walls and ceilings. I caught one sneaker on the
threadbare hall rug and nearly lost my balance. The air was stale
and smelled faintly like our two seater in the garage but with a
healthy dose of bleach that stung my eyes and scratched at my throat.
I could hear the sounds of crying and coughing and shouting. Just
as I was thinking I might lose my lunch and wondering how could she
have brought me to such a dreadful place, I felt my grandmother's
knee in the small of my back.
“Go!”
she hissed, “Eyes front! The room at the end of the hall!”
I
lurched forward, past the once ornate but now cloudy mirrors, past
the sea scape pictures hanging crookedly on the walls, past the row
of dusty wheelchairs propped against the staircase,
past
the closed doors of closed rooms on either side, and finally into the
light at the end of the hall where a covey of nurses in antiseptically
white uniforms and starched caps were at work.
“I
declare,” one of them called out, “If it's not Miz Watson with
the Canada Day baskets!”
There
was something normal and reassuring in the nurses quarters, something
that put some distance between them and the horrors of the rest of
the place. I quickly began to feel less trapped, less at risk, and
when they offered to have the remaining baskets brought in for us, I
felt positively welcomed and in good hands. I was eight or nine,
easily spooked by own vivid imagination but just as easily able to
recover, especially when one of the nurses offered to let us leave by
the back door and through the garden. The flowers were in bloom and
there was a sweetness to the sea air that no house of horrors could
take away.
Them
as can do, has to do for them as can't. And someone has to speak up
for them as have no voices. - Terry Pratchett
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