BY DAVID JENSEN
Copyright is held by the author.
PHIL HERSKOWITZ like most seniors, knew his mind was stuck in a previous time, struggling as he did daily with computers, social media, cell phones, point of sale terminals and automated answering services.
But unlike most others, his very appearance also belonged to a bygone era, since he once bore a strong resemblance to Groucho Marx, one of the quickest wits of the 20th century, and lead member of the comically marauding Marx Brothers. Phil would often been accosted by total strangers taken aback when they came upon him, shouting out “Hey Groucho, where’s Harpo and Chico?” For decades, the Groucho look had been iconic, embodied in plastic glasses (with furry eyebrows and moustache, and a prominent, molded nose also attached) that became a popular Halloween disguise and high-selling item in novelty shops. Now, with Phil’s hair greying and not so bushy and most people unfamiliar with the once world famous comedian, hardly anyone noticed this likeness anymore.
For Phil, such disconnection and invisibility often made him feel detached from the present. Adrift from an ever changing real world, not only was he well beyond his prime, he now found himself grappling with the slipperiness of time. A living and breathing being for almost eight decades, he thought his mind should be more than familiar with the movement of the ever advancing clock, able to gauge the passing minutes, days and years, with a clear sense of the time elapsed. But often when he tested himself, he found his accuracy sorely lacking.
One day Phil pondered a life-changing event from long ago. He knew it happened almost 25 years before — he had the documents to prove it — and yet it seemed not that distant to him, perhaps only a few years in the past. He turned and asked Fiona if this was true, and his wife confirmed it would be a quarter of a century ago exactly on Thursday, only two days away.
“Incredible, where does the time go?” he lamented. “And how do the years vanish so quickly when there are so many days that seem to take forever to pass?”
“To quote a famous philosopher,” Fiona remarked. “Time flies like an arrow and fruit flies like a banana.”
“You’re quoting Groucho back at me?!” he protested with mock outrage, his scowl morphing into a grin, knowing only his wife would attempt to use his favourite comedian to both outwit him and break his sour mood.
Phil was heading out on his daily late morning walk, which on this day would also include a lunch date at the local pub with their son, Peter, and he was deciding what he should wear on a sunny, but cool and windy, June morning.
“You better put on your spring jacket,” Fiona advised. “You know how easily you feel the cold when there’s a wind blowing.”
“You always know best,” he replied, slipping on the jacket, donning his tartan flat cap, and grabbing his knapsack, which contained a bottled water, apple and Kleenex, before heading out the door.
Once outside he stopped on the porch, the sudden stillness halting his movement. He realized he was alone and wouldn’t hear Fiona’s voice again until he returned home, absorbing once more the undeniable truth that it was almost 25 years ago when he found her floating face down in their pool after a sudden heart attack.
As he headed down the street he recalled his overwhelming grief and, looking back, he often wondered if his unceasing tears and emotional collapse at the funeral, which left him barely able to talk or stand, had unnerved his friends and family. Afterwards Phil remembered lifting the coffin lid and staring at Fiona for more than an hour, wanting to stall as long as possible that final moment of seeing her face.
But the lingering despair of never again seeing his beloved wife of thirty years wondrously evaporated the very next day when he came downstairs into the living room and discovered Fiona sitting in her favourite wingback chair by the fireplace. She was wearing her best-loved outfit, a peach cardigan and beige slacks, and appeared to be waiting for him to say something. While his eyes kept telling him his brown-eyed, tawny-haired wife was right in front of him glowing with that same warm yet playful smile, Phil remained frozen in the doorway, too astonished to move closer to check on whether there was an actual physical presence there to touch.
He would see her there every day and even though he became accustomed to her presence he feared she might disappear if he drew too near. He would slowly take his place in his wingback chair on the other side of the coffee table and begin talking – about shared memories, plans for the day or things that concerned or worried him. Fiona never initiated the conversation but she would always quickly respond in a way that either comforted or delighted him, and she remained for as long as he was in the room, her voice that same delicious mixture of sweetness and slyness he had known for years.
As time passed, Fiona slowly started to fade away. Some days she appeared as clear and present to him as his own body while other times she seemed to shimmer as if the atoms that constituted her being were about to break up and disintegrate. But even after she was no longer visible, he could still hear her voice, a familiar, reassuring sound which seemed as much a part of him as the thoughts emanating from his own mind.
