[Glenn Wright]

Mr. Chester

*

The wind complained like a fussy child, blowing the last few leaves off the sycamores clustered in the backyard. Paul Mortenson tried again to concentrate on reading the student essay in front of him, but he couldn’t focus. The house was stuffy; his coffee was cold. Maybe a walk with the dog would clear his head. It was pleasantly cool outside, and Cassie, his Labrador, pulled eagerly on the leash. They made a circuit of the neighborhood and had almost returned home as the rain clouds threatened.

Paul’s next door neighbor, Mr. Chester, was carrying his folding lawn chair and plastic table into his shed before the wind could steal them. Paul wasn’t sure if Chester was his neighbor’s first or last name. He was friendly enough, and though not shy, he was nevertheless disinclined to make small talk. A year and a half earlier in May, Paul and his wife had decided to downsize. They sold the large house where they had raised their children and bought a much smaller one next door to Mr. Chester. They hosted a barbecue for their new neighbors, and Paul had gone around the neighborhood, introducing himself, inviting them to the gathering. His first stop had been Mr. Chester, who was sitting on his front porch in the same folding chair he had just put away for the winter. He didn’t have a second chair to offer Paul, but he stood up, shook hands politely, and nodded as Paul introduced himself, thanking him when Paul gave him a card with the date and time of the barbecue, but failing to provide Paul with his name. At his next stop, Paul asked the woman who answered the door the name of the old gentleman who was sitting on his porch. The little girl hanging onto her apron spoke up, “That’s Mr. Chester.”

Mr. Chester had not come to the barbecue. Over the next few months, Paul had seen him occasionally working in his yard, mowing, trimming, raking, or hauling his trash bin to the street. He moved slowly and seemed always to be in some pain, but managed to keep his tiny house in good repair. Paul guessed that he was somewhere in his seventies, but would not have been surprised to learn that he was in his early eighties. Not long after the barbecue, Mr. Chester bought two cords of firewood for the coming winter. The boys who delivered the wood dumped it at the end of his driveway. Paul had gone over with his wheelbarrow and helped Mr. Chester stack the wood under an overhang on the side of his house. Afterward, Mr. Chester thanked Paul, but had not invited him in or offered him anything to drink.

Now, passing Mr. Chester’s house with his dog, Paul reflected that he had never seen a visitor at Mr. Chester’s house. Had he been married? Was he a widower? Did he have any adult children? Paul wondered about these things out of concern for Mr. Chester’s well-being, but his curiosity quickly dissipated in the daylight of his own problems and challenges. Paul waved half-heartedly, but the old man didn’t seem to see him and hobbled up to his front door, shutting it softly behind him.

A haiku by Matsuo Basho suddenly came into Paul’s head:

Deep autumn—
my neighbor,
how does he live, I wonder?

Paul spoke the poem aloud, pondering it, as English teachers are inclined to do. Who is my neighbor? None of us really knows his neighbors these days. Few of us live near our immediate families. Who goes to church these days? We aren’t forced to depend on our neighbors as we once were. Our children are born in hospitals; our old people go to assisted living facilities and finally to hospices to die. We hire strangers to perform all the duties that used to be the responsibility of family and friends. Neighbors are just people who accidentally live close to us. Paul thought about the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

Was the haiku supposed to show the concern of one neighbor for another as winter approached? Was “deep autumn” a metaphor for the advanced age of the neighbor? Or is the speaker concerned for himself? With the difficulty of surviving the coming winter, is the speaker curious to find out how the neighbor is planning to provide for himself? Is the neighbor the ant to the speaker, who is the grasshopper? Or is it the other way round? We live shoulder to shoulder, but light years apart. Do good fences make good neighbors? These questions gathered in Paul’s mind like rain clouds as he walked.

A rabbit darted from some bushes and the slack leash went taut as Cassie tried to spring after it. Paul’s reverie interrupted, he gathered his jacket around him, pulled on Cassie’s leash, and felt a fat raindrop splash on his head. He made it home just before the heavens opened up.

* *

A week later the first snowstorm of winter arrived early, covering the unraked leaves in Paul’s backyard with three inches of clean whiteness. Paul asked his wife, Susan, if they could invite Mr. Chester for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Fine with me, but do you think he’ll come?”

“Probably not, but who knows? I worry about him sometimes. He’s so old and alone.”

Susan smiled. “Go ahead and ask him. It’ll be just us, the Ackermans, and him. Can you think of a nice older woman we could invite who might sweep him off his feet?”

“I don’t even know if he likes women. We really don’t know anything about him.”

