What’s Left of Destiny
By Heather Goodman | September 21st, 2008 | Category: BN Channel Fiction and Poetry, Featured 1, Fiction, Monday 1 | 4 comments
{Original Post in The Master’s Artist}
Editor’s Note: This short story was written for a competition run jointly by the literary journal, Relief Journal, and Baker’s acquisitions editor, Dave Long. Jeanne says of writing this story, “I poured a bit of my soul into this story. I can honestly say writing it changed me, so if it accomplishes nothing else, that’s a good thing.”
What’s Left of Destiny
“Where’s Jack?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Calhoun. Jack is close by.” He maneuvers her wheelchair around a pale amber puddle in the middle of the linoleum floor, shooting a sympathetic smile at Sam, the mop-wielding janitor.
Sam returns the smile and the sympathy, then nods at the wisp of a woman in the chair. “Evenin’, Mrs. Calhoun.”
Everyone around here knows better than to call her by her first name. That privilege belongs to Jack alone, and it’s been almost three years since she’s heard him use it.
“You’re a good man, Sam,” he says over his shoulder as he continues down the hall. And he means it.
Folks say Sam was a local baseball legend in his youth. Could have made it in the majors, if only he hadn’t suffered that shoulder injury. If only. Now there’s a dead-end road he’s traveled more times than he can count. No. There is no if only. For whatever reason, Sam’s path landed him mopping up unidentified bodily fluids in a place where most peoples’ minds exited stage left long ago. And he does it with cheerful dignity. You gotta respect someone like that.
As for his own path, for the moment it leads to the door at the end of this hallway. These days he tries to take things one at a time.
He taps lightly on the door. When no one responds he opens it and pulls the wheelchair inside. An oversized tub dominates the room. He twists the stainless steel knobs, adjusts the temperature, then squats in front of the shrunken form seated in the chair. “Ready for your bath, Mrs. Calhoun?”She raises her head from its usual lolled position. He knows that look. Fear mixed with defiance. She darts her eyes as though looking for a way to escape. “Who are you? Where’s Jack?”