Phil never considered telling anyone about his daily chats with Fiona, sometimes fearing they would think he had lost his mind and other times deeming it a deeply personal time between a husband and wife that was none of their business. Later he was relieved to read magazine articles about other widows and widowers who had similar encounters, although he strongly objected when the writers used the term “grief hallucinations.” As far as he was concerned, these were not imaginary conversations, knowing he would be able to recite them word-for-word to anyone, if pressed to do so.
The only time Phil shared such private moments came during a night of heavy drinking with Lester at his house a decade ago. Even then he only broached his confession after his friend had first confided about how he spoke to his deceased wife, Cynthia, in the backyard patio where they had spent summer evenings listening to jazz on the radio. From that point on, whenever Phil was out among a large group of seniors, whether it was early mornings at the grocery store or evenings at the theatre, he would gaze around and try to pick out the widows and widowers, wondering how many of them routinely conversed with their dearly departed spouse.
Suddenly conscious again of walking along the sidewalk, Phil surprised himself to find he had already travelled a couple of blocks, so deep was he in his thoughts about Fiona. He brushed off the fuzziness from so much introspection and took in the sunny, blustery day around him. He felt the push of the howling wind behind him while the trees bent and swayed overhead as a flock of nuthatches squawked while twisting and diving through the swirling air currents.
As he headed down the hill toward the pub Phil couldn’t ignore the jittery feeling in his stomach which he readily attributed to not having seen Peter in a few months. He felt foolish being so nervous about meeting up with his own son and scolded himself for having not been in regular contact. He also hadn’t been in touch with his two other children, Donna and Katie, in quite a while. He tried to talk on the phone with each of them every few weeks but without a set schedule it was so easy for the weeks to turn into months.
His uneasiness also came from the dread his son might ask him again to fund another one of his money-making ventures. In the past, he had to endure pitches about distributing vending machines, opening up a car washing business and introducing hansom cab rides at High Park. Phil tried as much as possible to respond tactfully, voicing encouraging support for Peter’s ideas without going so far as agreeing to financially back them.
Stepping inside the pub, Phil surveyed the room, searching for his son. Within seconds he spotted someone whom he decided must be Peter at a table near the bar, his hair dyed black and braided in cornrows, his nose pierced and an earring in his left ear. They exchanged hellos and Peter began chatting quickly and uneasily about the weather, his new apartment and plans he had for the summer. Phil found their talk awkward with his son acting as though he was at a job interview, so to lighten things up, he launched into a famous Groucho Marx joke with the comedian’s characteristic fast talking delivery.
“So a doctor is going over a patient’s medical history and he asks him: ‘Are you a vegetarian?’ And the patient replies: ‘No. But I eat animals who are.’ ”
“Still doing the same old vaudeville shtick, eh Dad.”
“And I see you’re auditioning yet another totally new look,” Phil commented dryly, disappointed Peter didn’t laugh at his joke.
“It’s a Viking braid. I’m a big fan of the TV show Vikings and this is how the characters in the show wear their hair.”
“Vikings? You do know your last name is Herskowitz and there isn’t an ounce of Scandinavian blood in you.”
Peter waved his hand dismissively at his father as they fell into an uncomfortable silence. His son then inhaled, cleared his throat and dove into a sales pitch about a new facial exercise product called Facercise. He explained how it was a silicone ball that molds to a person’s teeth and they bite down on it for a half hour each day, providing a non-invasive facelift that would firm up facial muscles and define the jawline. He asked his father for $10,000 so he could build up an inventory and then try selling it to grocery stores.
“Well that’s certainly an interesting product and it’s great how you keep looking for these innovative ideas,” Phil said while shaking his head inwardly at what he thought was Peter’s goofiest scheme yet. “Unfortunately I don’t have that much cash available right now.”
“Geez, I can’t believe you’re going to leave me hanging out to dry on this one.”
“If you remember, I’ve helped you out before. You do recall the fifteen thousand I gave you for that vending machine scheme of yours, but that didn’t pan out too well, did it?”
Phil didn’t want to but he found himself lecturing Peter about how he had to really think through his ideas, do research and make sure there was a market for the product. He reminded his son of all the innovations he had made at the drug store he owned for more than forty years, including having a delivery service, installing blood pressure machines for customers and expanding his inventory to include home care products for the elderly and people with disabilities. Peter nodded back mechanically having heard the same spiel from his father many times before.
