You'll Never Be Alone
Vol. 177: Like it or not...
Don saw the kids playing in the street as he turned onto Cypress Drive. They, in turn, saw his blue Tahoe approaching and hurried onto the sidewalk, their eyes locked onto the face of the man driving past.
He pulled into the garage, got out and entered the house through the laundry room, pressing the garage button, unaware that the kids waited to see that the door went down and stayed down before resuming their soccer game. It would last just a few more minutes now that Don was home.
Though it was one o’ clock and sunny outside, Don walked into a dark house, pausing for a moment as he always did upon entering. Listening.
Assured that he was the only occupant, he threw his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge to take inventory. American cheese, sticks of butter, the remains of a week old roasted chicken, and half a bag of carrots that Don would never touch. On the counter was some seeded bread that he hated. He knew the freezer was full of vegetables, healthy vegetables, good for you, as Robin always said. Don would never touch these in a million years either. Obviously, vegetables didn’t work.
He poured a glass of Scotch and carried the bottle into the living room, where he fought his way out of his blazer, flinging it onto the couch in a heap. Next time I wear it, I’ll be the one in the box. The tie joined the blazer and Don kicked his leather loafers off into the baseboard. Dropping himself into his La-Z-Boy, he picked up the remote and found an episode of Dragnet that was just starting.
Burrowing deeply into his old chair, Don’s brain flickered for just a second, wondering when everyone would show up, before quickly realizing that no one would. This wasn’t right. When his parents, brothers, and nearly every acquaintance who had died over his sixty-three years had been buried, the houses had been filled with people who had cried, lashed out, gotten drunk, ate too much and chose the worst time for confrontation, but also people who had taken care of the ones left behind and brought hot food and cakes. He and the funeral home employees were the only people at Robin’s funeral. Don had received sympathy cards and phone calls, but showing up for a funeral was asking too much these days. No one was bringing cake. He’d have to go out tomorrow and get food.
He sat with his tv and liquor for the rest of the day and throughout the night. He had a lowball glass the size of a fishbowl, a gag gift from Robin one Christmas. They’d both laughed when Don unwrapped it, but even he was surprised by how much he’d used it. He tipped the rest of the bottle in and fell asleep in front of Hawaii Five-O.
“Don. Dooon. Don Juan!”
He lunged upwards, kicking down the footrest of his La-Z-Boy. His heart pounded as he looked about, then remembering the circumstances, tried to calm himself. This is normal, perfectly normal to dream about Robin. Still, I hope this doesn’t become a thing. I have no business lying to myself that I loved him.
It had been a long, drawn-out death in which Robin had shriveled and spent his last weeks with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. Don had come for an hour or so daily out of duty, but also pity. Not love. He had fallen out of love with Robin so long ago, but after thirty-four years together, Robin was as much in love with Don as when they’d met. On the one hand, that kind of loyalty was admirable to Don, but on the other hand, he had wanted out for so many years that even this horrible way was a relief. He wasn’t heartless, but it was.
Just after 3 am. The tv and the end table lamp were on. Otherwise, the house was dark. He looked at all the Friends dancing in a fountain like lunatics and rubbed the sleep from his face. His hands came away slick with sweat. He unbuttoned his shirt and flung it on the floor. It didn’t matter if it was normal or not, hearing that voice again had unnerved him. He pulled himself up and went into the kitchen to wash his face and slurp water from the faucet. He’d always told himself that if he ended up living alone again he’d never wash dishes. Paper plates and cups and plastic utensils, that’s the way. Eating with his hands as much as possible.
A few hours later he showered, dressed, and drove to the Pay Up for peanut butter and bread, instant coffee, frozen mac & cheese, paper plates, cups and plastic utensils. He didn’t look at anybody and was glad that customer service had deteriorated to such an extent that no employee offered him help while he searched aisle to aisle. Robin had always done the shopping.
