“A Rose for Xenia”
Howard Ruskin whistled tunelessly as he left the florist shop with a slim tube of lavender paper clutched in his left hand. Inside was a single red rose –a rose for his Xenia.
That was one good thing about retirement, he reflected. He had plenty of time, spare time that he had never had during his working life. He sometimes missed the waiting room full of patients and the satisfaction of seeing the hope and relief on their faces. (“No, Mrs. Thompson, that little lump was just a benign cyst. Nothing to worry about.”)
Mostly, though, he enjoyed the round of golf with Ned Rosenberg every Wednesday morning; the Thursday night poker game with the guys that had been going on for over twenty-five years; and, of course, all the “quality time” with Xenia.
He fumbled in his pants pocket for his car keys, gently placed the florist’s package on the passenger seat, started up, and pulled out into the light morning traffic. He had a couple of errands to do before returning home. First, he had to stop by the Cub Foods store and pick up the week’s groceries, consulting the list that Xenia had given him. They certainly didn’t have to scrimp and save, not with the sizable stock portfolio that he had accumulated over the years. But a childhood spent in poverty on the Minnesota Iron Range had taught both of them to make the most of every penny, and old habits died hard. Even harder than old fart retired physicians, he mused.
Having finished his shopping, he loaded the three bags of groceries into the back seat of the car, using the seat belts to strap them in so that they wouldn’t tip over. Xenia was always accusing him of having a “lead foot” and taking corners too sharply. He supposed she was right about that, as she had been about most things in over forty years of married bliss.
Since it was a cool day, he left the groceries in the car and went into the barber shop a few doors down from the grocery store. Mitch Green greeted him the same way that he had been greeting him every other Saturday for the last twenty-five years.
“Hey, Doc, my good friend. What’ll it be today? Just a little buzz along the temples and a squirt of Johnson’s Wax on that shiny dome? Right. Sit you down and tell me how retirement’s treating you.”
Doc Ruskin plopped into the proffered barber’s chair and prepared to endure the usual monologue from Mitch. Ruskin often thought that Garrulousness 101 must be a required course in barber school.
“So how’s the lovely Missus doing, Doc? Is she still fussing over the grandkids and holding those tea parties?” Mitch asked, with a raised eyebrow directed at his partner, Al Goldsmith.
“You betcha, Mitch! Tom and Lisa are growing up so fast, and Xenia really can’t resist mothering them. And she sure wouldn’t know what to do without the monthly tea parties.”
Mitch continued the small talk for the ten minutes it took to trim Doc’s hair, then blew the cut hair off the back of his neck with compressed air and, with a flourish like a pastry chef unveiling his creation, whipped the apron off his customer and handed him a mirror.
As Doc Ruskin left the shop with a departing wave of his hand, Mitch Green put the payment in his cash register and looked at Al with a sad shake of his head.
Ruskin’s next stop was at The Party Favor, where he picked up a set of decorations and tableware for the tea party they were giving that evening. Xenia had scolded him only that morning not to forget to pick up the stuff. “She must really think I’m getting senile”, he grumbled to himself.
Nancy Abbott, the owner of the party shop, asked to be remembered to Xenia. “I’ve never talked to her on the phone, Doc, but she writes such nice notes on that special lavender note paper. You’re a lucky man, you know!” Ruskin nodded distractedly, then left for his final stop before returning home.
By now it was almost noon, and traffic was getting heavy. It took Ruskin almost twenty minutes to get to his destination. He spent the time listening to a “Golden Oldies” station on the car radio, looking forward to telling Xenia all the latest gossip.
He parked the old Mercury at the end of the drive and got out, carrying his lavender package. The day had grown warm, and the dew was almost gone from the lush, green grass. A mourning dove hooted hauntingly from a tree near the edge of the field.
He stopped under a huge, old oak with up thrust branches that seemed to reach their leafy fingers toward heaven. Carefully unwrapping his package, he bent down, placed the single red rose in a crystal vase, and kissed the cold granite gravestone. He spent several quiet minutes remembering all the good times they had had over their long married life. Then he told her everything that had happened since his last visit. Finally he said, “Goodbye, my dear. I’ll see you next Saturday.”
With a final blown kiss, Doctor Howard Ruskin left the cemetery. On his way home, he deposited two of the bags of groceries at a homeless shelter. He drove back to the empty, ten-room house on Summit Avenue, sat down at the kitchen table, and started next week’s grocery list on a sheet of Xenia’s lavender note paper.
Copyright 2001. Nelson R. Capes. All rights reserved.