“I hope you have some other ideas besides this one.”
“Yeah, I have a few other irons in the fire.”
They then argued over who was paying for lunch with Peter eventually winning out, making Phil feel slightly sheepish for not funding his son’s latest venture.
After saying good-bye, Phil continued on his walk. As he headed down the path by the railway tracks, he went over their conversation, saddened about the lack of closeness between them but also annoyed that Peter didn’t even ask how he was doing or acknowledge the upcoming anniversary of his mother’s death.
His son’s use of the phrase “irons in the fire” also stuck with him since it reminded Phil of something Fiona would sometimes say. He would come home from the drug store late at night complaining to her about his busy day and all the problems he had to resolve. Fiona would give him her all-embracing smile and gently chide him for having “too many irons in the fire” – using an old expression derived from the trade of blacksmithing that warned against heating too many pieces of iron in a fire all at once since it would cool the fire and prevent the pieces from heating properly. She would encourage him to work less and spend more time with the family. Always appreciative of her never-ending concern, he would grin back and say she was right but would never follow her advice.
Looking back on those years, he now realized Fiona had probably been just as busy since she had been taking care of their three children who had been born within a five-year span – probably the most hectic time being after Katie was born when Donna was only two years old and Peter was five. She made the meals, cleaned the house, took them to school as well as to after-school activities and to their friend’s homes. She had been the one they came to with their problems and she only made Phil aware when huge issues emerged such as Peter being suspended from school for smoking marijuana, Donna worrying she was pregnant at sixteen or Katie getting caught stealing candy at a convenience store.
Phil remembered trying to make it up to Fiona and the kids on weekends – especially in the summer when they would go up to their cottage. He would cram in as many activities as possible into a single day – fishing, boating, water skiing, sitting out by the fire at night. But his efforts seemed forced and he could never match the easy rapport Fiona had with their children, so he often spent only Saturday with them before heading back to the store the next day.
His thoughts of those long ago summers were abruptly interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone, just as he left the pathway by the tracks and came out into an open field adjacent to the school.
“Hi Dad,” he heard a female voice, low and gravelly from years of cigarette smoking, say and he knew right away it was his youngest daughter.
Katie, who was an accountant and had been in charge of Phil’s finances since he turned seventy, told him she needed to come over sometime soon and talk about his budget and investments. As she spoke, he tried to recall when he had seen her last and for which birthday – was it for her eldest son, Chandler, who was thirteen, or for Connor, who was two years younger.
“Inflation has really gone up over the last year and I think you need to ensure you have the right investment mix . . . “
“How are the boys?” he interrupted.
“Uh, what? Oh, they’re fine dad. But, listen, I think you need to move to a more conservative investment portfolio to wait out some possible market downturns this fall. But a portfolio that’s too conservative is likely to earn such low returns you’ll see the buying power of your nest egg plummet during these times of high inflation. You probably should make some adjustments to your budget, which could include some belt tightening and avoiding large non-essential purchases.”
“If you so say, I . . .”
“OK, I’ve got to go. But I’ll call tomorrow and we can figure out when I can come by.”
“Did you remember it was 20 . . . ,” he started to say before the sound of the dial tone at the other end interrupted him.
Phil grimaced at being cut off and took a moment to steady himself after their whirlwind conversation which couldn’t have lasted more than two minutes. Always in such a hurry and usually only phoning about business, he sighed to himself about his youngest daughter as he slowly regained his equilibrium. He glanced down at the phone in his hands and decided he probably should give Donna a call, not wanting to leave out his middle child.
Always confident he could easily describe Peter and Katie to anyone who asked, Phil knew it would be difficult to characterize Donna since she always seemed to have taken on a different persona every time they talked. After graduating from high school, she took business administration in university but only lasted there two years. The next 20-odd years she spent working in various low-paying jobs, including gas station attendant, waitress and sales clerk at women’s clothing stores. She never had a boyfriend for more than a few years. She had been living with someone when she became pregnant but he left her when she was three months away from giving birth, so she went on social assistance for a while before returning to work.
“Hello,” she answered with the same husky, flighty intonation, reminding Phil how a conversation with her could go in any direction.
“Hey kid, how’s it going? How’s Alice doing?”
“You mean Alexis, Dad.”
