1 21 21
By: Robert Buschel
Tags: Politics, Legal, Fiction, Rbg

The first of the morning sun peered through the window and beckoned the woman who slumbered. The habit was fixed even on weekends. The schedule of waking up around the same time every day was secondary. The key, the hope, was that she woke at all. The point was being alive. Life viewed by imagination. The woman opened her eyes and recognized the morning had arrived. She couldn’t help but smile. “Good,” she would said to herself. She didn’t trust the night. The night was duplicitous. It had developed the infamous reputation of serenity but permitted death to come peacefully.

This remarkable woman sat up and reached for her glasses in one smooth stroke. As a practical woman she wore pajamas to bed as part of a ceremony — a promise to herself that she would sleep and then wake. All the schooling, all the striving, and all the doors she opened; all the ceilings she had broken and she her greatest accomplishment might very well go down in history, the epitaph, “If she were to have lived….”

Her feet hung over the side of the bed as she held her arms out in front of her and clenched her hands into a fist, then releasing them ten times; followed by curls of her biceps without weights in either arm. Chin to her chest, the octogenarian rolled her head cheek to ear, then cheek to other ear. She glanced at an old picture of her husband when he was a young man; propped next to the clock on the nightstand. He was so handsome; dressed in a suit, the frame gold and regal. The photo was a black and white, the one from when he graduated. Together they knew they could do anything. And they did; and she did.

A moment passed and noted today’s date. Reminding herself she stopped reaching over for her husband to wake years ago. But she looked at his side of the bed with the idea that she might conjure his presence if she glared with intention. She would smile. He was there and she could almost hear him speak with her ears, not just her mind. Today she spoke to him and more importantly, he answered back with sonorous clarity. “You did it, kid.” It was a special day.

The man on the other side of town rose after about three hours of sleep. He inhaled deeply — and again. The deep breaths invigorated him. It made him feel powerful. He also wore designer pajamas. In the moment where his legs hung off the bed, he looked at his nightstand and the picture of his late son stood out among the array and display of other framed memories. As he looked at the photograph of his son, his daughter, his wife — he wondered if this was all part of a grand plan, or should this day never have happened at all. This day was well overdue. The day delayed because of the interminable grief he felt for his fallen family. No parent should mourn a child. The mourning became exhausting. The obsession he required, to focus on the mission, a campaign, mourning couldn’t be a part of it — and so he waited for time to pass. The man never beat himself up too hard about it. In his mind’s voice, his son declared, “You did it, kid.”

The elderly man stood up and exercised with a series of jumping jacks. The blood was flowing. Then he stopped and looked around the bedroom for a moment. He had been there before but it seemed not for a long while. He knew what was outside his door, that is to say he knew the layout and where to turn next, yet he experienced his surroundings as if new and impressive. Was his mind working right? Was it his mind working perfectly?

It was something about his shaving that made the man pause. Perhaps the shaving compelled him to look at himself in the mirror, closely and at a distance. He washed the shaving cream off his face and examined if he removed it all and is there any spot of whiskers he missed. He didn’t miss. He won. As he stared in the mirror, he knew that he might not have all the days left he wanted but he said softly but out loud, “Looking good kid.”

He needed to look good, be his best self. After all he was an executive. It his first day and he needed to begin a new by undoing. The man dressed in a traditional blue suit, Italian cut. White shirt, red tie, with a matching hankie in the outside jacket pocket, he felt like an athlete who won the gold medal. He put on the watch that was special to him — memories of a life well lived. He reached into the inside jacket pocket and felt a piece of paper folded inside. Removing it, he put it there in order to find it on this day. He opened the note. It was from her that notorious woman. He loved the note, the idea of it; and the words on it. There was a comfort in confirming it was there, the note was for him, the words were as he remembered. “I will live and I will see you where you live . . . 1 21 21.” His eyes lit up. He smiled. She meant it! She had to have meant it. She had done her part. He did his part. The anticipation of the meeting was the feeling of a slow burning fire that finally offered the warmth that saved the lives of those camping around it in the tundra. Not only does the fire save lives, it made everyone comfortable. Reflecting on the note, he remembered words she had spoken or written to him in the past. Often impediments in life can evolve into great fortune.

Staring back in the looking glass of imagination she examined herself in the mirror. She could see herself as she once was and in her present form simultaneously. In her mind’s eye, she always appeared like this. She had decided long ago that physical beauty was fleeting, extra beauty granted to a few, but building on wisdom was her best bet. She was no athlete; all she had was her extraordinary brain, which was fine because that has lasted longer than her body. The body quit but her opinions were stronger.

“Bubbee, you up?”

“Of course I’m up,” the woman replied to her granddaughter as she walked into the kitchen. “Dressed and ready to go.”

“Where are we going?” Clara, her granddaughter asked.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise,” she announced.

The granddaughter nodded as she poured herself coffee. “I can’t believe we’re doing this today. The traffic will be unbearable.”

