Northridge Long-Term Care was a humble building. Its roughly 5 000 square feet of housing were crumbling around the edges, its gardens were overrun by weeds, and its plumbing malfunctioned more often than it worked. No doubt the modest little facility undermined the state’s building code, but either the municipal officials couldn’t be bothered to care, or the Northridge staff found enough loopholes to get around the bylaws. The building was in a small neighbourhood afterall, and despite many an onlooker’s apprehensions, its residents were contented in the tight-knit community they found themselves in. Each of the staff members knew each of the residents by name, and if anything, it was more like a summer camp than it was a retirement home.
And if Northridge Long-Term Care was a summer camp, then Mr. Dalton Conners, one of the more senior residents, played the role of the outsider. In one sense or another, all social gatherings— big or small, old or young— have one, and retirement homes are certainly no exception. Mr. Conners fit the description flawlessly.
It wasn’t that his appearance was particularly unusual. In fact, his was comparable to that of any of the other residents. He was of average height, and like the majority of his peers, most of his features were masked behind the wrinkles and sagging skin that manifested in his old-age. Mr. Conners’ peculiarity lay not in his looks, but rather in his behaviour. He was quiet and reserved, and besides the bi-weekly dance classes (which he attended but never participated in) he kept to himself.
Northridge Long-Term Care had no record of any of Mr. Conners’ relatives, as all of the Conners had long since either passed or moved away, so with no visitors to entertain him and few friends to amuse him, Mr. Conners spent most of his time alone in his room. He would sit on his rocking chair for hours, staring at the wall with his heavy eyes glazed over, sometimes humming tunelessly to himself, but more often silent. Whenever someone made efforts to engage him in conversation, an occurrence that was far less likely than it once was, he showed no signs of acknowledgment.
Indeed, Dalton Conners seemed to dwell in his own desolate realm, which existed somewhere between ignorant bliss and amnesic helplessness.
In fact, at one point Northridge saw it fit to bring in a neurologist, a middle-aged beer-bellied balding-at-the-crown doctor, to run some diagnostic tests for amnesia. Nothing amounted from them except that Mr. Conners became somewhat of an anomaly. Because even though he failed every attempt at cognitive testing, the MRIs, CT scans, and blood tests all came back negative. Poor Mr. Conners was not blind but unseeing, not deaf but unaware, not mute but silent. And after that disheartening visit from the doctor, it could be said with certainty that although he was not amnesic, the empty, unfortunate soul lacked retentive memory.
One evening— well enough into December that mistletoe hung with flourish from the banisters, and yet not so late into the season that the early nights and wintry weather had begun to take its toll— the residents of Northridge were being ushered into the corridor by nurses and staff alike clad head-to-toe in Christmas colours.
“We’ve got a special treat lined up for you guys,” Mrs. Hanson, the receptionist said with hushed excitement. She was pushing a woman’s wheelchair down the hallway where the rest of the residents were congregating, and as she walked, she leaned down to speak clearly into the woman’s ear. “I think you’re really gonna like it.”
Mrs. Hansen helped the woman park her chair, then headed up to the front of the crowd with the rest of the staff. “Right then, is that everyone?” she asked one of the nurses, clasping her hands and smiling towards the assembly of wheelchairs and walkers.
“Almost,” was the hesitant reply. “Did you want us to bring, you know…” the nurse nodded her head in the direction of Mr. Dalton Connors’ firmly closed door. Unlike the entrances to the other residents’ rooms, Mr. Connors’ door wasn’t adorned with photographs of grandchildren, Christmas cards from loved ones, or childhood knickknacks. Other than the nametag fixed to the exterior, the door was completely bare.
The staff looked at the door and then at each other.
“Alright folks, that’s everyone!” Mrs. Hansen declared, clapping her hands together and addressing the expectant crowd. “Some of you have probably heard of Lillian Public School, just down the street from here.” A few excited claps and smiles emerged from the group. “Well, we have a few carolers from L.P.S. waiting in the lobby to sing to you folks.” As the receptionist, Mrs. Hansen was relatively unused to addressing the seniors at Northridge, and her voice had an inflection not unlike that of a grandparent addressing an infant, or a child addressing a puppy.