“Yes, sorry, Alexis . . . is she enjoying high school?”
“She’s only thirteen, so she’s still in middle school.”
“What’s she in the middle of?” Phil cracked with his speeded-up Groucho Marx delivery.
“Ha, ha, very funny Dad.”
Donna updated him on her life, saying she had become bored working at Penningtons and planned on taking a two-year hair dressing course in the fall. She then confessed to him feelings of inferiority as a mother, divulging how she and Alexis argued a lot lately and worrying whether she was fitting in well with the other mothers in Alexis’s group of friends. She paused and Phil, feeling wary about the silence, waited uncomfortably to hear her next words.
“It’s been almost 25 years since Mom died,” she solemnly stated.
“Yes I know.”
“Do you ever dream about Mom?”
Phil wanted very much to match his daughter’s openness and tell her he didn’t just dream about her mother, he talked to her every day. Instead he held back and admitted only to finding himself thinking about her when he woke up.
“I had a dream about Mom the other night. I was at home and there was a noise down the hall. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and, instead of my own reflection, I saw Mom smiling back at me. Seeing her like that gave me a lot of comfort, something I haven’t had a lot of lately.”
Phil struggled to find the right words to respond.
“My world fell apart when Mom died,” she said softly.
“I . . . I . . . ,” he stammered, unable to finish his thoughts.
Donna told him she had a nervous breakdown after her mother’s death, something she had only told her friends, and that it had taken her two years before she was able to get back working again. Since then she admitted she still struggled with anxiety and depression. Phil fumbled to say something to show he empathized.
“Well, I remember your friends threw that get-together for you a while back and they invited me to take part.”
“It was an intervention Dad. I had become an alcoholic and they had all gathered to tell me I needed to stop.”
“Oh yes . . . that’s right. I remember.”
“I haven’t had a drink in seven years.”
“Well, that’s good, that’s good to hear.”
“Dad . . . are you with me?”
“Yes, can you hear me? I said that’s good to hear.”
“No, I heard what you said. I just wasn’t sure you’re fully present in our conversation. Sometimes it feels like you’re a million miles away.”
The momentum of the conversation suddenly faltered, almost as quickly as it had started. Phil scrambled to find something more to say while Donna said nothing, with only sounds of deep breathing on the other end. They then said their good-byes and he promised to phone again soon.
Phil sagged on the park bench feeling overwhelmed by the depth of his oldest daughter’s startling admissions. His hands shook as he retrieved a tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed his dripping nose. He questioned if he had acknowledged her in any meaningful way and wondered whether she had been comforted at all by their talk.
He knew Fiona would have been much more responsive. He recalled how his wife had not only done an amazing job when the kids were living at home, but had also remained involved in their lives after they had moved out. She would phone them every few days, she would send cards on birthdays and holidays, she would make casseroles, cookies and pies, and she would get together for lunch with each of them once a month. And when she was with one of the kids she would update them on what was happening with their other two siblings so all of them remained interested in each other’s lives, and they, in turn, would contact one another as well.
Phil rose from the bench and headed slowly towards home. He looked up and squinted at the sun now glowing white hot in a cloudless sky like an incandescent iron being hammered in a forge, bringing an intense heat to what had been a cool, breezy day. He thought about how Fiona had been the brightest star in his life and the lives of their children, casting warmth and light to their existence. And then he imagined the sun suddenly exploding and sending all the orbiting planets hurtling out in different directions into the far regions of space, too far away from one another to maintain any meaningful contact between them.
Arriving at home, he unlocked the door and stepped into the entry way. He couldn’t bare the silence inside the house for long so he called out.
“I’m back home.”
“Yes, yes you are, but you look so tired dear,” he heard Fiona’s voice say from the living room.
“I spoke with all three of the kids today.”
“That’s nice to hear. Why don’t you come up here and tell me all about it.”
After climbing up the four steps into the living room and taking his place in his wingback chair on the other side of the coffee table, Phil did just that.
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David Jensen is retired and live in Georgetown, Ontario with his wife and two Shetland Sheepdogs. In the past, he’s worked as a reporter/editor at The Canadian Press and in communications with the Ontario government. He’s been long-listed for the 2022 Pulp Literature Short Story Contest, long-listed for the 2023 Pulp Literature Flash Fiction Contest and long-listed for the 2024 Pulp Literature Short Story Contest.