At home, he threw the boxes of macaroni in the freezer and called it good, leaving everything else on the counter while he made a cup of coffee in a paper cup. It was as good as the free stuff at the auto repair shop, and that suited him. He dribbled some on his shirt and made a half-hearted attempt to blot it before pulling the shirt off and throwing it on the pantry floor. He realized that he didn’t know how to work the washing machine.
Two days later he decided to tackle Robin’s stuff, all the things around the house that were just clutter now. He believed in ripping the band-aid off quickly, or rather, he had always declined the band-aid in the first place. Leave the wound alone and it would heal itself. In the bathroom, he opened all the prescriptions bottles, tossing the loose pills into a trash bag and stomping them to dust. He threw in Robin’s hair balm that smelled like leaves and the deodorant that smelled like fresh linen and the cologne that smelled like an old suitcase. Robin had worn that scent for thirty years, and if nothing else, Don rejoiced that he’d never have to smell it again. In the bedroom, he tossed in Robin’s prescription glasses and the stack of travel guides from the nightstand. The cuff link collection went in the trash, even the ones that Don had given Robin over the years. He wanted to be done with it all. The closet door was yanked open and another five garbage bags were filled with Robin’s shirts and sweaters and pants and underwear. He had to get two more trash bags for the shoes. Don counted as they went into the bags. Thirty-four pairs! Holy shit, how many feet did Robin have?
He worked his way through the house. It took four hours to clean Robin away, trip after trip to the garbage bin, but now the only sign that he’d ever been in the house were just a few framed photos of them smiling together. Don tucked them into the desk drawers, feeling stupidly sentimental. The place looked empty. Neutral, like the house could belong to anybody. He was okay with that. In fact, it was perfect.
He went to bed exhausted that night after polishing off a bottle of wine. He slept without moving, that heavy dead-to-the-world sleep that comes after a day of manual labor. He had slept like this for years back when he was a lineman. Climbing up and down telephone poles all day, the sheer muscle it took to balance himself in the harness had left him with a stomach you could break 2x4s on, and painful knee problems, but it was a good job. He liked being outside and the pay was great.
He’d met Robin on that job when he was sent to fix a conductor on Euclid. When he came down, there was the smiling owner of the Italian restaurant across the street inviting him in for lunch. Don had been intrigued by Robin’s boldness. He was ten years older than Don, and had dazzled the younger man with his self-confidence.
It had been a fun life for about a year, until some of the guys at work found out the Robin that Don had moved in with was a man. He’d been fired without the word ‘gay’ ever being said. His termination papers had been marked with ‘unprofessional conduct’, but Don was invited to hire a lawyer if he didn’t like it. That was decades ago. People didn’t survive the battle back then. Anyway, it gave him the chance to start his own boat repair business. He liked being his own boss. Life had worked out for him, mostly, though what hadn’t gone right was a pretty big part.
It was the “Robin thing”, as he termed it in his head. Theirs had been a lopsided relationship, with Robin being more in love than Don, turning into a doormat when Don intimated that things might end. Robin had pleaded, cried, made promises to be less clingy. Hard as he tried, Don never could shake Robin off. He had admitted to infidelities and Robin had forgiven him. He had told Robin to move out, but Robin had grilled steaks instead, which Don sat down and ate. Once, Don had packed his own bags and was walking out when Robin had tearfully reminded him that they were both too old and exhausted to be hanging around nightclubs trying to find someone new. It would just look sad. So Don had resigned himself and settled into a life of sameness with the odd indiscretion here and there.
Don felt the dog rubbing her head against his arm. Their beagle, Lucy, would jump on the bed and rub her head against them, always wanting a scalp massage. He felt her head run down his arm again, and again he thought Lucy, and then that thought was followed with the memory of holding her in his arms after finding her lying in the street. Lucy had died years ago.
