Fergus Retires, Clare Has a Meltdown.

Clare was having a bad day. She spun her car around the corner of Quadra and McKenzie one more time. This was her second attempt at finding the entrance to the Lodge. She had driven past it a hundred times, why couldn’t she find it?

It was just her state of mind, Clare knew. She was stressed. This had been a harrowing few weeks. First, there was the excitement and buildup to Fergus’s retirement, the banquet, the phone calls, the well-wishers, the late-night conversations. Then there were the disastrous first two days as Fergus tried out a couple of his retirement ideas. Now the neighbors weren’t talking to her, the manager at Fairmart Center was giving her dirty looks, and Mrs. Pereira had quit her job cleaning their house.

The gate to the Lodge finally appeared in front of her, and she followed the signs up the curved driveway. Clare was not looking forward to this—finding out that Vera, her long time friend, had moved here was one last straw. The Sunset Lodge was a beautiful old residence, with a solid reputation for compassionate care, but to many people, ending up there was a signal that something had dramatically changed.

Oh, the vicissitudes of life, Clare thought bitterly. Vera had always been a fiercely independent woman, managing her finances, driving around town in her silver Mercedes, meeting friends in coffee houses and restaurants—what happened?

Vera was there, in the lobby, waiting for her. She looked fine, maybe a little thinner, her hair not quite so perfect, her smile a little less serene.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I saw you,” she said, ” I failed my driver’s test. I had to give up my car. I’m lost without it.”

This was bad news. Clare gave Vera a long hug. She had known her for twenty years. Bad news never came up.

“You will cope with this, Vera,” Clare reassured her, “You’ll find ways to get around—there’s the Handy Dart, taxis in an emergency, and I’m sure the Lodge has some volunteer drivers. Also, as you already know, the Lodge bus will probably take you on regular trips. Now let’s go to Starbucks for a nice long visit.”

But Vera had other plans. Before she knew it, Clare was back behind the wheel, and they were making their way to the optometrists’, to pick up Vera’s glasses.

The optometrist’s office was out in Broadmead, a place Clare usually avoided. It was a driver’s nightmare, a complicated suburban network of cul de sacs and dead-end streets.

“It will only take us out of our way for a few minutes,” Vera said, “I’ll help you find it.”

Now finding her way around was not Clare’s strong suit, Usually, she relied on her iphone and her Google map, pulling over at regular intervals to check her progress. But today, she couldn’t concentrate. Vera talked in short frantic bursts, bemoaning her situation, calling out directions a few seconds too late, forcing Clare to stop on a dime, and retrace her tracks again and again.

Finally she texted Fergus, “Would you look up Dr. Jansen’s office in Broadmead? Optometrist. I looked on Google. Can’t find it!”

Later, while sipping coffee, Clare and Vera discussed Vera’s options for getting around the city. The range of choices were few, a depressing tangled web of asking friends for rides, taking taxis, learning the bus route. Vera was not relishing this.

Clare brought up the subject of Volunteer drivers again.
“I’d happily drive with a Volunteer,” Vera said, “But only if I knew them. I’m too young to die in a fiery crash with someone I don’t even know!” she joked.

By the time they arrived back at the Lodge, it was five thirty. Normally, Clare would already be starting dinner, braising the beautiful lamb chops she had bought ($18 a pound), preparing the new potatoes and green beans, opening the wine. For tonight’s dinner, she had picked up some fresh mint to sprinkle on the potatoes.

This was a special dinner, to celebrate Fergus’ retirement. They were going to discuss what Fergus would do next. Discussion and finding a mutual agreement was a hallmark of their 25 year marriage. They were good at it. She could see a restoration of sanity on the horizon.

Sure, it was a stressful few days, she chuckled. Sure, Fergus had been a little reckless—bolting out of the starting gate before the dust had settled, trying out things they hadn’t even discussed.

But what can you do, Clare mused. She loved Fergus, his positive outlook and creativity. Right now, he was alone in the house, probably starving, she thought. She hoped he was relaxing, kicking back and watching some game or other, dreaming about the future, how good it was, how he had so many things going for him.

Clare took stock of the ingredients for supper. The lamb chops, sitting in the fridge, marinating in a glass dish, covered with Saran wrap, the potatoes in a clear plastic bag, and the string beans in full view. She had a vision of Fergus wandering into the kitchen and opening the fridge, looking for a snack before dinner.

What if he decided to make dinner? She saw him reach in and lift out the dish of chops, pull out the frying pan, and start to fry them under blazing heat. She could smell them frying, marinate and all, sobbing in the frying pan, getting as tough as leather. She imagined him opening the good chardonnay, pouring a glassful over them. Then she could see him reach for the potatoes and pick up the paring knife. Oh, no, she just knew he would peel them, taking off the thin, vitamin enriched skin until they were reduced to tiny nubs, cutting the beans into small chunks and cooking them to a grey pulp.

Clare rounded the corner to her street on two wheels. She narrowly missed a truck making a left hand turn on Cook, ignoring the blare of his horn and his protruding middle finger. She whimpered a little as she ran up the stairs and threw open the door, racing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

She opened the fridge and saw that the chops were still there, intact and unmolested, the vegetables still in their plastic bags. She sat down to catch her breath, and closed her eyes.

When she looked up, Fergus was in the doorway, a quizzical look on his face.

“Tough time finding the Lodge?” he asked, “You know, Honey, I’ve been thinking, You shouldn’t be wandering around all over town finding places for Vera. It’s not your strong suit. Not your best talent, so to speak.”

“You could say that again,” Clare said, sadly.

“Not your best talent, so to speak,” Fergus repeated.

A smile broke out on Clare’s face. She ventured a little laugh.

“I’m not like you, you know,” she said, “You’re a natural driver. And you have a good sense of direction. I don’t.”

Fergus nodded. It was true that he loved to drive. And he was pretty good at finding his way around.

“Yeah,” he mused, “I could join the Volunteer society. Drive older folks around. It would be my good deed for a few hours every week.”

Clare’s heart soared. It was as if he had read her mind. It was a perfect solution. Two birds with one stone. All that worry for nothing!

To be continued.