“We’ll, when you invite him, be sure to ask if he wants us to fix him up with a woman or a man.”

“I think that service is above our pay grade.”

Paul had noticed in recent months that Mr. Chester no longer drove his car. The old Chevy sedan had not moved since late summer, and while Paul was taking a break from grading papers, looking out the window next to the kitchen table, he noticed a box of groceries being delivered to Mr. Chester. Paul wondered idly how Mr. Chester got to and from his doctor appointments, assuming he had them, and whether he had any human companionship. Resolving to be a better neighbor to Mr. Chester, Paul slogged through the slush and puddles and rang Mr. Chester’s doorbell. Only after another ringing of the doorbell and some knocking did the door finally open.

“Hello, Mr. Chester. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, not at all.” Mr. Chester stepped out onto the porch and shut the front door behind him. “I was just resting and I must have fallen asleep. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you would like to join us for Thanksgiving dinner, if you don’t already have plans.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you. I’d be delighted to join you. Can I bring anything?”

“No, please!” Paul as surprised at how readily Mr. Chester accepted the invitation. “Just bring yourself. Come on over around 4:00, or earlier if you’d like to watch football with us.”

“I’ll be there at 4:00. Thank you very much. Good evening.” Without another word he slipped through his front door and disappeared like a clam into his shell.

Susan was as surprised as Paul at Mr. Chester’s willingness to join them. He arrived promptly at 4:00, dressed in a suit, bearing a bottle of wine and a box of Belgian chocolates. The Ackermans had arrived earlier and had been watching football with the Mortensons, drinking beer out of the bottle and snacking on Buffalo wings and nachos. Paul, in jeans and a Packers jersey, fearing that Mr. Chester might feel awkward at being overdressed, commented that he was glad that someone was showing proper respect for the American holiday. Susan shot Paul a look that told him to shut up and not make it worse. Mr. Chester showed no awkwardness, though, and throughout the evening showed a comfortable and agreeable grace, although he spoke little.

Wanting to include Mr. Chester in the after dinner conversation, Susan asked, “Where are you from originally, Mr. Chester?”

“I’m from New England—Milton, Massachusetts.”

“That’s where I grew up!” Paul was shocked to discover that Mr. Chester and he were from the same small town.

“I haven’t been back for many years. I’ve lived here for over thirty years.” Sonething in Mr. Chester’s manner told Paul that this was an uncomfortable topic for him, so Paul shifted the conversation to predicting his favorite football team’s chances of getting to the Super Bowl.

At the end of the evening, as Mr. Chester prepared to leave, Paul casually mentioned that he would be happy to help out if he ever needed a lift to a doctor’s appointment. Mr. Chester thanked Paul and seemed deeply touched.

* * *

Over the next year, Paul noticed an acceleration in Mr. Chester’s physical decline. Paul checked on him at least twice a day, and was sometimes shocked to notice a sudden deterioration from one day to the next. Mr. Chester rarely visited the doctor except to get renewals of the prescription for his pain pills. When fall came around again, it was clear that Mr Chester would not see another spring. He remained in bed almost constantly, and was able only with great effort to get to the bathroom and to eat a little food. Finally, he told Paul his story.

“I told you I was from Milton, Paul, but I didn’t tell you that I knew your father.”

“My father? He died a long time ago.”

“John Mortenson was my best friend. My name is Joseph Winchester.”

Paul remembered the name. Uncle Joe. He had been a frequent visitor in his home when Paul was a child. Paul remembered going on fishing trips with his dad and Uncle Joe. Paul remembered that in the middle of a time of turmoil, when Paul’s sister had died, Uncle Joe disappeared. One day he was like a member of the Mortenson family. The next, he was gone and his name was not mentioned again.

“Uncle Joe? What happened to you? Why did you go away?”

The old man stared up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, perhaps praying. A shudder passed through him. “Your sister had a medical condition that was going to cause her death. She needed an operation, but it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your family’s medical plan would not cover it. They said it was experimental surgery.” Paul knew that his sister, Amy, had been born with a malformation of her heart and aorta. “I helped your father get the money for the operation. I’m only sorry that Amy passed away in spite of the surgery.”

“You paid for Amy’s operation?”

“Not exactly. Your father and I worked together at an investment firm in Boston. We figured out a way to steal the money from the firm.” Paul felt a quick zing of anger. His father had been a respected manager at a Boston investment firm until his death. He had never been suspected of wrongdoing. “It was at a time when the company was investing in diverse, volatile markets. We were able to replace the money with gains we made from other accounts. No one suspected anything until a couple of years later when an audit uncovered some irregularities. We had deleted some information that would have incriminated us, but the company knew it had been robbed. I made sure all the suspicion fell on me. Your dad had a family. I didn’t. The company could never prove anything, but my career in finance was effectively over. I told your father to cut all connection with me so he would not attract suspicion. I moved here and started over.”