Don jerked awake in the dark bedroom, suddenly aware that something had been stroking his right arm. He sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. Robin sat cross-legged in the center of the bed. He appeared to be made of cigarette smoke, at least, that’s the description that popped into Don’s head, that a cloud of smoke had been crushed together until it took the form of Robin. It was a little blurry around the edges, but it definitely looked like him. He smiled. Don slapped himself across the face in an attempt to wake up.
“I’m back!,” Robin said. Don looked at him sitting just inches away and slapped himself again.
“I’m baaack!,” Robin said with a bigger smile.
“What the fuck for?” Don blurted out.
Robin was dressed in his favorite blue shirt and loose white shorts, clothes that Don knew he had thrown away just hours ago.
“You got rude as you got old,” Robin said. “Like a mean old cat.”
Don slapped himself hard enough to leave a red handprint on his cheek, but Robin remained.
“Aren’t you going to say something nice?” Robin asked.
“Am I dead too?” Don asked in horror. “Have I died?”
“No, but how typical that you’re worried about yourself instead of marveling that I’ve returned from the grave.”
Don jumped from the bed now, standing there in his underpants as he faced the ghostly Robin. He placed his hand on his heart to see if he felt any strange fluttering. It was racing, but that seemed normal in this situation.
“Why are you here?”
Robin’s smile faltered. Don recognized this. It was always followed by Robin accusing him of being cold and cruel.
“Why do you think I’m here, Oh Love of My Life? I can’t leave you.”
“Why?,” Don asked, ready to take action. “Is there something you need me to do? So you can move on, I mean.”
“No, darling. When I said I can’t leave you, I meant, I won’t leave you. You and me forever, Don Juan.”
Don took this information in and turned it every way he could, trying to find the loophole. After a minute or two he looked at Robin, who was still happily watching him. What did it matter if there were long silences? Robin had all the time in the world.
“You can’t do this,” Don said gently. “You can’t give up the afterlife, or heaven, or whatever you get, just to hang around on Earth with me. I’m not that selfish. You have to go towards the light!”
Robin broke into a pealing laugh, saying, “You are absolutely that selfish! I lived with you for nearly forty years and I know exactly how selfish you are.” He rocked with laughter.
“Robin, you have to go to your just rewards,” Don tried again.
Robin’s smile dropped off his face. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”
“No! I don’t want to keep you here. It’s unfair.”
“Don’t worry about me, darling. By your side is where I want to be. This is my heaven.”
Robin was true to his word. He was by Don’s side every minute Don was in the house, shaking him awake in the mornings and asking that the television be turned to his favorite shows. He stood next to Don while he fixed his meals, admonishing him that frozen dinners every night would give him diabetes and an impacted bowel.
Don had been weighing the merits of retirement when Robin was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and now he was glad he’d put it off. Each morning he practically sprinted out the door to the detached workshop at the top of the driveway. For some reason, Robin couldn’t materialize there, though anytime Don looked up from his work he could see Robin standing at the kitchen window waving at him.
Robin couldn’t clean or do the shopping anymore. He didn’t eat, and he couldn’t cook because he couldn’t grasp or lift solid items. Yet. He could rub Don’s arm, and with practice and concentration, he rolled a pen on the counter. Don feared Robin would continue to get stronger, but right now, he couldn’t even go in the backyard. Robin was tied to the house. He didn’t sleep, but would lie next to Don and talk until Don’s liquor and sleeping pills kicked in. Each night, Robin whispered I love you, Don Juan as Don’s eyes dropped shut.
It was a Tuesday when the man who owned the boat Don had worked on for two months came and picked it up. The man inspected the work and paid Don. He noticed a haze swirling at the kitchen window and pointed it out to Don, thinking there might be a fire inside, but Don waved it off and said he needed to wash the windows. They were filthy. The man hooked his boat to his truck and drove away while Robin waited for Don to come in the house.