“Believe it. You look beautiful.”

Clara smiled at the compliment. “Did you speak to your mother? Did you tell her you were here?”

In a slightly exasperated tone, Clara responded that she had spoken to her mother, who responded that Mom wished she could be there. “My job to ask,” Clara’s Bubbee said. One last long sip and swallow and a tall glass of juice disappeared. “All done. That’s the best juice.”

“Well, you need to get more that was the last drop of juice,” Clara said.

“I think that’s it.”

“That’s it? No more juice, Bubbee?”

“No more juice,” Clara’s Bubbee answered with a laugh. But the answer made Clara sad. “Let’s go, you shouldn’t be late.”

As Clara straggled toward the door gathering a purse and keys Clara assumed she was attending some special event honoring her grandmother and she was being used as a prop. Who was it today?

Clara was not going to Bubbee’s work. Clara could envision Bubbee placing oversized sunglasses on her face — Jaqueline Kennedy. Clara drove and cursed the traffic she knew was there. She tilted her head in confusion toward her Bubbee. Clara didn’t say it out loud, but thought, “Why are we doing this? What does this mean?”

Clara knew the answer, “You’ll see,” was the best she would get.

She thought for a moment. Clara would appreciate and endure the typical events her grandmother would drag her to. “You’re not introducing me to someone, are you? You remember I’m married right?”

Bubbee would laugh at the thought. “Of course I know you’re married. I was at your wedding. Maybe I’m going to introduce you to a man who wants to see me.”

Clara wondered if that would possibly be true. She’d never really considered her grandmother in such a way before. Supposing this event was different. The setting and the timing was out of step. She commanded herself to stop with the inner dialogue. She was on her way and it was mandatory, an invitation that couldn’t be refused.

Before breakfast, the man began his morning reading. He reviewed some newspapers on a computer tablet. He studied a report that was left for him. He reflected on the importance of what he read. The fact he had the obligation to read, know it, and act was a welcome idea for the people to whom he had to account. Without haughtiness, he understood he was important and the times were important. He was where his journey was meant to end. The journey had been long. How much journey is left? What happens next? He pledged himself to remaining alive a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer. How much is a little bit?

For her, the answer was the same. Unspecified. Live until we die.

Clara asked herself, “You sure you know where you’re going?” “Of course, how could I not know where I’m going?”

As she drove down the street riding the brake, she asked herself, “Am I receiving an award or something?”

“Something,” Bubbee answered. “You concentrate on the road ahead.”

Clara stopped at the gate and rolled down the window.

“You know where you’re going, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you,” Clara drove ahead. This is a surprise.

The man stared into his wife’s eyes and smiled. They stared for a moment blocking the hallway where they crossed paths. She was dressed as the executive’s wife, in some top designer’s couture. She knew the routine. She knew the job. She was no dummy either holding a doctorate of her own.

“So how do you feel?” the lady asked.

“I feel great,” the man replied. “Just what I thought it would feel like.”

“The feeling should last forever,” she offered.

“I don’t know about forever. After reading what I read, and hearing I what I heard in my last meeting, there will be tough days.”

“Let’s go to your next meeting together,” she said.

He looked down at his watch and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this meeting for a long time and all day.”

“Me too. I want to go too,” his wife said with a kiss. “Lead the way.”

“Why this room, Bubbee?” Clara wondered.

“I told them I like the color red.”

“It’s a lot of red.”

“Sure is.”

“Do you want to sit, . . .” one of the staff was asking when the door opened wide.

The man entered the room like he owned it and took five steps into its center. She took a few steps toward him.

“May I?” He asked extending his open arms. “I was checked this morning.”

“You may. We made it this far. We can accept the risk.”

The two embraced for a long moment, feeling the life force in each other. The two broke apart and held each other by the elbows while staring into each other’s eyes.

“You got my note,” he said with a bright smile. “The one I sent to your Bubbee?”

“Yes,” Clara said. “I have to be honest, I really didn’t quite understand it until I got the call from one of your staffers.”

He then said in a low sincere tone, “This was meant to be a meeting to say, ‘Thank you for living.’”

Clara said in a responsive tone, “Well, you did your part. Thank you for winning.”

After a short laugh and a moment, a photographer said, “Mr. President in a little closer. Can we have you turn….. great. Your chin up? And smile.”

“I can’t stop smiling,” the President announced.

The President then whispered to Clara, “You know your grandmother saved the world.”

“You know, I think she thinks you did,” Clara replied. “I wish she could’ve been here.” Clara said. “Her most fervent wish was that she not be replaced until today.”

“Your Bubbee’s win was her life and her life’s work, not the shame in the loss of her death.”

The shutter could be heard from all the pictures taken memorializing the occasion. Clara’s bubbee had hoped she could choose like an old Indian shaman so close to the spirits he could pick the day of death. In the objective world, a well-played life is always incomplete.