Paul thought about his father. He had changed drastically after Amy’s death and Uncle Joe’s disappearance. He had become quiet and depressed. Although his death three years later was officially listed as accidental, there had been an inquest for suicide. The life insurance had been paid out. Paul had been able to afford college, and their mother now lived comfortably in Boston with her second husband.

Paul looked at Mr. Chester, or Uncle Joe, seeing the dying shell that he was preparing to discard. Paul wondered how Mr. Chester’s soul would be judged. Paul wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he definitely believed in final judgment. Mr. Chester lay on the bed, still staring at the ceiling, but calmer. Paul did not feel inclined to assign him any blame. But, oddly, neither did Paul feel any gratitude for Mr. Chester’s sacrifice in trying to save his sister. He would stay with Mr. Chester, checking on him twice a day until he finished dying, helping him to the bathroom, fixing him something to eat. Paul owed him a debt, but with his death, it would be paid and their lives would be disentangled.

Mr. Chester had not asked Paul to keep his secret, but Paul would do so. He would never tell his mother or even Susan about what Mr. Chester had done. It took only two weeks. One afternoon, after school, Paul came to tend to Mr. Chester. As he heated up some soup at the stove, he looked out the window and saw a mob of waxwings descend on the mountain ash tree, devouring the red berries and, in a flash, whirling up into the sky. When he brought the soup to Mr. Chester, he was gone.
————————
Edits:
§1: . . .to concentrate on the student essay. . . >. . . to concentrate on reading the student essay. . .
His wife had left an hour earlier to run some errands. > Delete.
Maybe a walk would clear his head. > Maybe a walk with the dog would clear his head. It was pleasantly cool outside, and Cassie, his Labrador, pulled eagerly on the leash. They made a circuit of the neighborhood and had almost returned home as the rain clouds threatened.
§2: He put on the water repellent jacket his wife had given him for his birthday last month. Cassie, his Labrador, was already at the door waiting for him to snap on her leash. Paul thought he could finish his walk before the rain started and decided not to take an umbrella, which would be more of a nuisance than a help in a stiff wind. As he stepped out onto his front porch, a gust of wind slapped his cheeks and ruffled his hair. . . .excited by a mixture of interesting smells. > Delete.
§2: He was friendly enough, but not disposed to idle chatter. > he was friendly enough, and though not shy, he was nevertheless disinclined to make small talk.
If Paul had not had Cassie with him, he would have gone over to help the old man, but Mr. Chester was almost done, and seemed able to manage by himself. > Delete.
Paul wasn’t sure if Chester was his first or last name. > Paul wasn’t sure if Chester was his neighbor’s fires or last name.
. . .the much smaller house. . . > . . .a much smaller one. . .
. . .to the people who answered their doorbells or who happened to be outside, . . .> Delete.
§3: . . .relatively fit. . . > . . .early . . .
Mr. Chester had two cords of firewood delivered to dry > Mr. Chester bought two cords of firewood
§4: Paul reflected that he had never seen a woman or a visitor > Paul reflected that he had never seen a visitor
§7: . . .dawning. . . > Delete.
. . .supposed to be. . . > Delete.
These thoughts, questions, and associations gathered in Paul’s mind as he walked. > These questions gathered in Paul’s mind like rain clouds as he walked.
§23: His comments were limited to expressing how good the food was and how much he enjoyed their company. > Delete.
§26: Paul felt an almost electric shock. > Delete.
Paul could hardly believe that. . . > Paul was shocked to discover that. . .
“My sister Amy and her husband still live there.” > Delete.
§28: . . . and seemed touched almost to tears. > . . .and seemed deeply touched.
§29: . . .feeling the end coming, . . .> Delete.
§33: . . .been desperately I’ll, . . .> . . .died, . . .
§35: It had been a very difficult time for Paul’s family. > Delete.
It was surgically repaired around the time that Uncle Joe disappeared.
I’m only sorry that Amy passed away in spite of the surgery.
§37: . . .ethical. . . > Delete.
. . .key. . . > Delete.
wife and children > family
I didn’t know John had died until you told me. > Delete.
§38: surgery > death
and Amy > Delete.
So much in Paul’s life that had been mysterious was now clear. > Delete.
§39: He did not feel guilt for what he had done, nor did Paul. . . > Paul did not. . .
saving > trying to save
§40: Amy > Delete.