THE CORNER CLOSET
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Buddy Ryder passed away on his 53rd birthday. His friend Claudia, the single woman across the hallway knocked on the door ready to take Lovie out for a walk. The two found the stray five years ago, and agreed to share responsibility for the little puppy seemingly abandoned during the flood. Lovie’s bark responded to the second knock, and Claudia returned with her key.
The apartment was the only studio on the third floor, and Buddy often joked a bilateral leg amputee needs little space to waddle. The morning sun illuminated the room, and a soft whine emanated from the bathroom, Claudia found her friend sitting slumped over in his wheelchair with Lovie resting on his lap. A note was on the counter.
The relationship was not romantic, neither had the energy to risk spoiling friendship, and with no family support, they called themselves the “Lost Soul’s Club.” After reading his last words, she placed the note in her pocket and called 911. Given a week to clear out his unit, Claudia packed a small suitcase, took the cake from her refrigerator, and moved across the hallway.
The first decision was to live as Buddy lived, in the wheelchair. His Reacher Grabber was the 34 inch model, and she spent the morning practicing the removal and replacement of dishes and glasses from the cupboard. The cake was cut into eight pieces, and Lovie seemed delighted to share the first day’s portion. With 400 square feet, everything is downsized, the kitchenette, bathroom, table, two chairs, a single bed, and the red leather recliner. The only space where Buddy splurged was the corner closet.
Arnaldo was the building superintendent and ace of all things fixable. He and Buddy labored together for months rebuilding the closet to suitable specifications. She wheeled up to the white double doors with gold colored handles and pulled outward. How ingenious was the layout. The upper area held the clothing rods where the Reacher Grabber could easily draw and return clothing items of choice, while the lower portion held custom shelving and drawers with gold colored knobs that invited examination. The largest shelf was at eye level, and hung pictures could be easily viewed on the back wall with accompanying nicknacks placed in front. Two simple black frames held center stage. On the left was the Silver Star, and on the right, the Purple Heart with three gold stars. Under each ribbon was the name William Hughes Ryder.
Can you have a best friend, truthfully your only friend, and not really know them? Yes, that first meeting in the hallway, Buddy said, “Lousy war wound, how’s your day going, all good for me?” He taught her the intricacies of being a “birder” and not a “birdwatcher.” Early morning outings across Central Park while suffering inclement weather clarified the distinction. The corner closet was never opened in her presence, the Audubon bird books would be arranged on the table in advance of their lessons. When asked if the name Buddy was on his birth certificate, he uttered a snorting laugh and said it was lost at the orphanage, and with that mischievous grin whispered “Kidding you.”
With knees pulled to her chest, warmed in his bathrobe, she Googled William Hughes Ryder. Clean shaven he was still unmistakable, “Hello my dear friend, why did you leave me?” Claudia tipped to her side on the narrow bed and wept. Awakened hours later, she deleted the war entry without wanting to know what brought his nightmares, and reread his parting words.
After seven days, his note was crumpled, food stains and tears smudged the penciled lines. She sat at the table with a book of matches by the large waste paper basket. “Dear Claudia, for thirty years I have bottled up my pain of lost comrades, images of young men killed, men I killed who never returned to their families. Isolation was my drink, my numbing alcohol, my relief from a chaos of humanity I could not understand. You will laugh, but the date was October 25th, a Sunday, me wheeling down from the elevator and you stepping out of your door wearing the green cardigan with tan slacks. Arnaldo had given me a heads-up, and from his description, I sensed a possible crack in the wall of bricks I so carefully built to shield myself from others.”
Buddy went on, describing a different pain, of someone caring for him, and his fear of not being able to reciprocate. He spoke of love, and was surprised to learn there could be deep love in friendship. “Take whatever you might want from the corner closet, or feel free to give it all a toss. The Free Store on 12th is a good place for clothing, Arnaldo gets first crack on the meager furnishings, and please burn the few personal letters I saved. Those letters, like you, brought comfort, especially during long nights.”
On the table before her was Buddy’s Marine Corps knapsack. His name was stitched in gold thread above “Khe Sanh July 9th.” Claudia opened the green canvas bag and carefully withdrew the contents. She first set aside the two black frames holding his ribbons, now wrapped in a red satin cloth, a special gift from her childhood. A clear plastic envelope held the four letters she would save, and she placed each one on the table in the order they would be reread. The steaming mug of their favorite chai tea gave a zen aroma to the setting, and cake piece number seven was waiting to be shared with Lovie.
The first was a large envelope holding several items all related to St. Margaret’s Home for Children. The 8 by 11 photograph was dated June 15, 1951. Standing on the steps in five rows, children looked at the camera like toy soldiers intentionally placed by size and perhaps importance. In the first row near the middle, someone had circled a young girl and boy, and drew a line to the side and wrote “Elizabeth and William.” As she again studied the two, Claudia noticed for the first time, they were almost secretly clutching hands while holding a stern facial expression. The birth certificates clarified twins born November 10, 1945 at Borgesian Hospital, Kalamazoo Michigan. Touching each line on the death certificate, she whispered the words with reverence as if she joined Buddy in saying a farewell, Elizabeth Hughes Ryder, Date Pronounced Dead March 23, 1953, Cause Of Death smoke inhalation, AGE-Last Birthday 7, Place Of Death St. Margaret’s Home for Children. The boxes for naming mother and father said deceased.
