"What?"
"Sshh!!!!'
All right, so I have never been accused of being overly subtle,
quite the opposite. This secrecy thing was not second nature.
"Sir, what it is?"
His wife, on full alert tried to turn around in her wheelchair.
She looked at me, then looked into the kitchen where her husband stood. She said something in German and shook her head.
The pictures on the wall were of the two of them at the townhall getting married. Her with business awards. Him with war medals and accolades for bravery. The two of them ballroom dancing.
I finished up what I was doing with her and went into the kitchen. I thought he had something to tell me pertaining to the wife. She had been getting very difficult to transfer.
He had his forefinger laid alongside his nose.
He motioned at the counter.
There was a beautiful plate of cookies there.
He winked at me and put a little napkin wrapped item in my hand.
I shook my head. He put it in my pocket.
"Must be shortbread", I thought. They seemed very heavy.
Two weeks later I was driving down the road and saw a napkin in the centre holder of my car. I remembered those cookies and wondered if they would still be good.
I made a grab for the napkin and out fell a small bottle of Kahlua. Oops.
It was a strange thing. I had not noticed when he began the drinking that now was an every night thing. I never fault anyone who lived through the hell of war their comforts. Now, so many long years later, he was the main caregiver to a stroke-worn wife. No more dances. No more conversations, she had reverted to a single language, her first. No more much of anything but sitting in their cute little house looking out on a world still turning without them. I did not fault him at all.
He had forgotten to cancel service. She was in the hospital recovering from another small stroke.
"Come in come in."
I was booked for 30 mins but as usual for evening shift I was behind in my time, and could use it for travelling if she was not home.
"Is she here?"
"Come in for a minute."
I went in with a funny feeling. He was in his cups.
"Come and give us a kiss."
"What?" You would think I would see that coming.
"Come on... give us a kiss. I think you are wonderful."
"SIR! Your wife! Don't talk like that."
I ended up leaving after just a few moments.
She never did come home.
The next year he was on my list.
I asked not to be sent... for obvious reasons.
My supervisor told me he wouldn't be doing much of "that".
"He's a very sick puppy."
I did go. He was barely recognisable. He was pretending everything was fine. We talked about his years in Malta and his gardens and this and that. He told me how happy he was his wife had not had to take care of him. How he was so blessed to have had her. Alot of things he wanted to be remembered as.
God Bless you Mr. D
I remember you as the hero you were.
A valiant and courageous man in life and death.
=================
Perfect Valor is to do, without a witness, all that we could do before the whole world.
