Helen and Joe

By John de Sousa

“Hemorrhoids.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I buried my face in the menu. It wouldn’t be the first time my darling Joe had embarrassed me in an elegant restaurant like Tony’s. I’d just hoped our forty-ninth anniversary might be an exception.

“Hemorrhoids!” Joe announced. A few patrons side-eyed each other.

I lifted my face slightly and studied his scowl over the top of my glasses. “Where do you see those on the menu?”

“They’re not on the menu,” Joe wrinkled his nose.

“Well, thank God for small favors. Maybe they can special order them for you.”

The young blonde at the table behind Joe snorted.

“I don’t want hemorrhoids!” Joe said, and this time several heads turned. He lowered his voice. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I’m certain I don’t want them either, dear. What are you talking about?”

He turned his attention back to the menu. “Virginia’s son, Ethan, is having hemorrhoid surgery. She needs us to watch Buster so she can take him to the hospital.”

I lowered my menu and admired my husband. The herringbone jacket he’d chosen for this evening with his red and blue striped tie made him quite handsome for his eighty-one years. After half a century of marriage, I couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone as much as this man.

“Joe dear,” I said gently, “Virginia’s been dead for fifteen years.”

I felt a pang of guilt at my own words. Just let it go. Don’t correct him.

He studied me for a moment, eyes crimped, then glanced around the room. Without a word, he turned back to the menu. “I’m thinking of having the salmon. I’ve always liked the salmon here.”

I picked at my emerald bracelet. You’ve never liked the salmon here.

I reflected on the first time my mother had shown signs. She’d called me Lillian. Twice. Granted, it wasn’t unusual for someone to misspeak a name, but Aunt Lillian had died at ninety, seven years earlier.

“Is he ever going to come back and take our order?” Joe craned his neck. “It’s been at least twenty minutes. You would think in a place like… like…”

“Tony’s.”

“Tony’s, they’d be more attentive.”

“I know you’re hungry, dear.” I placed my hand on his. “But I don’t think it’s been nearly twenty minutes. Why don’t you have a roll to hold you over? You know the rolls here are always fresh.”

“Mm, I guess I could have a roll,” he whined through his nose. “But they need to speed up their service or we’re not coming back. I have to watch my sugar, you know.”

My beloved curmudgeon. Behind all that grumbling was just a tender, frustrated soul who needed assurance.

Joe opened a roll and buttered it.

The aroma blossomed beneath my nose, and the butter melted almost immediately. “My, that smells good, doesn’t it? I think I’ll have one too.”

A tear threatened at the corner of my eye. I was going to miss my Joe when the days of confusion fully came to steal away the man I’d known.

But I will always love you. I just hope I can be who you need me to be. I’m not young anymore and, truth be told, Joe, I’m a little scared.

I took a roll from the basket and allowed the heat to warm my hands before breaking it open. January made for such a cold anniversary, even indoors.

The waiter approached our table, his hands clasped. “Are we ready to order?” He’d be taking our requests by memory.

“About time,” Joe said, barely audible.

“Yes, we are,” I lowered my glasses. “I’ll have the Lobster Newburg, with a Caesar salad and baked potato.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

“And my husband will have the hemorrhoids. But no salt. He’s on a restricted diet.”

The blonde snorted again, then choked on her glass of water.

Joe shot me a glance. “You’re the one who’s a pain in my—”

“Er… I’m sorry, ma’am.” Our waiter paled. “What would he like?”

“I’m having the salmon,” Joe said, then, looking at me, “and I can have salt, so don’t leave it out.”

I smiled back. No, he couldn’t, but I wouldn’t argue tonight.

“And what would you like for your sides?”

Joe didn’t answer. He was staring down at the table, his face blank. The waiter gave him a moment.

“Sir, what would you like for your side orders?”

“He’ll have the baked potato and—”

“Helen,” Joe barked, “I can order that myself.”

“I’m sorry, dear. Please, go ahead.” I fingered my bracelet again.

“I, um… um.” Joe looked at the menu, then off in the distance.

Baked potato. Caesar salad, I silently mouthed.

The waiter nodded and walked away. He stepped around the blonde who’d left her table and was headed toward me.

“Pardon me,” the young lady said. “I just wanted to tell you what a beautiful bracelet you’re wearing. Those emerald inlays, I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Why, thank you.” I removed the piece and handed it to her. “It was a gift from my husband after my mother passed.”

“It’s lovely.” The blonde turned it over and around, admiring it. “If I might ask, what do the inscribed letters mean?”

I paused, swallowing a lump in my throat. “NTM, JTM. Not the memories, just the moments.”

A second of uncertainty, then a slow, knowing nod. We chatted briefly, and the woman departed with a hug.

When our food finally arrived, the lobster was delightful. Joe, of course, complained about the salmon. I let him rant.

I could face this. God knows, I didn’t want to. But with His help, I could, just as I’d done with Mother. The inscription was right. Life was no longer about the memories we created. It was the beauty of the moments we shared, the priceless treasure of experiences well lived, deeply enjoyed, and yes, too soon forgotten.

I smiled warmly at Joe and squeezed his hand.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John de Sousa writes supernatural thrillers, combining wide-eyed suspense with white-knuckled action. His stories dwell in that realm where the dark realities of this world collide with the heart-melting power of God.

A retired pastor on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, John also enjoys playing music on a variety of instruments, especially guitars from the local factory on Kent Island. He and his wife, Missy, have two lovely daughters and eight grandchildren.

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