"Blueberries" - A Short Story About Growing Old

Tom Maloney blinked, bewildered at the tin pail in his age-spotted hand. He had no recollection of picking the wild Maine blueberries within. Massive oaks and columned pines surrounded him. He couldn't imagine how he lost his way on a trail as familiar as the lines mapped across his wife's face. He guessed his seventy-eight years were catching up with him. If it weren't so pathetic, it would be funny, he mused.

Beads of sweat formed on his bald head in the muggy, summer afternoon. He pulled a handkerchief from his shorts' pocket and wiped his forehead and steamy glasses. I could go for a swig of water right now, thought Tom. Mae would have remembered to bring some Smart Water. She was always telling him to stay hydrated. Tom smiled at the thought.

He and his wife, Mae, had picked blueberries here in Biddeford every summer for the past forty-six years. "Now, don't pick the dog berries. You always mix them in with the blueberries. They have too many seeds and I don't like to use them for muffins," she would say. She would bake the muffins when they got back to their summer cabin and they would feast on baked stuffed lobster, steamers, and top it off with a fresh-baked muffin for dessert.

No muffins this year, thought Tom. She had passed away over a year ago, but Tom still followed their daily routines.

The scrub oaks towered above him, casting shadows over his aged body. Tom shivered like a whipped dog. He recited, 'There's nothing to fear but fear itself'. Tom never tolerated weakness in others and he despised himself for his own frailty.

"God damn, when did I turn into such a feeble old man?" He tried to get his bearings.

He turned on the spongy moss beneath his feet, searching for anything that looked familiar. A nuthatch pecked at the bark of oak, savoring hidden insects while two gray squirrels chased each other around a tree trunk. The song of a house wren and the buzz saw cicadas filled his ears. Even with all the life around him, he felt abandoned. Despairing, Tom grabbed his head. "Oh, Jesus, I don't know what to do!"

He wondered what Mae would think of him now. When they were young, Mae's mother called him "her future." He had been full of ambition then, working full time at the shoe factory and taking college courses at night. With never-ending energy, he welcomed life and all its challenges. He mocked himself. "Some future. " After Mae died, things got worse for Tom. People he had known for years pitied him. They gave him patronizing looks, not taking anything he said seriously anymore. They avoided him. Did they think death was contagious? He wondered.

Loneliness swooped upon him like a taloned hawk on a field mouse, tearing and shocking. He forced himself to start walking, swatting mosquitoes from around his head as he plodded along. In the distance, Tom saw a clearing that looked familiar. Thank you, God. His legs became heavier with every step. His stomach cramped. Doubled over, he tripped across sticks and rocks hidden beneath a carpet of pine needles.

Tom heard rustling in the bushes. He turned to see a sleek doe bolting through the brush. His dragging foot caught on a root snaking across his path. He slammed down onto his bad knee, cursing under his breath. Pain then numbness spread up to his groin. A gash opened on his scalp, where a ragged pine branch speared him as he fell. Blood pooled in his ear and his vision blurred. He lay where he landed, unable to move. "Breathe," he said, "Breathe."

His hand trembled as he reached up to replace the glasses hanging off one ear. He rolled onto his back groaning, and grasped his injured knee to his chest. The musty smell of wet earth and decaying leaves filled his nostrils. Tom heard the high cries of marsh wrens and caught sight of their woven nest in the boughs of a hemlock above him. He supposed life would go on without him. His existence made no difference at all.

Tom felt himself melting away. "Dear God," he gasped. He tried to get up on one elbow. "It's too hard," he cried. How ironic that all his life's hard work should end like this. He was nothing but an injured animal, dreading the vultures with knife-edged beaks. Unshed tears of seventy-eight years fell to the decaying leaves beneath him. Gravity's grasp sucked him to the ground. "Why bother?" he said, humiliated and alone. Shadows shrouded him. His body caved in to the pain and weariness becoming his worst enemy, a deceiving stranger.

The noonday heat turned into the coolness of dusk. Tom still lay motionless, oblivious to the gnats that feasted on his caking blood. He heard a voice through his puzzled mind. "Haven't I always told you to wear a hard hat? Now, you have a new scar to add to all the others on that bald head of yours."

