“He just walked in her room and shot her - and then killed himself? In the nursing home?” Les Crumpler asked as he stared at the checkerboard.
“Yep. Guess he couldn’t take it anymore.” Marshall rubbed his chin as he focused on his next move. “She was nearly dead from cancer. He was 88. Wasn’t getting any younger. I suppose he didn’t want to see her suffer anymore and he didn’t want to keep living without her.”
“Gracious,” is all Les could muster.
It was a statewide story this morning. A man in nearby Orangeburg, South Carolina walked into his wife’s nursing home room with a gun. He shot her in the head and killed her in an instant, then he turned the gun on himself. A sad and bizarre tragedy.
“Crown me,” Marshall said.
For the fourth time in as many moves, Les had to put another checker on top of one of Marshall’s red game pieces. Marshall gloated at his gaming expertise. It was one of the few things he could do well anymore. Les studied the table knowing there wasn’t much he could do to salvage a victory against Marshall. He hated checkers and he despised getting beat by Marshall. But for the sixth time this morning, he would have to submit to Marshall’s domination in the ancient board game.
“Why don’t we play chess?” Les asked.
“Told you. Chess is for smart people. Too many rules. Too complicated.”
“I’d hate to strain your brain,” Les whispered to himself.
“What’d you say?” Marshall fiddled with his hearing aid.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
The Bentonville Senior Center was beginning to fill up as the lunch hour approached. Mornings were the prime hours of operation for the older generation’s local hotspot. About twenty retirees came in for coffee and activities between the hours of 8 and 11. That number doubled near dinnertime. After lunch, most folks went home for an afternoon nap.
“What was Garrett thinking?” Les asked.
“I guess he couldn’t stand it any longer,” Marshall replied. “They said he was at Ruthie’s side all day long everyday at the nursing home. She was out of it. Unresponsive. Comatose, I guess you call it. I reckon he’d had enough of it. Tired of seeing his wife miserable and tired of watching her suffer. Heck, he was suffering too. I suppose he decided to end it all for the both of them.”
Les and Marshall pondered their next moves as they reflected on the baffling act of their former acquaintance. Garrett McCombs was a native of Bentonville who moved to Orangeburg in 1995 with his wife Ruthie to be near their youngest daughter. Ruthie’s health had declined and Garrett could no longer care for her at home. She’d been in a nursing home for a couple of years.
“Poor guy,” Les said as he slid a black checker toward Marshall with his crooked index finger. “I hope I don’t lose my mind like Garrett.”
With no hesitation, Marshall reacted to Les’s move with a jump and capture of another black checker. “Who said he lost his mind? Maybe that wasn’t such a bad move? I sure don’t want to sit around and rot away in a nursing home. Maybe he did Ruthie and himself a favor.”
Next to a few events each month at First Baptist Church, the Senior Center was about the only place in the small low-country town where the local senior citizens could gather for food and fellowship. Thanks to a grant by the powers that be in Columbia, a new library was built in Bentonville three years ago, and the old library was converted into a place for the seniors. It was a moldy place with old carpet and paint peeling off the walls. Les called it “Peebles Waiting Room” since the next stop for many of the clientele would be Peebles Nursing Home.
“How could anyone do such a thing?”
“Poor soul, lost his mind.”
“I reckon you go straight to hell for that?”
There were four different groups scattered around the center but each conversation was about the hospital shooting. It was a disturbing story - especially for this crowd.
“Would you boys like some red velvet cake?” Evelyn Turner came over for the third time with another piece of her homemade cake in her hands.
“No, thanks,” the men replied at the same time without taking their eyes off of the checkerboard. Evelyn’s bout with dementia was becoming more and more apparent each day. The men tried to be sympathetic to her, but Evelyn’s repetitious questions and conversations wore them out at times. Her once beloved cakes were a little scary, too, since her disease had a tendency to disrupt her cooking skills. Besides, it was almost lunchtime. Dessert would come later.
The Center was buzzing with retirees scattered around in bunches giving reports on their latest ailments, prescriptions, and doctor’s visits. A few men were discussing the events of the day as reported in the Bentonville Courier. Les overheard Ben Thurmond and Nate Cooper in their daily banter about politics. Ben spoke for the Republicans and Nate proudly defended President Clinton and the Democrats. If the two men were a few years younger, they would have probably squared off by now in a fistfight that would mark one of the most exciting days at the Bentonville Senior Center. But they could only feud with their tongues now. The ongoing debate was probably a good thing for Ben and Nate. It kept their blood pumping and gave them a reason to stay current with the news, but for the innocent bystanders at the Center their daily partisan “discussions” had become a little annoying.
“If Ronald Reagan was so smart,” Nate Cooper said, “Why didn’t he get us ready for this Y2K thing in the 1980’s? The world might come to an end in December and our blood will be on his hands.”
Ben Thurmond huffed. “You’re going to blame Y2K on Reagan? If Bill Clinton would pay attention to what’s going on in the world and quit chasing every short skirt that walks in the White House, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
By 11:30, enough food had been delivered and the smell of lunch overtook the musty smell of the converted library. The local Council on Aging provided the meat, two vegetables, and drinks each day, but last year the ladies of the Center created a schedule that required a few people to bring dishes to add to the feast. So every weekday the seniors enjoyed a nice spread of food at no cost to them.
“Dinner’s ready,” one of the ladies in the group pronounced. “Marshall, would you like to say the blessing?”
“Marshall,” Les poked him in the shoulder to get him out of his checker’s trance. “They want you to say grace.”
“Grace? Grace who?”
“They want you to say the blessing today,” Les said.
“Oh, okay.” Marshall cleared his throat as he stood and faced the lunch crowd. He took his John Deere cap off, clasped his leathery hands in front of him, and said, “Let’s pray.”
