More Thyme
by H. E. Vogl
Harold Wainwright stretched out a chicken-wing shaped arm, wrapped his fingers around the cold steel handle, and pulled with all his might. But the door wouldn’t give. He leaned forward and cupped his age-spotted hands to the glass hoping to see someone inside and get their attention. But it was too dark. Then he made his best impression of a fist and pounded on the glass. But no one came.
Harold made a muffled grunt, wiped a dollop of snot on his sleeve, and turned away from the door. As he shuffled down the street, a dark blue SUV approached. It stopped at the corner and the passenger window hummed down.
“Dad, what are you doing? It’s four in the morning,” his son Gerald said.
Harold’s milky eyes turned to the voice seated behind the steering wheel. “I need something, and that damn store’s closed.”
“Of course it’s closed. It’s the middle of the night,” Gerald said leaning out the window. “I’ve been driving all over looking for you.”
Harold gave his son a dismissive wave and stepped off the curb. Gerald slammed the gear into park and jumped out. He grabbed his father’s belt and stopped him just before he was about to walk in front of a pickup truck speeding down the street.
“Come on. Get in the car, we’ll go home,” Gerald said guiding his father’s hand to the door. “When we get back, Marge will make you a cup of tea. Oolong, you like that.”
“No! I need something from the store.”
Twenty minutes later, Harold was stuffed in his rocker with a blanket over his knees and a hot cup of tea sitting on a small TV table beside him. Satisfied that all was well, Gerald went into the kitchen.
“It’s a good thing you found him,” Marge said. “Anything could have happened to him walking around in the dark like that.”
“On the way back home, he told me he was going to the store to buy more thyme.”
Marge put her hand to her chin: “Must be the potatoes we had for dinner yesterday.”
The light in Gerald’s eyes flickered as he tried to comprehend.
“Yesterday, I was baking potatoes when Dad came into the kitchen and asked me what I was putting into the pan. You know how he gets if I add something that he doesn’t like,” Marge said. “Well, he asked me what I was cutting up and I said thyme. He looked down into the pan, made a face, and walked away.”
“I don’t get it,” Gerald said scratching his head. “Whenever he comes into the kitchen, he gets that sad-puppy face. His dementia must be progressing. I’ll talk to him after supper.”
* * *
Later in the evening, Gerald eased into the chair next to his father, who was intently watching a rerun of The Hollywood Squares.
Gerald licked his lips. “So, Dad—”
“Oh, that Rose Marie, she’s funny.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I want to talk about this morning.”
“What about it?”
“You walked out of the house while it was still dark and almost got killed by a truck.”
Harold shrugged and turned back to the TV.
“Dad,” Gerald shouted.
“I can still hear, you know.”
Gerald knew his father could hear. The mystery was what happened to the words after that. “You said that you went to the store because you wanted more thyme. What were you talking about?”
“I knew Paul Lynde was bullshitting.”
“Dad you almost got killed today. Did you hear me?”
He turned to Gerald and shot out a short humph: “I went to the market because we were out of thyme.”
“Marge has all the thyme we need. It’s right in the cupboard.”
Harold’s face tightened. He braced himself on the arms of the chair and pushed to a crouched stance. Gerald watched as his father wobbled out to the kitchen. Cupboards banged and he went to see what was going on.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“You said there’s thyme out here. Don’t see any, do you?”
Gerald reached into the open cupboard and turned the spice rack. “Must have run out,” he muttered.
“So, why did you get me all riled up? I missed half the show.” The elder Wainwright lunged for the doorframe, then staggered back into the living room and fell into his chair.
“Dad, if you need something, ask; we’ll get it for you,” Gerald said, having no idea whatsoever why his father was so worried about running out of thyme.
“Didn’t see any in there, did you?” he said waving Gerald off.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast, Marge set her mug down and asked, “Did you make any headway with Dad last night?”
“No, he’s stuck on the idea of going out to buy more thyme.”
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but given the way he’s been, is it possible Dad thinks he can buy more time? You know, like days and hours.”
“Sounds crazy.”
“I know but he’s really gone downhill in the last few months.”
Harold walked into the kitchen wearing a lemon-puckered face. He went past their table, opened the cupboard and spun the spice rack.
“Still didn’t get it,” he said slamming the cupboard door.
Gerald got up and guided his father to a seat at the kitchen table and placed a cup of tea in front of him.
“Sleep well, Dad?” Marge asked.
“How the hell can I sleep when we’re out of thyme?”
“Dad, you know that we’re talking about the spice Marge put in the potatoes a couple days ago.”
Harold rolled his eyes up from his cup. For a second it looked as though he was going to cry. Then he looked back down and studied the clouds in his tea.
* * *
The phone vibrated across the nightstand. Gerald grabbed it just before it tumbled to the floor.
“He’s what?” Gerald jumped out of bed.
“What’s wrong,” Marge asked.
“Dad; he’s down by the store again.”
Marge looked over to the clock. “It’s two in the morning.”
Gerald didn’t hear, because he was already at the bottom of the stairs.
On the way home, Harold ignored Gerald’s interrogation, only repeating that he needed to go to the store to buy more thyme.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Gerald said putting his head in his hands. “If he keeps going off like that, we’ll need to put him somewhere where he won’t injure himself.”
Marge got up from the table and put her arm around Gerald. “I know, but if we can’t keep him safe?”
“I’ll talk to his doctor tomorrow.”
Then they both ran from the discussion to bury themselves in everyday tasks.
* * *
Tangled sheets told the story of another sleepless night. Harold sat on the side of the bed looking out the window as a golden sliver of moon edged above the evergreen in the backyard. Once his head cleared, he got up and tiptoed to the dresser. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a sprig of thyme, his last. Then he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Its warm spicy aroma filled his senses, and a vision appeared. A vision of his beloved wife...
He put the thyme back to his nose and drew in its fragrance again. Grace. Yes, that was her name. She was in the kitchen making dinner. Lightness permeated his soul. Then, the apparition faded. He missed... more than ever. Harold broke the sprig of thyme, put the pieces to his nose, and tried to recall her name, but he could not.
A teardrop meandered down the crevices of his cheek. He wiped away the drop and tasted the salty wetness on the tip of his finger. Tomorrow the store would be open, and he would buy more...
Copyright © 2023 by H. E. Vogl