Startled, Tom opened his eyes. Standing in front of him, Mae wore a flowered apron over her favorite sundress and white sandals on her feet. He had seen this outfit a hundred times before. The setting sun reflected in her white hair. Kneeling beside Tom, she gently took his hand in hers. The soft fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood drifted over him as Tom looked into Mae's mild, brown eyes. It was Mae's scent, Chanel #5, her favorite perfume.

He had given it to her on their first anniversary and she had worn it ever since. "It's too expensive for me. I have nowhere to wear it," she had said.

"You don't have to go someplace special to wear it. Just use it around the house. Besides, I like it. It's sexy," Tom had told her.

He didn't question her being there. It seemed right. He squeezed Mae's hand desperately.

"You were the best part of me," said Tom. "It's not the same without you. I don't want any of it anymore. I'm worn out."

"I don't think so. You were never one to sit still," said Mae.

"I only know that I'm miserable and I can't get along without you. There's no sense to anything anymore."

"It's just another change. We certainly lived through enough of them, and managed to survive. You're too stubborn to give up, especially when you're almost there."

"What are you talking about? I don't know the way."

"You're heading in the right direction." Mae pointed.

"Do you remember when we walked in the meadow up ahead? The wildflowers were bursting with color, their scent in the air. We lay in the swaying grass and you touched me gently."

The memory of that remarkable day came clear to Tom. It was a lifetime ago. Mae's skin had been warm and moist in the heat. They were hidden in the grass. He'd never felt such an aching need before. He longed for the youthful passion, even now.

"I remember," said Tom, his heart aching.

"I'll help you get there. Let's go before it gets dark."

Tom reached up. Mae held Tom's leaden arm to her chest, lifting him to his feet. Pain flared behind his eyes. Tom struggled for balance, a jackhammer at his temples. Wincing, Tom concentrated on each agonizing step.

"Don't let go," cried Tom.

"I'm here as long as you need me," promised Mae.

As they neared the meadow, a distant waterfall rumbled in his ears. "Do you hear it?"

Mae nodded. "It's just beyond the clearing."

The sound of cascading water re-created the day spent in the meadow. It carried him away from the pain. He heard again the trills of a wood thrush perched in the tall pines above them. The peaceful solo had surrounded them as they whispered together, "I'll be with you always."

From the meadow, they had gone to the waterfall and dove into the cool, dark pool. Surfacing, their bodies glistened. They pulled each other close.

"Everything I've ever done has been for you. Even now, I still try to please you. "

"It's time to go home," said Mae.

Tom studied Mae. She was as beautiful at seventy-five as she was the day he met her. It saddened him to remember all the times he had failed her; too stubborn and short tempered to listen. "You were always the one who spoke first. That took more courage than I had," said Tom.

"There was no point in staying angry. We worked too hard to let angry words come between us."

"Why did you stay with me? I never let you be yourself or do what you wanted. My way was always the right way."

"Everything you did was for your family. You gave us your whole life. What more could I have asked for?"

"I thought I had to be tough for all of us. The responsibility ate at me. I should have loved you more. I should have let the kids get closer."

"There is no right or wrong way. You did what you needed to and I took what you offered. We became what we are through the lifetime we shared. It was a good life, a safe life."

They started walking toward the path. Tom heard a low hum. At that instant, it seemed saw blades pierced his calves. He looked down at vicious yellow jackets swarming like a tornado from a ground nest. The relentless bees stung until Tom was on fire.

He knew the bees would attack more viciously if he ran or slapped at them. Poison passed through him in violent waves. His eyes swelled. He fought the urge to scream; afraid the bees would fill his mouth.

"Don't panic," said Mae.

Tom ignored the stings as adrenaline pumped the poison from his veins. In anger and frustration, he staggered toward the waterfall. He dove beneath the cascading water. His mind cleared. He realized the truth. Mae could never be gone. They had been shaped by all they endured together. They were the same.

Tom surfaced for air. Drowned bees floated downstream, carrying his grief away. He waded to the bank of the pool. The burning venom cooled.

"Let's go, Tom," said Mae.

Turning to take Mae's hand, Tom realized he was alone. His pail sat on the ground, filled with blueberries. He smiled and picked it up.

"I'll be with you always," he whispered.

He followed the path to Beacon Street, the main road near his house. By the time he stepped onto the pavement, Tom felt peace and comfort. He had never felt as close to Mae than in that moment.

"I guess I better get on home and bake these muffins," he grinned.