At Mrs. Hansen’s invitation, a group of fifteen or twenty schoolchildren ranging in age from kindergartners to preteens, arranged themselves— altos on the left, sopranos on the right, and tenors and basses centerstage— and opened their songbooks. Each of them stood perfectly stone-faced and mannerly, a conduct which held far more pertinence in a classroom than in a Christmas concert, but which all the children conducted nonetheless.
All but one, that is. Though his peers held themselves as stiff and as rigid as posts on a fence, Oliver Jones’ drooping posture betrayed his indignation. He was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed 12-year-old schoolboy with a dimpled babyface and boyish freckles. His choir uniform, which he wore with obvious objection, hung from his skinny, twig-like limbs like curtains from a rod.
Oliver’s discomfort wasn’t born out of sheepishness nor insecurity, but rather from the impression that singing Christmas carols with 5-year-old “babies” for a bunch of “old geezers” (as he would have put it) was below him. Nevertheless, he took out his songbook with the rest of his classmates, and mouthed the words listlessly.
“God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.
Remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas day.”
Despite Oliver’s spiritless contribution, the children’s voices carried the haunting melody through the ancient retirement home. It trickled down the corridor down like a brook, washed past the peeling wallpaper on which generations of dust had settled, and crept into the crumbling skeleton framework of the building itself.
“To save us all from Satan’s pow’r when we had gone astray,
O tidings of comfort and joy.”
Some of the less senior residents sang along as best they could, some clapped rhythmlessly, and still others listened contentedly, eyes closed and mouths smiling.
“From God our Heavenly Father a blessed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same.”
From somewhere in the audience, an older woman started laughing brightly, and though the noise had escaped from lips that were cracked and shrunken with age, the laugh’s timbre was as youthful and ecstatic as that of a child in a chocolate shop. Mrs. Hansen started towards the woman to prevent further outburst, but another round of laughter had the receptionist doubling back, smiling to herself and shaking her head.
“How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name.
O tidings of comfort and joy.”
Oliver Jones was less charmed by the woman’s burst of joy, and exasperation finally taking over, he rolled his eyes and pulled away from the group. His getaway was made easy, because his tenor voice— which had him at the center of the choir— as well as his lanky build— which had him at the back— allowed him to slip away unnoticed. With every disoriented step the boy took through the unfamiliar hallway, the echo of children’s dulcet voices faded further and further into the distance, and eventually it was replaced by a soft, ethereal voice, so angelic that it outdid the children’s choir entirely.
“‘Fear not then,’ said the angel. ‘Let nothing you affright.’”
The voice was coming from inside a firmly closed door. Compared to the other doors Oliver had walked begrudgingly past, this one was unusually bare. There weren’t any of the grainy black-and-white pictures, Get Well Soon cards, or plastic ornaments that were plastered across the other entrances, and had it not been for the tiny voice escaping through the gap at the bottom, Oliver would have taken the room for a supply closet or a staff washroom.
“‘This day is born a Saviour of a pure virgin bright.’”
Unsure of what was moving him to do so, Oliver slowly turned the doorknob and poked his head tentatively inside. The room was musty and dark, but through the light that poured in from the fluorescently-lit hallway, Oliver could make out two sunken, half-closed eyes staring back at him from a rocking chair in the corner.
“Hello?” Oliver said in a hushed voice. It didn’t seem appropriate to disturb the ghostly ambiance.
The man slowly lifted his head and turned his grey eyes towards his unexpected visitor. “Who’s there?” he croaked. Unlike the divine resonance of his singing voice, his speech was ancient and cracked with age. “Who are you?”
“I’m Oliver, sir. I’m one of the carolers,” the boy introduced himself, before his conscience prompted him to add, nonchalantly, “well, not really. I don’t exactly sing.”
“Pity.” The man sighed. His voice’s cadence was choppy, and he seemed to select his words carefully as though each one was of acute cruciality.
