The Midnight Lady

When Pipes Freeze

River Murmurs

The Last of the Old Timers

Jake yanked on the front door, felt the brief suction, then pushed the clanky storm. It rattled as a rush of cool air blew in.

“You’re not going down there alone.” Emily hobbled from the kitchen. “Wait until Bobby gets back.”

“I’m getting antsy. I’m going to walk down. When they get back, send Bobby. He knows the way.”

“Now, don’t you do any of that work by yourself. I don’t want you pulling that boat all alone. Chase your work and your work will chase you! You just sit there and wait for Bobby.”

Jake frowned. “Don’t you worry, dear. It’ll take me that long to walk down there.” He pressed the flimsy aluminum storm door to make sure it was shut, then tacked a note for Bobby, his grandson, on the outside trim. Emily would never remember where he’d gone.

The air was crisp and bit his cheeks, though the rest of his body was warm under several layers of clothes. He ambled down the sidewalk and immediately realized he should have brought his cane. He hated to use it. In his mind he could still convince himself he was only in his thirties or forties. Yet when he glanced in a mirror, or at his hands, he knew. He remembered his father’s hands — big, strong, textured. Strangely, he couldn’t recall his hands ever looking like his father’s. His hands were always young hands and then they were old — wrinkled, translucent, blotchy, dry, and fragile.