Going Home

In the afternoon shade, behind the screen of flowering honeysuckle, Harry Martens dozed on the plastic lounge. His gray head bobbed, his mouth opened, closed; he breathed heavily through his mouth, opened his eyes, looked at his watch, reached for the Tylenol capsule, sloshed it down with one swallow of EVIAN.

Harry Martens pulled the crew neck of the polo sweat shirt from his throat, turned on his back, threw the coverlet from his legs, folded his hands onto his stomach, dozed into this third day of chills, shakes, and always, the fever. As forever, the fever had been brought on by stress. First the malaise, and then the tired, then the chills accompanied by the rise in temperature, and the night sweats. This, the third morning of shakes and spasms so severe that Harry needed both hands to bring the iced water to his mouth. Tomorrow the fourth day would be better. He would shave, shower, call his daughter, Julia.

On the fifth day, the leg weakness, the exhaustion would bring on the morning nap - and the afternoon nap, the ten hours of fragmented sleep. His daughter, Julia, would not arrive from New York until Tuesday. By then, Harry Martens would not have to explain, 'Been napping, just my fever again.'

He had called Julia on the first day, with the first chills. Julia was a precise, correct daughter...more remote than Harry wished, not at all like her mother Hilda had been. Julia would come in, kiss him on his forehead, sit, hands folded, legs together facing him, her back straight like the wedding picture of her grandmother. Blue eyes, curly dark brown hair and reticent good manners. 'Do not speak unless spoken to,' a child who hoped not to be noticed, now the daughter in New York, connected by AT&T.

At ten o'clock, after 'Mystery' went off, Harry readied his king size bed for another alone night of - up at twelve, up at one, up at two AM, sweats and fitful sleep until six AM.

Julia called. Julia, always mindful, 'Dad, I interrupt anything?'

'Here? No.'

'Dad, you okay?'

'Fine...'

'You sound sort of distant, Dad. I don't want you to come out to the airport. I'll take the limousine in. I would rather you wouldn't have to wait if I'm delayed. Eleven o'clock is past your bedtime.'

Harry nodded, 'I'll wait up for you.'

That night the fever spiked. On the lounge Harry turned onto his right side, reached for the coverlet, covered himself and began his shaking, spasms that grabbed and let go, gripped and let loose. Forty years in the State dept., the finest hospitals. No diagnosis, no treatment, no disability pay. The pension was adequate, and then there was always the art collection. Harry's breathing sounds rose from his chest, ascended into his throat, once he gargled, 'Hilda...' The awareness that he was forming sounds aroused him. He turned onto his left side, raised himself onto his elbow, reached for the glass of water.

The morning had been a blue sky, Potthast beachscape, gay with children in bright blues, yellows and reds.