Page 5 of Caesar DeLuca
What I really need is my peace and quiet.
“I like where I live,” I say aloud.
“Then you should visit more often than once a month. I could barely drag you out for tonight.”
“I had to come for Ms. Gladys’s birthday celebration.”
Ms. Gladys, who has largely remained preoccupied with her fat slice of velvet cream cake, looks up at me with frosting on her lip. “Hmmm, what was that?”
“For Christ’s sake, Gladys, when are you going to get that hearing aid fixed?” snaps Mrs. Bev. “It’s been five whole years of you going ‘hmmm’ and ‘huh’ to every dang thing.”
“You’re one to talk. You’re still strolling around with that stiff hip of yours that needs replacing.”
I can barely keep myself from laughing as the older women trade barbs. Aside from a handful of their sons and daughters in attendance, I’m the youngest dinner guest by several decades.
But it’s not something I regret.
It’s something I’m perfectly fine with—my only real friends in Kittatinny are the old folks that frequent the town’s community center. Many of them were, once upon a time, my patients when I was a registered nurse.
For most of my adult life, I lived to take care of others. I worked endless hours, toiled away nonstop, and devoted myself to my career. It was in my nature to do the line of work I chose. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a nurturing spirit.
To this day, I’m sensitive, with a big heart.
Exactly why I learned the hard way I needed to do what I have. I needed to take a step back from the life I was living and do what was best for myself for once.
I removed myself from everything.
…and everyone.
I saved up enough money and bought a small home literally out in the middle of nowhere. My closest neighbor’s not for miles. It takes me an hour just to drive into town. Much longer than that to drive anywhere else in the state.
To those like Mrs. Beverly and Mr. Craig, it makes no sense. It’s downright strange why I’ve isolated myself. I spend almost all my time exclusively in my own company, and I’ll usually only show my face once a month when I journey into town for supplies and other errands.
They don’t understand it’s preserved my sanity. It’s saved my life. I’m not sure I would’ve survived if I hadn’t removed myself from society.
Tonight has been a rare exception.
Ms. Gladys was turning the big eight-zero and Mrs. Beverly insisted on hosting a sit down dinner for her. But as the snowflakes swirl outside and the hour grows later, I’m aware it’s time for me to go.
“You can always stay with us,” Mr. Craig says, patting my shoulder. “We have a spare bed. It’d be nice to have you stay.”
Mrs. Bev nods. “Craig’s right. I’d put you up in the room with cable.”
“How about with us?” Ms. Gladys says. “I can make the twins share and open up a room.”
“No thank you. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. Besides, I’m taking the weather report seriously—that blizzard is already on its way.”
“At least let Craig drive with you. He could follow in his pickup.”
I wave off the rest of their offers over the next few minutes. We trade hugs and goodbyes (reluctantly on their end), and I head toward the door, bracing for the brutal cold. It smacks into me in the form of a heavy gust of wind that’s bone-chilling enough to penetrate the warm, furry-hooded parka I’m wearing.
I shudder and wrap my arms tight around myself as I pad through the thickening snow toward my RAV4.
The roads are a barely salted, ice-riddled disaster.
My windshield wipers and snow tires work overtime trying to navigate the terrain.
I drive extra slow, careful and focused the entire time. I’m the only person on the roads. No other travelers, not even any truckers, come through. Normally, having the roads all to myself is a perk.
