“Morning, Jackson.”

“Morning, Andrew. Have you seen him?”

“Heard him, but I haven’t seen him.” Two sets of eyes searched the screen door. Mornings didn’t officially begin until Norman opened the door and was comfortably settled in his worn Naugahyde easy chair.

“Should we stay?” Jackson asked, nervously looking around.

“Of course we should stay,” Andrew answered, “he needs us here. Just wait . . . things will get rolling once he gets his coffee.”

Finally, a voice sounded from inside. “Hey, boys.” Rummaging noises followed. “Just gimme a second. Just . . . ah . . .” The words became fainter, then trailed off.  A couple minutes later, the tarnished brass knob turned, and just like in the old black-and-white horror movies, the screen door hinges emitted a high, thin groan.

Jackson whispered, “That sound always gives me the creeps.”

Andrew quickly shushed him.

“Does he have his coffee?” Jackson asked.

“Quiet,” Andrew whispered, “just do your job.”

“Morning—ahem—morning, boys.” The voice was scratchy, as though Norman’s vocal cords were still trying to wake up. Andrew and Jackson watched a soft wrinkled hand—the joints and knuckles prominent and knobby—hold the door open while gripping an oversized mug. They relaxed in unison at the sight of the coffee. The man’s other hand, adorned with a plain gold wedding band, reached down for the folded newspaper lying on the porch.

Staring through heavy glasses that made his faded hazel eyes seem oversized, Norman spilled coffee on the paper. “Damnation!” Norman leaned back, balancing on one skinny, pale leg—a leg all the whiter for the black bedroom slipper—as the other leg swung in an arc to prop open the door. “Damnation all to hell,” Norman proclaimed, straightening up and spilling more coffee as the slipper fell off.

Jackson shot Andrew a look and said, “This isn’t good . . . he’s been known to throw things. Are you sure we should stay?”

“Come on. He hasn’t done that for a long time. We stay until we get him settled.”   

Norman picked up the newspaper and slipper, and the door swung shut as he retreated back into the house. 

“He won’t let us in,” Jackson said.

Andrew looked away. “He’ll come back for us.”

“Maybe,” Jackson answered, “we should take this as a warning.”

Through the screen, Andrew could see Norman balance his mug on the arm of the overstuffed chair, its upholstery faded to a sandy color. When Norman returned to the door, still clutching the newspaper and slipper, he pushed it open with his bare foot. “It’s okay. Come on in, boys.”

Jackson and Andrew rose at the same time and walked inside, the door shutting behind them. Norman’s heavy breathing was accentuated by the ticking of a clock—even older than Norman—in a dark wooden case on the mantelpiece. Settling side by side on the worn, braided wool rug in the middle of the room, Andrew and Jackson remained quiet and gazed at Norman with generous, practiced patience. He eased back in his chair and cleaned his glasses with the edge of his buffalo-plaid bathrobe, unfolded the paper, and carefully picked up his coffee.

Jackson leaned toward Andrew as though he might ask him another question, but Andrew’s expression said This is what we do. When Norman abruptly folded the paper, they turned toward him. Words were not exchanged, but the open, clear faces staring at Norman seemed to embrace him, while radiating warmth and compassion and truth. Norman’s eyes smiled back as he sipped his coffee, then he released a long sigh. “You two take such good care of me.”

The three sat framed in a still life until Norman’s gaze wandered across the room, settling on an old photograph in a dull silver frame. With his glasses slightly crooked on his nose, he looked longingly at the photograph. A young couple, side by side and full of hidden promise, looked back at him, trying to be serious while suppressing smiles. Norman gave a little chuckle.

Jackson and Andrew sat motionless, attentive, ready to spring to Norman’s side, but he was far away. “I hate it when he gets like this,” Jackson whispered.

“You shouldn’t,” Andrew said under his breath, never taking his eyes off Norman. “He can’t help getting like this . . . and it gives us our reason for being here.”

Norman didn’t move, his face fixed on the photograph, or something beyond it. Finally, he turned to Andrew and Jackson. “You two . . .” His large eyes darted around them, as though he might spot the right words. “You two are so good about showing affection and giving unconditional love, yet it’s so hard for people to do that.”

Norman’s gaze went from the dogs back to the picture. “If only it had been that easy for me to show her.”

Mike Nolan lives in the little town of Port Angeles, near the Washington State/Canada border, and has a web presence at mikenolanstoryteller.com. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Across the Margin, and The Cabinet of Heed.