Pawns, Queens, Kings

Barry Brynjulson

Description

Pawns, Queens, Kings…the Endgame tenderly explores the needs and wants of the aged, as well as their desire to die with dignity.
Two gentlemen in a senior community begin an evening $1 tuck-in service, complete with guitars and serenading. Pawns, Queens, Kings…the Endgame follows these two men and four other residents as they look for their own versions of purpose, esteem, and companionship.
Not all is fun and shenanigans as the realities of aging appear. This bitter-sweet narrative tenderly explores the needs and wants of the aged, as well as their desire to die with dignity.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 08 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781728377957
• Langue: English

Extrait

PAWNS, QUEENS, KINGS
...THE ENDGAME







BARRY BRYNJULSON






AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]



© 2023 Barry Brynjulson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/07/2023

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7796-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-7283-7795-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023901042




Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.



Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.



CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Acknowledgements














For Joan, who deserved a much better ending, and for all seniors who
struggle to find purpose, esteem, and human connections near the end.



CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRST
He stopped in front of the door to room 212 holding his six-string in one hand, and looked down the hall in both directions. No one. Harris had made it this far without being seen, although he had an excuse, a fabricated explanation at the ready, should he encounter anyone.
At 9:45 PM, it was usually quiet in the halls at The Ridge Senior Living, save for the sound of the occasional loud TV. He had made this walk up a flight of stairs and down the hall to the front of Miranda Wheeler’s door last night at this hour to test the route, and went undetected. While relieved to see no one this night, he was not surprised.
Turning the door knob quietly, it was unlocked as she indicated it would be. As he entered her tiny apartment and closed the door softly, he whispered, “Miranda? It’s me.” The recessed light under the microwave in the kitchenette was the only source of light in the four small rooms.
“I’m in here,” she said with her 78-year voice that did its best to sound calm and hide an excitement she hadn’t felt in too long.
“Hi,” Harris said as he poked his head through the open door of her bedroom and could barely make out the figure of his friend lying on her side under the covers.
“Hi,” she replied. “There’s a chair next to my bureau. Can you see it?”
“Yes.” Harris made his way to the wicker chair. It made the sound that only wicker does when he sat and pulled the guitar strap over his head. After several seconds of quiet, he began plucking an instrumental, something he called Morning … a tune he had composed years earlier. It was melodious and sweet, and despite the title, something that suited the quiet calmness of the hour. The fingering he used was uncommon, something someone from his past had shown him. Harris, while excited too, plucked the strings gently, fitting the song and the occasion.
After a few minutes, the song wound down to the slowest, faintest notes. When finished, the night was as quiet as it could be. He listened for her breathing, wondering if she had dozed off. He realized she hadn’t when she asked meekly, “Can you do Bojangles?”
Without saying a word, he slid the capo onto the neck of the guitar and up two frets. Strumming a G chord twice, he could tell the capo was on correctly, the guitar was still tuned to his liking, and was reminded how to start the song. “ I knew a man, Bojangles, and he danced for you…in worn out shoes.” He sang with tenderness, his eyes closed. Though his palms were moist and his heart raced, his voice stayed true. He gained confidence with each completed verse.
After the song, she said nothing. He listened again, unsure of what her breathing meant. He played another instrumental that he thought might be relaxing and appropriate. Earlier in the day he wondered about the number of songs he should play during these visits. This was new territory, and he was uncertain. He decided three was about right. Part way through the third number, he knew it would be the last for this, his first tuck-in performance.
When finished, he stood from the chair as quietly as possible, and, as he moved past the foot of her bed toward the door, he said, “Sleep well Miranda.”
“Thank you,” she said in a contented voice. “The dollar is on the counter.”
Harris took the money off the grey faux-granite counter next to the white refrigerator, and stepped through the door into an empty hallway. He too felt content but slept unevenly that night, the first of many in his new venture.



CHAPTER TWO
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
“What’s going on? How’s the food?” he asked while scanning the roundtable of five who were part way through their lunch.
Four of the five people seated at the table looked up at him. A man in a wheelchair did not, but kept spooning the chicken rice soup in front of him. The three ladies at the table looked at Harris, smiled, and said some version of, “It’s good.”
The fifth person at the table, a burly man, chimed in with a drawl, “It’ll probably keep you from starving.”
“Oh, come now Rex, it’s not that bad,” said Sandy the high-heeled, redheaded Sales Director mainly to the man she was giving the tour.
“It’s the only decision I’ll have to make today…enchiladas or mac and cheese. I reckon I made the right one,” Rex replied a little louder and slower than most people spoke.
“We have two seatings for lunch, Mr. Archibald: 11:30 and 12:30.”
“Are you new here?” asked Diana from the table. She was wearing four sports team hats on her head for some reason.
“Mr. Archibald is considering The Ridge. I’m showing him around,” said Sandy. “We’re all going to show our best side, aren’t we, for Mr. Archibald?”
“It’s Harris, actually.”
“Well Harris, I’ve been told my back side is my best side,” Diana said smiling at him before glancing around the table. The others smiled, nodded, or laughed softly having heard remarks like this from Diana before.
Harris chuckled nervously, somewhat uncertain how to respond but definitely concerned about a future that might include unfiltered flirtations from octogenarian women. He shifted his eyes to Sandy.
“With that, Mr. Archibald, I think we need to keep moving,” suggested Sandy who extended her right arm to indicate the direction they would be headed. “Enjoy your lunches,” she said to those at the table while taking her first steps away from it.
Nudging 70 with a full head of grey-flecked wavy brown hair, still a touch over six feet on a medium frame that he owed more to metabolism than exercise or diet, and with lines that creased his kind face, Harris Archibald was going to be the youngest and most mobile male at The Ridge if he decided to sign on. He couldn’t know yet, but Diana flirted with most every male she encountered. His inability to respond to her playfulness was due both to being out of practice as well as having never been very good at it. Though she didn’t come right out and say it, Diana may have found him ruggedly handsome, for that could apply. But Harris didn’t think of himself in that way. He had never been told that by a female in his life and he had learned to live most of the last two decades without female affirmations.
After leaving the dining area and heading down a hall, Sandy showed him the common living area. Harris remembered the white baby grand piano, the groupings of upholstered moss green, beige, and brown chairs and sofas from his previous visit. There was also the white painted brick fire place with large, never-lit candles instead of logs, and the small table with a chess set on it. The latter had caught his attention only because he’d once played a lot of chess, but hadn’t in years. He wondered momentarily, but doubted that he would find a playing partner in a place like The Ridge. Sandy went on with her well-worn spiel, “We have all kinds in here. It runs the spectrum physically and socially. Some like to be left to themselves even though we have a wide range of activities every day. At the very least, they get to the dining room two or three times a day for their food and a little socializing. How about I show you a couple of apartments that we have available? You’ll see t