A Houseguest
Harold Molson was a peculiar, yet kindly, old man who prided himself on following his “Three P’s”: Politeness, Precision, and Punctuality. At nine o’ clock every Tuesday, after stopping by the pub for dinner and a drink to celebrate his forthcoming day off, the hardworking clerk would at long last arrive at his apartment complex’s doorstep. He’d then step inside while his gangly arms struggled to remove his coat, muttering to himself about the weather or his bad back as he tried to locate his keys - even though he always kept them in the innermost right pocket in the coat that would be unceremoniously hung from his left arm.
At around 9:02, give or take a minute or so, Harold would pick the third key on his newly-found ring and head down the hallway to his right at an uneven, if not hobbling, gait. Yet as timely and detail-oriented as as he tried to be, the old man did not have the best of memories and was prone to forgetting things - like his apartment number.
“Was it 102 or...105? Or maybe was it...” He’d often mutter to himself, cursing himself on not having the presence of mind to put the number of his home on his key ring. He was always too busy and, well, the thought just kept escaping him. “Tonight,” he’d mutter. “I’m gonna do it tonight.” Except he never did.
Instead he’d give up trying to remember his room number and knock on whatever door that caught his fancy, hoping the residents within would have a better memory than his own. Normally the other tenants would open up and be pleasant and patient with him as he rattled off his apologies, sending him on his way along with his room number not long after. But nowadays? No one bothered answering. Why, some even would shout at him from behind their locked doors for him to go away.
“People these days,” he’d often lament as he turned to head up to the second floor. “No sense of decency in the lot of them anymore...”
At around 9:15, the same treatment would be offered to the upper-floor tenants and the same responses, or lack thereof, were received in kind. All except for room 207...
Seated upon a comfortable old couch, Harold smiled down towards a black cat that preoccupied itself by watching him unblinkingly from the floor - its long tail lazily swishing behind it. “Thank you for inviting me in, son,” the old man murmured gratefully as a cup of heady black tea was set before him. “Right kind of ya.”
Jenaro politely bobbed his head as he wandered away towards a nearby easel, his thick and calloused fingers holding his own cup from the rim. “It’s hardly any trouble...” He murmured as he seated himself before his project, taking a moment to have a sip of his drink before scooping up a paint-laden brush. The only sound between them for a time was that of his brush gliding over the canvas with a dull, but pleasing, hiss while Harold idly glanced around the modest one-room flat.
“Nice place ya got here... If not a bit, eh, different.” The old man was doing his best to mind his manners despite his curiosity getting the better of him and, luckily for him, his host didn’t seem offended.
“Hah... I’ve heard that a few times before, though I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.” While Jen’s home wasn’t exactly messy, it was certainly full of various odds-and-ends: Neatly organized art supplies, empty canvases, various trinkets, and a few of his favorite old paintings hanging from the walls. Yet it was what was above them that ultimately caught the old man’s eye.
Hanging from the vaulted ceiling’s support beams was a myriad of ornaments suspended from a rainbow of colorful ribbons, leather ties, and crooked wires. Small wind chimes softly clinked and sang against the gentle breeze coming through the nearby open window while Harold quietly looked to the assortment of good luck charms lingering overhead. Strands of alligator teeth, horseshoes, evil eyes of glass and lapis ink, little mason jars filled with paper stars, troll talismans, and jade circles were among the many oddities above them.
Yet the most lovely of the collection were the draenic crystals; There were at least two dozens of them hanging about, each a different color and shape as they glowed with a gentle light. Old Harold wagered that it was likely quite lovely in this little place at night with those crystals hanging from the ceiling like tiny stars.
“So... why don’t you tell me about your day?” Jenaro glanced to the left briefly at the figure seated upon his couch, interrupting his guest’s silent reverie. “It looks like it was a long one...” The black cat only ‘mow’ed in unwitting agreement as it leaped up onto one of the cushions, settling a friendly distance away from Mr. Molson as it resumed its watch.
Being the lonely old man he was, Harold was all too keen to indulge in the opportunity to tell his story and launched into anything and everything he could possibly think of. He talked of his work at the law firm down Rowan Street (”You know, the one with a fox on the sign?”), of his dearly departed wife, of what Elwynn was like when he was growing up, of how he was worried of losing his job due to the onset of some sort of “brain issue”...
Except Jenaro had heard the those stories already several times before -- in the same order, no less. On a couple occasions he tried to steer the topic elsewhere, but Harold was content to plod down that same conversational road once more. Though why would he care? The actual Harold Molson didn’t come home that evening, nor on the weeks prior.
Only the memory of him did.
Jenaro paused to pick up a thinner brush lingering upon his palette of grayscale paints and soon began making stippling motions upon the canvas with a deftness that did not seem to match up with his worn hands. Stormy spots of light and shadow bloomed upon the canvas before they were smoothed and nurtured into shapes indescribable. Silence fell between them once again as Harold looked down at the cup of cooling tea upon the coffee table, not once reaching for it during all his chatter. Perhaps a part of him knew of his fate, Jenaro surmised, or perhaps he was really that out-of-sorts in life. It was always hard to tell these things...
"Could you tell me the story about you and your family going swimming at the river again?” Jenaro smiled softly at nothing in particular as he indulged in another sip of his tea. “I rather liked that one.”
“Ohhhh...” Even though the painter couldn’t actually see it, he could just...hear Old Harold lighting up as he once again recalled such a precious memory. “Oh, kiddo, what I wouldn’t give to go back to that time again. It was one of the most perfect days I’ve ever had in my life.” Jenaro paused in mid-motion for a heartbeat, his thick fingers hovering over a new paintbrush only centimeters away.
