Three Turns Of A Bolt

Jerry hated the phrase “box room” and was certain that Marie used it with relish. Not enough space to ring her neck in it. He had his own TV and space heater, grand. But sometimes he’d find his dinner or tea, stone cold, on a tray in the hallway. Bare minimum. He wasn’t sure what Tony had been thinking, marrying that one; Basie never took to her. His grandchildren called out hello from the hallway, their voices automated. They spent too much time screaming at cartoons, wiggling those remotes. Joseph couldn’t explain it either.

Joseph was Jerry’s best friend, living at Elmtree Place, what they called “senior assisted living.” Joseph had been sent there right after his wife died. His house was sold off, and Joseph found himself set up at Elmtree. But Joseph didn’t seem to mind. His sons visited every few weeks, bringing a mirth of squealing youngsters and strollers that clogged the doorway.

Jerry and Joseph played nine holes every Wednesday, starting with breakfast at Elmtree in the lively canteen, filled with the smell of fresh tea and scones. The place had easy-to-push doors, wide ramps, and benches arranged in a hexagon around a water feature. Jerry lingered at Elmtree, driving home only after lights-out. Joseph had his own living room where they’d watch golf and chat. Marie wouldn’t allow Jerry to drink in the house, but Joseph kept beers in the fridge.

One evening, as they watched Jason Day tee off, Jerry asked, “How much is all this costing you, Joe?”

“Not sure. The boys pay for it. Most of them,” Joseph replied.

The next morning, Jerry put his name on the waiting list and started counting off the dead.

Alice Dunbar, Joseph’s neighbour, was ninety-three, shrunken to the bare minimum, stripped of non-essential components, like a drifting spacecraft. She wore skimpy blouses in November and slept twelve hours a day. The other twelve she spent talking—random squeaks, whistles, hooting laughter. Her eyes were too bright for her paper-bag face. She was sustained by nothing but sherry. Jerry found her unnerving.

“She’s regressed, that one,” Jerry said. “Reliving her infancy.”

“Alice? Ah, Jerry, come on. She’s not that bad,” Joseph replied.

One day, Jerry watched as Alice sat in her stairlift, giggling as she ascended. The nurses waved her off like a friendly ghost. Everyone called it “Alice’s Chair.” One afternoon, Jerry saw two young men repairing the stairlift.

“Is this yoke battery-powered?” he asked.

The apprentice jumped. “No, it runs off the mains. Jimmy’s reconnecting it now.”

That Christmas, Marie asked to hide a few presents in his room. He planned to object but found a fait accompli—bags of toys and a giant green bicycle stacked against the wall of his box room. Safe enough; the kids never entered.

He wondered if the waiting list was getting shorter. He wondered about Alice and the value she got out of life. Did she even know how ridiculous she looked? Living next door to Joseph would be fantastic. They’d practice their chipping on the lawn and boss the place when they wanted the big TV for Champions League. Jerry was smiling at the idea when he cracked his shin on the bicycle pedal. He removed a tiny set of screws from the box cellotaped to the seat and slipped the screwdriver into his cardigan pocket.

You have to take charge. His youthful resolve had dissolved in Basie’s father’s rage. He took a job at the auto-parts office instead of going to college. Thirty years there, and the only highlight was coming second for the manager’s job in Denmark. After Basie died, he planned to take a train across Europe, but trouble on the news made him wait. Eight years later, he stared at his reflection in the TV glass, his dressing gown draped across him like ill-fitting jigsaw pieces. You have to take charge.

A simple act of kindness for one person, and a smooth progression for another. Jerry decided Joseph didn’t need to be around when he got to Elmtree that day. This was the most daring thing Jerry had ever done. Sitting in his Toyota, his pounding heart brought clarity: he had never done anything daring in his life. He was nearly seventy. He was a spectator, never a risk-taker. What was he risking here? Three turns of a bolt. Even if caught, he could simply tighten them and feign concern about the stairlift’s care.

The reception doors sighed as Jerry entered the lobby. Voices and the TV echoed from down the hall. He hadn’t made it halfway across the carpet when a shrill voice behind him made him stagger.

“Mister Jerry? Where are you off to? No visitors in the bedrooms.”

“I was just…”

Adanna, the receptionist, bustled toward him. “Out, out, out! Tomorrow! Come back tomorrow! Joe is not available!”

She herded him out into the cold evening. The whole affair was over in ten seconds. Sitting in his little Nissan, Jerry considered what he had learned: she was rude, and the mission was still a GO. Time was on his side—no, it wasn’t. That was the whole point.

The pier at Howth was lined with tourists eating fish and chips. Jerry double-parked in front of the disabled spot, cracked open the windows, and let the sun invigorate him. But a Garda soon appeared at his window, berating him about his parking, telling him to clear out. Did he know, she asked incredulously, that he was blocking access to the lifeboat?

He reversed, drove off, and took the first corner to get out of her sight. He should have stood up for himself. He wove a modified narrative for later in which she apologised, and they shared a chip, the cheeky bint. Joseph will love that, Jerry decided.

Jerry found himself in a cul-de-sac near Howth Junction. He parked behind a lorry and finished his chips. Unable to remember where he’d been going, he returned home. Marie found the screwdriver in his cardigan three days later, throwing it with venom into a drawer.

The landline rang the next morning as Jerry was sitting up, waiting for the blood to fill his feet. Marie put the receiver down hard and rapped on his door. “It’s for you.”

“Thank you, Marie,” he said, but she was gone.

Jerry threw his robe three times before catching it, spun around to put it on, and ventured into the hallway before returning for his teeth. He picked up the handset, palm anchoring the small of his back. Already exhausted, and it was just after nine.

It was Adanna from Elmtree House. There had been a passing. A vacancy at the centre. He would be informed by letter within five working days. He thanked her, suddenly nimble and alert. After hanging up, his heart began to race. He found his mobile under a book by the bed, stood in triumph, and as it rang and rang, he stared at his dishevelled reflection in the TV screen, waiting for Joseph to answer. It rang and rang.