Holding Hands
By William Cass
November 15, 2024
November 15, 2024
In the morning, Karl played nine holes of golf with his normal Wednesday foursome. Helen grocery shopped, then reorganized their pantry. Both had retired a few years before in their early sixties. It was one week until their forty-first wedding anniversary for which they had no special plans.
They had lunch together, as usual, at the kitchen table. The windows were all open against the July heat. Helen made tuna fish sandwiches that she served with dill pickle chips and iced tea. Like always, they listened to Swap & Shop on the radio while they ate. Every now and then, one of them would mumble a comment about an exchange on the show and the other would either shrug or offer no response in return.
When they finished lunch, they napped on top of their chenille bedspread with a stand-up fan blowing hot hair back and forth across them. Afterwards, Helen prodded Karl into taking a walk through their neighborhood to a large park where they stopped to rest on a bench in the shade. They vaguely regarded the passersby, the fountain splashing quietly across from them, and children cavorting on the playground beyond it. Karl’s thoughts mostly concerned his poor iron play earlier and the lawn waiting to be cut later at home. Helen conducted an internal monologue about the poor career and personal choices of their son who they rarely saw or spoke to even though he lived nearby.
Birds flitted among the trees. A siren whined off across town. Burning charcoal from the picnic area at the park’s entrance wafted on the small breeze. Even in the shade, it was uncomfortably sultry. Helen pulled at her flowered blouse to free it from the bunched skin above her hips. Karl used a handkerchief to blot the sweat from his forehead, then replaced it in the pocket of his khakis.
People passed their bench in starts and fits. A teenage boy on a skateboard. Two spandex-clad joggers followed by a trio of bike riders. A disheveled-looking man pushing a shopping cart filled with his belongings.
The walkway remained unoccupied for several minutes until Helen and Karl both turned to watch an ancient couple slowly approach, shuffling. The man was short, slightly bent, and made a continuous chewing motion with his mouth. The woman was taller, wider, and had a cotton candy cap of white hair through which her scalp could be seen. Small, contented smiles creased their lips. They held each other’s hands in a manner that seemed completely natural, practiced, and intimate.
The couple grew even with their bench, then gradually passed it. Karl and Helen each had the same thought, but he spoke it first. He said, “We don’t hold hands much, do we?”
“No.” Helen shook her head. “We never have.”
They both glanced down at the bench’s wooden slats where their hands rested inches apart, then returned their attention to the backs of the elderly couple growing less distinct in the freckled shadows thrown by the canopy of trees.
Helen gave a tiny sigh and used her hand to smooth her skirt. Karl used his to retrieve his handkerchief, pat his forehead again, then replace it, leaving his hand in his pocket.
Perhaps five more minutes went by before he said, “Well, you ready to head back?”
Helen nodded, pushed herself to her feet, and Karl followed suit. They began retracing their steps towards home, their hands dangling at their sides. Karl considered reaching for Helen’s but didn’t act on the impulse. Helen felt a similar urge but resisted it. Instead, Karl thought about how refreshing a can of cold beer would taste after he finished mowing the lawn, and Helen wondered if any of her garden’s tomatoes or cucumbers had ripened enough to serve with dinner.
“Those two must have been close to ninety,” Karl mused.
Helen waited a few seconds, then in hardly more than a whisper said, “That’s only twenty-five years older than us.”
Karl thought, “Twenty-five years…the age we were when we got married.”
“Another quarter century together,” Helen considered to herself. “We’re in reasonably good health. Might make it that far.”
An ice cream truck’s jingle could be heard heading toward the playground. The aroma of hot dogs being grilled became stronger as they approached the picnic area. A green balloon drifted off above the trees, darting here and there on tepid drafts, but neither of them noticed it.
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William Cass has had over 350 short stories appear in literary magazines and anthologies. A nominee for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, he’s also had six Pushcart nominations and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. His first short story collection was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection has recently been released by the same press. He lives in San Diego, California.
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