St Vincents (2019)
Short Story by Bronte Cormican-Jones
Worn Collection
The cool orange bricks and one dimensional blue panelling are more safe than inviting. The glass door has adverts for maths tutoring and missing dog notices sticky taped on the inside. It scrapes the tiled threshold as you push it open.
St Vincent’s on Darling was reopened two years ago and by now it’s home to almost half the town. Its rooms are full but often quiet. There’s a tinny speaker set by the desk that plays the same summery CD on repeat every morning and afternoon until someone switches it off. The residents are allowed to rest their ears before tomorrow’s renditions of Surfer Girl by The Beach Party Boys cover band begin again.
You get a whiff of a hundred past lives with an overtone of aging people’s forgotten showers, mothballs and crusty carpets. The whole place smells lived in, but hardly alive.
The staff are friendly. Some are volunteers. A young man behind the desk smiles as you walk inside.
There are even more residents than last time you visited. Some are resting and enjoying time to their memories. Others treat the place as a refuge between lives. Many are aged but some still live in their youth years, and fewer still are young.
Beside the door stands a woman at her wedding. The wedding’s over now and so is her marriage.
The hatstand hangs David Chen every Monday-Friday for twelve years. Head attorney but now retired. His lining is worn thin but he was expensive in his day. He’s filling his briefcase with important documents to finish off when he gets home. He’s walking to the train. His steps are slightly too long. Someone once told him that confident men take long strides. David’s confident he will miss his train.
Beside Mr Chen, dangling from her ribbon, Julie Morgan lazes and gazes. She’s perched herself at a suitable height for nosing with uppity authority. Julie’s frills were the talk of the town in her youth. You see her swing down and float along at the front of the October March. She’s been chosen to wave the flag in time with the marching band. It’s a little windy and Julie’s struggling to wave back and forth on the second and fourth beats of When the Saints, but she’s wearing a pleasing smile. Her ribbons flick up into her mouth and she spits them out. Pleasing smile. But Mrs Morgan’s daughter helped with the spring clean last year, and frills are so old fashioned, Mum.
You rummage through the men. The Gibson boys are only fastened at one hip. The other one has slipped out of its peg and drew their fly down. Their left leg drags impolitely on the floor, folded at the ankle. You fix the situation (peg, fly, button), and move on. There are many more to see before the end of your visit.
Mr Cartier, returned from New York, sits lost under the glass counter. His hands are stuck still. Arthritis. Despite his smooth face, you can tell he’s aged. His back is dented. His face is heavy and he has lost that thing that makes him tick.
Molly May Funk is now Molly Hendricks. At her latest husband’s idea, Mrs May Funk sits in memory and plain sight in a plain ring box, open, under the glass counter. She shines of church bells and five years dancing holding hands. She’s vacant now. Hollowed out and unoccupied.
Molly Hendricks is here too. She lives in the back room. Mrs Hendricks is having a baby. Her skirt is one of those maternity one’s that stretches around the middle, with violent paisley and a violet trim. Molly sits down on her lounge. Baby Hendricks is kicking and it hurts. Mr Hendricks will be home in the next hour and she hasn’t started dinner yet but being pregnant is hard work and Molly doesn’t want to think about food.
You walk past Liam in his emo phase and Emily on that day when she realised she wasn’t cool enough to be channelling retro 70s vibes. She gives you an uncomfortable smile. Help. This isn’t me. Flared sleeves? Who do I think I even am? Poor Emily. You’ve caught her on a bad day. Annie’s hanging near them, before kids, unafraid of her own skin.
You’ve found Rory at his high school dance, his first job interview at O’Sullivans, his brother’s wedding on the boat, that fancy French dinner and night at the Carman Opera for his anniversary with Kate, the 80s dress up party that ended up not being dress up. Rory’s playing it cool. His brown on brown suit looks fine. It’s not that obvious he’s even came in costume.
Doug’s folded his arms and is resting his frame on the table. His screws are coming loose and his brow is slightly crooked from squinting habits. His dark eyes are clouded over. Deep in thought? Asleep? Doug is back at the pool. 19. The end of a summer saving two kids from nearly drowning, handing out countless bandaids to the kids who ignored “walk, don’t run” signs, and changing lane ropes at 10am when the free swim section ate into the laps. He puts his sunglasses on. In the fourth lane, twin girls and a boy with prescription goggles are learning to splash their feet faster, faster with a kickboard. A lady in a swim skirt is trying to climb the ladder back out of the pool. Her daughter helps by pushing and lifting whilst her granddaughter laughs and rolls her eyes. Nan’s too old for the pool. If anything, she might be fit enough for aqua-aerobics at the nursing home.
Visiting is nearly over at St Vincent’s. The man at the desk has turned off the music. The residents are still. You haven’t chosen anyone to take home with you this week. That’s hardly charitable of you.