“There ain’t nothin’ pitiful about it,” Oliver scoffed, suddenly defensive. His recalcitrance had always been met with discipline by teachers, admiration by friends, even mockery by peers, but it had certainly never been ‘pitied’ by anyone. “I got plenty to fill my time without affiliating with them sissies.”
“Seems as you do,” the man concurred, although by the way he gazed exaggeratedly around the dreary, lifeless bedroom, it was clear that he didn’t consider his own company to be any worthier of Oliver’s time than that of a bunch of ‘sissies.’ “If you don’t sing, then why are you in your little choir in the first place?”
“My mother enrolled me. Said it would be a ‘humbling experience,’ singin’ for you folks.”
“Reckon you should obey her. Might do you a world of good.”
“Reckon you should mind your own business,’ Oliver retorted. He had briefly forgotten he was in the presence of a man who was altogether stranger, elder, and host. Any of those titles alone would have been reason enough for Oliver to behave himself, but together, they should have produced in him a perfect gentleman.
“Might do you a world of good,” the man repeated. He was looking at the carpeted floor, but something told Oliver he wasn’t fully present. An angonizingly silent moment passed, and the man lifted his eyes once more. On meeting Oliver’s gaze, a bewilderment passed over his face. “Who are you?” he demanded, visibly perplexed.
“Uh, I’m Oliver, remember? Oliver Jones.”
“What are you doing here, Oliver Remember Oliver Jones?” His voice had a new, almost accusatory tone that contrasted his previous far-off way of speaking. “Shouldn’t you be off singing with the rest of your little group?”
“I couldn’t be bothered to finish the concert.” Oliver stated, equally confused as he was intrigued.
“Pity,” the man said once again, this time with unmistakable contempt. “What I wouldn’t give to have a sturdy set of lungs like yours.”
“Why, your singing is simply brilliant. I daresay it should be you out there leading the choir.”
“Don’t suppose they be needin’ me out there.”
“Why not?” Oliver asked imploringly.
“I dunno,” the man said, bluntly. Narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, he added, “Just don’t go missing out while ya still have the choice not to.” He nodded in the direction of the singing schoolchildren, whose final verses could barely be heard over the hum of the ceiling fan and the rocking of the man’s chair.
“I don’t suppose they do need you out there,” Oliver mused, consciously avoiding any talk of his singing and purposefully directing the conversation back to the man. “Although I don’t suppose they need any of ‘em other old folks either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well they’re gettin’ paid to look after you, ain’t they? So maybe it ain’t really about their needs after all.” Oliver wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at, but he couldn’t help thinking back to that radiant, transparent laughter from the woman in the hallway. “Seems to me you need that music in here more’n anyone.”
“Who are you?”
“What are you playing at? I’m O-L-I-V-E-R. I’m trying to help you.”
“Hello, Oliver.” The man closed his eyes and nodded his head enthusiastically to the distant melody. “Listen. Ya hear that? Wonder where it’s comin’ from.”
“Quit jokin’ around.”
“It’s a beautiful tune, ain’t it?”
Oliver’s bafflement mingled with his exasperation. “It’s ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’ You were just singing it before.”
“It sounds perfectly elegant.” And then once more, “who are you?”
“I’m— oh, what does it matter.”
“Who are you?” the man repeated. “What are you doin’ here?” Genuine terror started to creep across his face until his eyes were wide and his body was tense. “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded again.
“I’m on my way out,” Oliver whispered. He made his way to the exit, knowing better than to further trigger the man’s fluster. He reached the door, and as he turned the knob, he paused to look back at the old man. “You know, you should really take your own advice. That is, don’t go missing out while you still have the choice not to.” At that, Oliver turned from his erratic host, slipped into the hallway, and gently closed the plain, undecorated door behind him. As soon as the door clicked shut, an astoundingly breathtaking melody emerged once again from behind it.
“Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place.
And with true love and brotherhood, each other now embrace.”
Oliver turned and ran down the hallway, songbook in hand, to catch up with the rest of his classmates just as they were chanting the hymn’s final chorus.
This "aged" well
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