The second envelope had M.H.S. printed on the outside. A photo of the Melrose High Varsity Baseball Team showed teammates in a semicircle with Buddy kneeling in front holding a trophy. The black and white strip of 5 photos showed Buddy and a pretty brunette mugging and kissing. Two letters were held together with a paper clip, the first was a letter of acceptance from Linfield College in Oregon, and the second was a baseball scholarship award for their Wildcat team. Claudia could not confirm Buddy attended college or played baseball beyond high school. The postmark on the third envelope was from San Diego and dated July 9, 1971. In part, the letter read “Dear Mr. Ryder, if you are reading this letter, I am forever grateful. I am Greg Smith’s mother, and writing on his behalf. Greg insisted I post this on the 3rd anniversary of your rescue from the Khe Sanh hilltop. The severity of PTSD challenges his ability to communicate with others, but my son lives because of your actions. Numerous times, Greg said, you moved from foxhole to foxhole rallying brothers to hold on, braving fire from flamethrowers while crawling with shattered legs.” Claudia’s mind was not on a country far away, but at an orphanage, perhaps in early morning darkness, when two seven year olds met fire, and a courageous brother could not save his sister.
She reached for the fourth envelope, her California birthday card to Buddy on his 50th. “Hello big brother, I am so honored to have your deep and caring friendship. Half a century old man, congratulations on meeting this mark with such dignity and kindness to all. I spent your birthday money on driving lessons for a road trip to the Golden Gate Bridge, start packing.” Lovie was patiently sitting by the wheelchair. In her arms she slowly fed the little one cake bites, and retold stories of favorite threesome adventures.
The lights were turned off and the windows wide open. Holding his note up to the flames, she read the last lines. “Claudia, do not grieve for me, the time is right to let go on my own terms. The doctors never thought my lungs could survive age 7, let alone 53. If sleeping pills can work for Marilyn Monroe, who am I to try a different route. My big regret is missing our road trip West. If you ever stand on that bridge, see me crossing under as buddies cradle me on the Admiral’s deck of the USS Bennington, as glorious a sight as I can ever remember. You are my love, Buddy.”
Pushing the wheelchair away from the table, she stood for the first time in seven days, placed the knapsack on her back, picked up the plate holding the final piece of birthday cake, and led Lovie out the door and across the hallway.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Buddy Ryder passed away on his 53rd birthday. His friend Claudia, the single woman across the hallway knocked on the door ready to take Lovie out for a walk. The two found the stray five years ago, and agreed to share responsibility for the little puppy seemingly abandoned during the flood. Lovie’s bark responded to the second knock, and Claudia returned with her key.
The apartment was the only studio on the third floor, and Buddy often joked a bilateral leg amputee needs little space to waddle. The morning sun illuminated the room, and a soft whine emanated from the bathroom, Claudia found her friend sitting slumped over in his wheelchair with Lovie resting on his lap. A note was on the counter.
The relationship was not romantic, neither had the energy to risk spoiling friendship, and with no family support, they called themselves the “Lost Soul’s Club.” After reading his last words, she placed the note in her pocket and called 911. Given a week to clear out his unit, Claudia packed a small suitcase, took the cake from her refrigerator, and moved across the hallway.
The first decision was to live as Buddy lived, in the wheelchair. His Reacher Grabber was the 34 inch model, and she spent the morning practicing the removal and replacement of dishes and glasses from the cupboard. The cake was cut into eight pieces, and Lovie seemed delighted to share the first day’s portion. With 400 square feet, everything is downsized, the kitchenette, bathroom, table, two chairs, a single bed, and the red leather recliner. The only space where Buddy splurged was the corner closet.
Arnaldo was the building superintendent and ace of all things fixable. He and Buddy labored together for months rebuilding the closet to suitable specifications. She wheeled up to the white double doors with gold colored handles and pulled outward. How ingenious was the layout. The upper area held the clothing rods where the Reacher Grabber could easily draw and return clothing items of choice, while the lower portion held custom shelving and drawers with gold colored knobs that invited examination. The largest shelf was at eye level, and hung pictures could be easily viewed on the back wall with accompanying nicknacks placed in front. Two simple black frames held center stage. On the left was the Silver Star, and on the right, the Purple Heart with three gold stars. Under each ribbon was the name William Hughes Ryder.
Can you have a best friend, truthfully your only friend, and not really know them? Yes, that first meeting in the hallway, Buddy said, “Lousy war wound, how’s your day going, all good for me?” He taught her the intricacies of being a “birder” and not a “birdwatcher.” Early morning outings across Central Park while suffering inclement weather clarified the distinction. The corner closet was never opened in her presence, the Audubon bird books would be arranged on the table in advance of their lessons. When asked if the name Buddy was on his birth certificate, he uttered a snorting laugh and said it was lost at the orphanage, and with that mischievous grin whispered “Kidding you.”
