INDIANA AND BERNARD IN WRITING

(with lots of liberties taken)

Bernard carefully placed the silvery comb back into the little golden shopping bag.

He did this every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.  Like clockwork.

When people asked Bernard why he so religiously kept to this routine, he would shrug and say, “She’s my wife.”  Some, wanting to know more, would ask how long he and Indiana had been married.  Bernard, never one to be exactly precise, simply replied, “A long, long time; since before the year we lost Martin Luther King.”  

It seemed like they’d always known one another. She liked him — she liked him a lot.  Indiana  thought that with just a little time, she’d be able smooth out Bernard’s rough edges.  She didn’t ever doubt that she could make Bernard into the cultivated man she’d always wanted. 

The importance of doing things the “proper” way had been hammered into Indiana from an early age. She took to those lessons well.

A reimagined, overhauled, fixed-up Bernard would be the man with whom she’d choose to make a life.  

And what did Bernard see in Indiana?  He saw perfection.  

They both had good paying union jobs at the local manufacturing plant.  Indiana worked in quality control, and year-after-year, won the prize for “Best Quality Controller.” No imperfection was ever too small to escape her eagle eye.  Bernard, on the other hand, worked down in the boiler room tucked away, unseen. There was no official award given for being able to withstand the sweltering heat rising from the roaring boilers.

Within their first year of marriage, they were able to save enough money to put a downpayment on a house.

The house sat on a slight rise at the end of a pleasant tree-lined street.  But what caught Indiana’s eye was the stately size of the dining room — the dining room of her dreams. Indiana convinced Bernard that they should make an offer right away.  That dining room was to become the repository for all of Indiana’s domestic fantasies. She furnished it with the largest dining table she could find, and proceeded to grace the table with exquisite gold-rimmed china. She chose gold-plated silverware to match the rims of the china pieces.  When fully set, the tablescape was so shiningly bright that it almost blinded.  But over the years, the shininess was not able to blot out her disappointment in the man who never seemed to get it right. No matter how many times she tried to drill it into him, he still did not know the salad fork from the dinner fork, the dessert plate from the bread plate.  Indiana was not shy about letting her disappointments be known to anyone who would listen. Almost equally frustrating to her, he could never be convinced that his prized brown jacket and purple necktie collection screamed déclassé instead of “class.”

The years went by, and the mounting disappointments turned into a kind of bitterness that could not be masked.  People started avoiding the house that sat on the rise at the end of the tree-lined street.  For the most part, they were unaware of the strangeness that had crept into Indiana’s behavior.  She’d begun storing her beloved gold-rimmed china in the refrigerator, crowding out every inch of food storage space.  And in a fit of generosity, gave away pieces of the gold-plated silverware to anyone who knocked on the door.  Alarmed, Bernard took her to see their long-time family doctor, the same one who’d delivered the devastating news many years ago that they’d never be able to have children.  Sadly, the devastating news this time was that Indiana was in late-stage Alzheimer’s. The doctor recommended that Bernard consider putting her name on the waiting list for a place in a nursing home facility located just a  15-minute drive from their home. Within a few weeks, a room became available and Indiana was admitted. Thus, she became a resident of Room 214.

And so it went — week-after-week — every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.  Like clockwork.

Bernard would park his car in the handicapped section of the nursing home’s parking lot.   The years of tending the boiler room had taken there toll.  Three of the discs in his spine were mis-aligned which made it quite difficult for him to walk.  The entrance to the lobby had revolving doors, so he could push through with one hand, as he carried a little gold shopping bag containing a silver-colored comb in the other.  At first he was a bit self-conscious about carrying such a glittery bag for fear someone might think he was carrying a ladies’ purse.  But the only comment had come from the receptionist at the front desk who teased him about concealing gold nuggets in his little bag. “Maybe I’m carrying something even more precious than gold nuggets,” he would reply with a chuckle. 

When he reached room 214, he knocked softly on the door.  It was only a courtesy knock, for Indiana had long lost the ability to summon up a response.  Invariably, Bernard  would pull up a chair next to her bed and place the gold shopping bag by her side. Then he’d carefully remove the silver comb from the bag and begin combing her hair.  She loved the motion of the cool metal comb gliding through her tightly coiled strands.

Once Indiana’s hair was combed through and smoothed out, Bernard would — most times — break into song. One of her favorites was, “Life is but a Dream” which he rendered in a soulful, but somewhat squeaky, tenor:

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM

Will you take part in…My Life

That is my dream…

Life is but a dream

It’s what you make it

Always try to give

And never take it

Life has its sorrows

Life has its hopes and its dreams…

Every once, in a while Bernard would throw in an errant chorus of “Doo-Wops” which prompted Indiana to clap her hands with joy.  

When it was time to take his leave, Bernard lifted the bag from the bed and placed the silvery comb back inside. Indiana’s eyes followed the gleam of the little golden shopping bag — still blinded by the light.

Shaila Small

Artists and Elders Project

October, 2020