Daredevils

By

Susan Reetz

 

That old man shuffles down my sidewalk, head buried in his parka hood.

Mind the slippery spots. Please, please, mind the slippery spots! I send these urgent messages telepathically through the window. He doesn’t even glance up. Just shambles on, cane held aloft as though he expects danger to come from the air rather than beneath his feet.

I snuggle into my blanket and sip my tea.

How many times have I seen him out there? He makes his rounds regular as clockwork. Tick tock, its old Doc, taking his walk around the block. Kind of a daring feat for someone as old as him. He pauses near my driveway to catch his breath.

My children used to play on that driveway – and, when I wasn’t watching, in that street. They were all daredevils. Skateboards and bicycles and roller skates. Anything with wheels it seemed. Their only speed was breakneck but even so, they never got worse than scrapes and bruises. I had enjoyed their energy and loved to hear the excited screams, each child trying to be more daring than the others.

I hear a scream now, emanating not with excitement, but pain and fear.

I stand, blanket falling to the floor. Doc lies flat on the sidewalk, hand scrabbling for his cane which is now beyond his grasp.

I grab the blanket, throw it over my shoulders, and rush out the door. The snow squeaks and my feet register the cold through my thin slippers but there’s no time to put on boots.

“Doc, can you hear me?”

I kneel, looking him over. He looks at me and blinks. I imagine he must be stunned. Maybe his ears are ringing?

“Doc,” I enunciate very carefully and pitch my volume toward bellow. “Are you hurt?”

“I just fell on the ice. What the hell do you think? Of course I’m hurt.”

Tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.”

Slowly he rolls to his right elbow and eases himself up to sitting. I don’t see any blood, and there don’t seem to be any broken bones, but there’s a scrape on his chin and a bruise blooming above his eye. He’ll need to see a doctor.

My kids gave me a cell phone years ago in case I have trouble and always nag me to keep it with me. But I can never find it. Why do they make those things so small anyway? They get pretty upset if I’m out and about and they can’t reach me. What if I have another heart attack, they say. How would you call for help, they wonder. I don’t need them fussing at me all the time, but I don’t want them to worry either. They’re not getting any younger. My friend Shirley has one of those gadgets that you wear all the time and if you need an ambulance you just push the button and it calls one for you. She really likes it, says it gives her peace of mind, so I got one too.

I sit down next to Doc, fix the blanket so we are covered together, push the button, and wait. I sure hope they hurry.