As he watched, Robin was just able to see about three feet inside the workshop. He heard tools banging around and saw Don’s hand pulling things from hooks on the wall. He watched as box after box was loaded into the back of Don’s Tahoe, the seats collapsed down to make room for his power tools. Don was packing up his workshop. He brought his small trailer out and loaded his generator.
“I’m outta business,” Don said over his peanut butter sandwich dinner. He had a paper cup of milk on the side and a bottle of Cabernet was opened to breathe.
“Retiring? Finally?” Robin asked. His hand floated over Don’s, who wanted to throw the iciness off him.
“Yep. I’ve found a guy who wants to buy all my tools, parts, everything. He called at the right time. Willing to pay for it too, he’s not getting a deal. We’re going to meet in Raylan tomorrow, halfway between us both. I should get back around three.”
“I’m glad you’re finally hanging it up. Now we can spend more time together.”
Don grunted into his milk.
“But I was thinking,” Robin said. “What about retiring from everything? Just mail the guy the key to the workshop so he can help himself.”
“What are you talking about?”
Robin lightly drummed his fingers on the counter, one of his many irritating nervous habits. “It’s so lonely here all day by myself, and you hate everybody so it’s not like you’re going to suddenly make new friends now that I’m dead.”
“You think I’m anti-social? You should have seen your funeral.”
“You’re sixty-three years old and you don’t take care of yourself. You drink all night, and now you’re taking pills. I’m just saying, well, that you could down the rest of your liquor collection, throw a few pills on top, and you and I would be here together. Forever.”
Don managed to keep the horror off his face, though even he couldn’t say whether the suggestion of suicide or the thought of spending his afterlife being smothered with affection was worse.
“Well,” he calmly said, “I can’t give you an answer at the moment. I’ll have to get back to you on that.” He picked up the wine and poured it to the glass rim.
“You’ve always been careful, Don. Measured. I love that about you.”
The bedside alarm went off at seven the next morning. Robin watched as Don got dressed (Why don’t you shower? Are you bothered that I watch?), had his coffee and toast and put his wallet and phone in his pockets. He turned the television on, then grabbed his cap and faced Robin, who waited by the door.
“Okay, you have a good day.”
“You too. Hurry home, Don Juan.”
Robin watched sitcoms all day. The local news came on around five. He stood at the kitchen window and peeked around the living room curtains, something he wasn’t supposed to do lest the neighbors saw a plume of smoke. As Don said, “We don’t need that shit.” Robin was careful, but he couldn’t help but be worried. By eight o’ clock, he was frantic.
At the same time, Don was thirty miles away, unloading his tools into the garage of his new home. He had walked away from nearly everything he owned just to be able to leave without incident. A crew would show up in two days and clear out the house, then the realtor would begin showing it. Hopefully, Robin would choose Option B, whatever that was.
It was true that Robin had been given a choice when he passed, and he had chosen to absolutely, positively stay with the house. Attaching to a living person wasn’t an option even though that was his intent, to stay with Don, but it was the house or nothing. When the cleaning crew arrived and began taking the furniture, he screamed. Some of them heard something. Something. The television was finally turned off by a woman in a logoed t-shirt, Robin slapping at her hand. The woman rubbed at the sudden coldness of her fingers. They emptied the whole house into a dumpster in the driveway, and that was taken away.
Robin screamed at the realtor who brought strangers into his house. The man heard something, then felt a sudden chill on his cheek as Robin slapped him.
The house has been on the market for over a year. The people who walk through remark on the hazy, dirty air. They notice the cold spots, and the odd noises that must come from expensive plumbing issues, but it’s Robin. It will always be Robin.
Next week: The Shining Twins, the nice side of true crime, and little bitty cocktails. We’re getting down to the last few Autumn Lives Here posts of 2025. All you readers who find me through Google, and there are hundreds of you, why not make it easy on yourself by subscribing to Autumn Lives Here? The posts will drop in your email on Tuesdays, like a weirdo who comes out of the shadows to introduce herself over and over. Everybody likes getting a present.