That was...different than last week. Was it a break in the cycle?
Instead of continuing his trip down memory lane once again, the old man drew in a shuddering breath as his entire being quivered with threadbare restraint at keeping a sudden onslaught of tears at bay. His joyful tone promptly turned to one of intense loneliness as his trembling hands reached up to cup and scrub against his face. “Oh Light... I miss them. I miss them so so much,” he grated out in a tear-laden voice made tight from misery.
“I’ve got nothing left, son,” Harold ashamedly admitted as he stared at the strange tattooed painter nearby, his jaw and partially outstretched hands trembling as he was choking on his sorrow. “My wife. M...my children. They’re all gone. I lost m...my house and so many beautiful things f-full of memories, our memories, along with it.” He couldn’t help but let out a yelp of a sob despite his best efforts as large hot tears started tumbling down his aging cheeks.
“And I think I lost my job today. The bastards d...didn’t even have the decency to give me a warning!” Snf! “I clocked-in this morning and found my office p-packed up in boxes...! Thirty years, son. I worked t...there for thirty years and I didn’t get as much of a damned goodbye. Light help me... How the hell am I going to pay rent now...?” The betrayal in his voice was palpable as Jenaro sat motionless, watching him with a resigned sort of sorrow.
He would have happily told Harold, if only to spare him the indignity of it all, that he actually passed away in that very same office. That he was mourned deeply by his co-workers and that Darla in accounting was still having tearful fits several weeks after his death. He would have told him about the funeral he had: Modest and small, but filled with love and wonderful stories about the quirky old man. Jenaro knew it all about it, as the old man’s repeat appearances every Tuesday for the past few weeks made him seek out those that knew him in life - and each of them spoke with a fondness for a friend and co-worker that left them all so suddenly.
Yet he did not tell him any of those things as this was not Jenaro’s journey to take. Though as angry as Harold was at the moment, the painter-knight had an inkling that he was starting to connect the dots about his unfortunate demise.
With a stoic calm in his words and a firm, yet sympathetic, expression, Jenaro regarded the trembling figure upon his couch and spoke clearly to him. “...What if I told you that you could go there? To see that day you miss so much one more time...”
In an instant, Harold’s angry and intensely sorrowful posturing dropped out into an eerie stillness as the promise of such a long-sought after wish was dangled before him. The old man’s tired blue eyes began to grow bright with the kindling spark of determination despite his rational mind rebuking the likelihood of such a thing being possible. “...What?” Harold spoke with a tiny whisper of a voice, the roiling fury he felt minutes ago bled out of it. “How...?”
Jenaro’s only response was a mild gesture of an open hand towards the painting he’d been working on over the past few weeks.
Overcome with curiosity, Harold rose to his feet once again and steadily hobbled over towards the easel. As the old man grew closer, Jen rose from his seat and stepped a respectful distance away so that his guest could get a better view of what was found upon that canvas.
A soft and tremulous gasp escaped him as his wizened hands raised up to clasp his face, his quivering fingers dancing along his jaw as the tears he shed before returned in earnest. “I can’t believe it...” The artist couldn’t help but smile solemnly at the tearful old man, waiting patiently as Harold took his fill of the sight before him.
“I d...don’t know how you did it, but... My stars, it’s just as I remembered it...! The flowers... The color of the grass,” he trailed off as he gestured to painting. “And...haha... there’s little Emily and Matthew playing in the river... And oh, oh my beautiful Diana. Light above, son...” He paused as he let out an enraptured little tear-filled laugh. “This is it... This is my perfect day.”
Yet there were no flowers in that painting, nor vibrant green grass. It was only a series of abstract shapes of white and black, of light and dark, with perhaps the suggestion of a forest and a river. It was Harold’s heart that showed him what he so desired and the painting came to life just for him.
As the old man began to reach out to the canvas yet again, those same eager fingers recoiled as if he just touched something that burned him -- fear blooming in those once bright and mirthful eyes. “I...I can’t.”
“Why not?” Asked the painter in a patient tone, his brow furrowing mildly.
“I’m scared...” Harold’s jaw quivered before he tried to steel himself, licking his wizened lips briskly. “What will happen after all this...? Where will I go?”
“Home, Harold ... You’ll be going home.”
“Home...” The old man breathed the word out like it was holy, his posture becoming slouched and so very tired. His heart yearned for his loved ones and for the peace his restless spirit was unwittingly denying him. Inch by inch, the old man’s fingers stretched out towards the painting and pressed against its surface with a lover’s touch -- his old and aging body slowly fading from view before not a trace of him was left.
With a soft and lengthy sigh, Jenaro looked down at his palette of paints and moved to place his brushes into a mason jar of water. “Good night, Harold,” he murmured kindly as he reached up to carefully rub one of his calloused and paint-spattered mitts upon his brow.
He made a mental note to take the painting to the church the following morning and find one that was also versed in Last Rites -- yet with a...gentler touch than his own. Though giving Harold one more glimpse at a kinder time in his life brought the weary painter a bit of unspoken satisfaction as he let his gaze drift towards the now empty couch, that same small smile he had moments ago returning to his lips. The black cat, Irusan, also celebrated in his own way by grooming his unmentionables.
Jenaro shook his head and scoffed at the cat’s untimely behavior before moving to clean up his work area. Though before trucking his armful of painting supplies away to the sink, he spared the painting another glance and couldn’t help but but be quietly delighted at a sight he failed to notice earlier. Near the river-like strokes and streaks of stormy gray and white, there were originally three black figures lingering on the shore of it. Now? Now there were four...
“...And goodbye.”