With knees pulled to her chest, warmed in his bathrobe, she Googled William Hughes Ryder. Clean shaven he was still unmistakable, “Hello my dear friend, why did you leave me?” Claudia tipped to her side on the narrow bed and wept. Awakened hours later, she deleted the war entry without wanting to know what brought his nightmares, and reread his parting words.
After seven days, his note was crumpled, food stains and tears smudged the penciled lines. She sat at the table with a book of matches by the large waste paper basket. “Dear Claudia, for thirty years I have bottled up my pain of lost comrades, images of young men killed, men I killed who never returned to their families. Isolation was my drink, my numbing alcohol, my relief from a chaos of humanity I could not understand. You will laugh, but the date was October 25th, a Sunday, me wheeling down from the elevator and you stepping out of your door wearing the green cardigan with tan slacks. Arnaldo had given me a heads-up, and from his description, I sensed a possible crack in the wall of bricks I so carefully built to shield myself from others.”
Buddy went on, describing a different pain, of someone caring for him, and his fear of not being able to reciprocate. He spoke of love, and was surprised to learn there could be deep love in friendship. “Take whatever you might want from the corner closet, or feel free to give it all a toss. The Free Store on 12th is a good place for clothing, Arnaldo gets first crack on the meager furnishings, and please burn the few personal letters I saved. Those letters, like you, brought comfort, especially during long nights.”
On the table before her was Buddy’s Marine Corps knapsack. His name was stitched in gold thread above “Khe Sanh July 9th.” Claudia opened the green canvas bag and carefully withdrew the contents. She first set aside the two black frames holding his ribbons, now wrapped in a red satin cloth, a special gift from her childhood. A clear plastic envelope held the four letters she would save, and she placed each one on the table in the order they would be reread. The steaming mug of their favorite chai tea gave a zen aroma to the setting, and cake piece number seven was waiting to be shared with Lovie.
The first was a large envelope holding several items all related to St. Margaret’s Home for Children. The 8 by 11 photograph was dated June 15, 1951. Standing on the steps in five rows, children looked at the camera like toy soldiers intentionally placed by size and perhaps importance. In the first row near the middle, someone had circled a young girl and boy, and drew a line to the side and wrote “Elizabeth and William.” As she again studied the two, Claudia noticed for the first time, they were almost secretly clutching hands while holding a stern facial expression. The birth certificates clarified twins born November 10, 1945 at Borgesian Hospital, Kalamazoo Michigan. Touching each line on the death certificate, she whispered the words with reverence as if she joined Buddy in saying a farewell, Elizabeth Hughes Ryder, Date Pronounced Dead March 23, 1953, Cause Of Death smoke inhalation, AGE-Last Birthday 7, Place Of Death St. Margaret’s Home for Children. The boxes for naming mother and father said deceased.
The second envelope had M.H.S. printed on the outside. A photo of the Melrose High Varsity Baseball Team showed teammates in a semicircle with Buddy kneeling in front holding a trophy. The black and white strip of 5 photos showed Buddy and a pretty brunette mugging and kissing. Two letters were held together with a paper clip, the first was a letter of acceptance from Linfield College in Oregon, and the second was a baseball scholarship award for their Wildcat team. Claudia could not confirm Buddy attended college or played baseball beyond high school. The postmark on the third envelope was from San Diego and dated July 9, 1971. In part, the letter read “Dear Mr. Ryder, if you are reading this letter, I am forever grateful. I am Greg Smith’s mother, and writing on his behalf. Greg insisted I post this on the 3rd anniversary of your rescue from the Khe Sanh hilltop. The severity of PTSD challenges his ability to communicate with others, but my son lives because of your actions. Numerous times, Greg said, you moved from foxhole to foxhole rallying brothers to hold on, braving fire from flamethrowers while crawling with shattered legs.” Claudia’s mind was not on a country far away, but at an orphanage, perhaps in early morning darkness, when two seven year olds met fire, and a courageous brother could not save his sister.
She reached for the fourth envelope, her California birthday card to Buddy on his 50th. “Hello big brother, I am so honored to have your deep and caring friendship. Half a century old man, congratulations on meeting this mark with such dignity and kindness to all. I spent your birthday money on driving lessons for a road trip to the Golden Gate Bridge, start packing.” Lovie was patiently sitting by the wheelchair. In her arms she slowly fed the little one cake bites, and retold stories of favorite threesome adventures.
The lights were turned off and the windows wide open. Holding his note up to the flames, she read the last lines. “Claudia, do not grieve for me, the time is right to let go on my own terms. The doctors never thought my lungs could survive age 7, let alone 53. If sleeping pills can work for Marilyn Monroe, who am I to try a different route. My big regret is missing our road trip West. If you ever stand on that bridge, see me crossing under as buddies cradle me on the Admiral’s deck of the USS Bennington, as glorious a sight as I can ever remember. You are my love, Buddy.”
Pushing the wheelchair away from the table, she stood for the first time in seven days, placed the knapsack on her back, picked up the plate holding the final piece of birthday cake, and led Lovie out the door and across the hallway.
RICHARD SWAIN