Ed KrizekAFTERLIFEAt seventy-three, her hair was almost completely white although it had a gray tinge to it. She had bristly hairs growing out of certain spots on her face. Her stroke some years ago had left her paralyzed on the left side, and food drooled down that half of her face when she ate. She wore a brace on her left leg, and her hand on that side of her body clutched involuntarily in almost a fist, as if she were trying to hold onto something. Bob always took care of her. They had been what can be loosely called friends for the past fifteen years. He took care of her. He picked her up and sat her in her wheelchair. He wheeled it all around the city to shops, the grocery store, and the park. On nice days, he would push her several miles during the daylight hours. Bob was older than Jean, but time had been kinder to his body. Although he had the physical strength to help Jean, he also had some problems that come with age. His memory was not what it used to be. He often forgot important tasks like going to the bank, for instance, and he became upset and confused when he ran out of money. Bob would never use automatic tellers. He could never quite get the concept of pushing buttons and receiving money. He never complained though. He was happy God had given him the chance to take care of Jean. They were what youth-oriented America terms companions. Each had a different reason for needing the other. Jean had been a highly independent woman before her stroke, flirting and cavorting her way through life. Now God had made her a cripple who was dependent on Bob for her existence. Jean was uncomfortable with this state of affairs since she had always done for herself. Yet she recognized that perhaps this lot she had been given was appropriate since she had not always been the most giving person in her youth. She had never loved her husband who died before Bob's wife. She just couldn't get herself to open up and trust a man. She told her family that she didn't love Bob either, but that she was thankful that he had come into her life since she couldn't get along without him. And although Bob loved her dearly, he had often heard her say this but felt it was the Lord's way of helping him atone for the life he had led in his youth. He had not been perfect either. Once Bob had been a marine, young, and strong, and ready to give his life for his country. Now he was forgetful, weak, and unwilling to give away the little time he knew was left to him. For Bob it happened gradually. Sometimes he would see a scintilla of light flash across Jean's eyes. He thought he could see her dancing as a young adult woman, beautiful, sensual, and full of life force. He attributed this to his deteriorating mental state at first. He knew his mind played tricks on him. For Jean, it was different. One day she was rolling in her wheelchair with Bob pushing behind. She turned and saw him in his Dress Blues, marching with his white gloved hands around the wheelchair's handles with brass buttons shining against his uniform. Jean did a double take and was comforted to see the soft paunchy white-haired man she knew. Neither of them talked much about their feelings. Both were concerned about the effects of old age on the brain, so the visions were never mentioned. But they persisted, and grew stronger and longer with time. There began to be days when instead of going out for wheelchair walks they stayed indoors and stared into each other's eyes. Each seeing the glint of life in the other. Neither of them said anything, but both knew what was happening. Finally one day Bob said, "Would you like to dance, Jean?" "I'd love to!" she said. They put a waltz on the record player. Bob took Jean's right hand and helped her to stand. He put his arms around her waist and said, "I love you, Jean." "I love you too, Bob," she replied. And they were found dead by the building manager, in the middle of the living room of the apartment they shared in what was described by the coroner's office as an embrace.
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