A houseboat. Finegan Fine

standing in the doorway, holding the crooked screen door open. She is

wearing a man’s shirt that is too large for her, bound at the waist by

a tie, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She has a long colorful

skirt beneath, and is barefoot. Several cats run in and out of the room

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as she opens the door. Finegan jerks his head to the side at the sound

of her voice.

Finegan Fine here, mam, trader. Perhaps I have

something you’ve been looking for, something

you need.

The manager says,

Oh, I don’t know. Unless you’re a floating

pharmacy. You that houseboat down there? The

one piled with, ah . . boy, you do come loaded.

What’all you got?

Finegan smiles and says,

Don’t rightly know, mam, until I do inventory.

As I said, I’m a trader, and I find I can rise

to any occasion.

Finegan stops short at this point, all but putting his hand to his

mouth, realizing they are flirting with each other and dropping

innuendoes. The manager catches this too, and tries to put the

conversation back on a safe footing.

Well, ah, we’ve got a retirement home here, old

folks. Mostly what they’re missing is

medication, but those that suffered from that

passed early. Now I’m here as head nurse with a

hardy lot. Old, but hardy.

The manager steps through the doorway into the driveway circling the

complex and motions to Finegan and Joey to follow her.

Come on back, I’ll show you.

______________________________

The nursing home vegetable garden is at the back of the complex. Most

of the gardens are raised beds, long rectangular beds formed by a heavy

lumber posts laid horizontally on top of one another, held firm by

stakes along the outside driven into the ground. The wall is two feet

tall with soil in the interior of the bed. There is a pipe running down

the center of each bed for watering with a spigot at one end. The pipes

have holes punched into them so water sprays out down the length of the

pipe. In between the beds is what was intended to be lawn, but it has

not been mowed in ages. Instead, there are wheelchair tracks and a path

between the beds, from use.

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Several oldsters are tending the garden. Half are in wheelchairs, which

pull alongside the beds so the oldsters can simple reach over and pull

weeds or collect produce or whatever. Some oldsters are using walkers

and sit on the edges of the beds. The beds were intended to be

accessible and to not require bending down, designed for the

handicapped or aged.

Finegan and the manager are followed by a curious Joey who is trying to

get the many cats to come up to him. He bends over and calls to them,

but they are illusive though interested and keep circling him. The

manager is pointing while talking.

We were fortunate, having these put in ahead of

time. And we saved the seed, year to year. All

those things were therapy, physical therapy.

We’d make a big deal out of it, sorting seeds

into plastic zip bags and labeling them,

sharing them with family. Now it’s proved to be

a Godsend.

Some of the oldsters turn their heads at their approach and smile and

wave. Finegan asks,

What do you do for meat?

The manager puts her finger to her mouth, a shush motion, and in a low

voice replies.

I’ll tell you later.

Finegan and the manager have been walking along the path, which circles

around and returns to the complex buildings. They are approaching some

benches along the path. The manager sits down, patting the seat next to

her for Finegan to do likewise. She looks down the path to be sure no

one is close enough to hear.

You can see we’ve got cats. We’ve got a

population explosion.

The manager glances at Finegan’s face, prepared to drop the bomb and

wanting to see if he’s ready for it.

I’ve got several female cats that bring me

their catch. It’s the females that hunt. . .

Must be a rat population explosion somewhere,

as they rarely fail to deliver. Every morning,

there they are, dead rats, fresh meat, on my

doorstep.

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She glances at Finegan’s face again.

Well, it’s protein! I cook it to death, meat

falls off the bone, mix it into the soup that’s

supper every night. . . No one’s died yet.

Finegan leans back against the bench back, putting one foot up on the

other knee, relaxed. He says,

I’m sure you’re not the only one. . . Don’t you