King Solomon's Irish Girlfriend

Denise Moriarty was puttering about the kitchen preparing an early supper, when there was a knock at the front door. The gray-haired widow wasn't expecting company, certainly not this late in the afternoon. “Whose there?” she called into the semidarkness. The door opened and an older man dressed in a flannel shirt and denim slacks entered  but lingered in the hallway. She hadn’t bothered with the lights, and in the dusky twilight it was impossible to discern his features. “Do we know each other?” she pressed.

“I should hope so.” The visitor nodded. 

“Sol Kaplan?” Denise uttered in mild disbelief. “Dear god! How long has it been since we last spoke?”

“Five decades… half a hundred years.” He waited a reasonable amount of time to let the words sink in. “I was a senior in high school, you a year younger.” Only now did Solomon step forward and join her at the kitchen table. “I ran into a mutual friend at the grocery market, and she mentioned your recent accident.”

“Fell down the basement stairs lugging a laundry basket full of dirty towels.”

Solomon pointed at the wheelchair she was resting in. “And how long will you need that contraption?”

“Another month or so until the physical therapist gets me situated with a walker.” “Hopefully by the early fall I can negotiate the stairs back to my bedroom on the second floor.” Solomon rose from the table and disappeared out into the hallway, where for the longest time he stared up the stairwell to the oak landing. 

“How long will it take for your leg to completely heal?” 

“I’ll be transitioning to a walker in another few weeks but it could be months yet before I’m strong enough to safely negotiate stairs.”

Solomon seemed baffled. “In the meantime where do you sleep?”

Denise smiled sheepishly. “On the living room sofa or that lumpy Naugahyde  recliner alongside the fireplace.”

“And bathing?”

“I’ve resigned myself to sponge baths at the kitchen sink.” “For sure, it’s an awful arrangement, but there’s little choice. When my husband passed away last year, his social security check evaporated, and I’m just barely able to scrape by now on what little income is left.”

On the kitchen table he noticed a single plate and fork. “I’m interrupting your supper.”

Helen waved a hand dismissively. “No great loss. It’s just a mishmash of day-old leftovers.” 

Solomon rubbed his chin with a poised thumb and index finger. “As I remember, in another lifetime you were crazy for Chinese food… pu pu platters in particular.” 

“What a memory!” Denise chuckled.

“I haven’t eaten much of anything since noon,” he continued, “and there’s a Chinese restaurant not far from here. I could shoot over and be back in no time.”

Denise’s eyes brightened noticeably. “You do that and in the meantime I’ll set the table for my long-lost guest.”

* * * * *

“I went a little bit overboard,” Sol admitted, returning with the bulging bag. He spread the individual cartons out on the table. There were fried wontons, egg rolls, a half dozen beef teriyaki strips on wooden skewers and barbecued spare ribs. “I threw in a separate order of fried crab rangoons for good measure,” he quipped. “What’s left over you can enjoy tomorrow.” Midway through the meal, Solomon pulled a barbecued spare rib from the carton and dipped it in a mix of hot mustard, sweet and sour sauces. “At the restaurant there was this young cashier wearing a burgundy brocade jacket shot through with gold threads.”

“Yes, I know that girl. She’s the owner’s daughter.”

“That angelic creature is about the same age you were when we dated, although with your smattering of freckles, Irish charm and wit, you were far the prettier.” After the meal they shifted into the living room, where they reminisced about incidentals, nothing in particular until Solomon finally asked if he was interrupting her nightly routine.

“What routine?” Denise replied. “I’m crippled-up in a wheelchair with limited resources and absolutely nowhere to go.”

“Then I’ll just stay a bit longer until you’re ready for bed.” Solomon cocked his head to one side with a droll expression. “After half a century I must seem like a doddering, old fool.”

“The unruly mop of curly black hair that tumbled helter-skelter over your ears has thinned away to nothing and there’s the salt-and-pepper beard,  but other than that…” Following a protracted silence she looked him full in the face. “And me?”

“It takes a while,” his words were tinged with pithy humor, “getting used to the new you.” 

“Unfortunately,” she clarified, “the new me is little more than a slapdash arrangement… the dribs and drabs of the old me.”

“More like a vintage wine.” Neither clever nor coy, his words were tinged with laconic candor. As though it was the most ordinary thing to do, he cupped his hand on the side of her head and pulled Denise’s cheek up against his own. A minute passed. He released his grip, kissed her gently on the lips and left the house without further deliberation.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Denise’s sister, Helen visited shortly after noon with a loaf of soda bread and pot of traditional Irish Guinness Stew. “What in the name of God is that fancy contraption over by the stairs?” 

“A motorized stair lift,” Denise replied. “The workmen were here from morning until late afternoon yesterday.”  

“The cost,” she pressed with a worried expression. ‘How much did it set you back?” 

“Thirty-seven hundred dollars, plus installation.”

 Helen gawked at the expensive gadgetry. “Medicare picked up the tab?”

“It features a backup battery in case of power outages,” Denise ignored the question, “and there’s an additional rail extending beyond the last step that makes it much safer to get on and off.” She pursed her lips and nodded with deep satisfaction. “That’s not all. Go look in the upstairs bathroom.”  

Helen climbed the stairs. “Dear God!,” she exclaimed. “A walk-in shower?” The newly-revamped enclosure boasted multiple grab bars, a hand-held shower, spacious bench and entrance large enough to accommodate a manual wheelchair. “If you didn’t pay for any of this,” Helen queried when she returned to the living room, “who the heck did?”

“Solomon Kaplan.”

Dead silence. “Your high school sweetheart?”

“None other!” Denise grinned impudently. “Apparently, he went into the construction trade shortly out of college, and his company handles all sorts of elaborate renovations.”

“Solomon Kaplan, the scrawny Jewish kid,” Helen repeated. “When our hot-headed father came home skunk-drunk, do you remember what he used to say about his kind?” As there was no immediate reply, her sister continued, “The only thing more disgusting than a Protestant was a money-grubbing Jew!” 

“Yes, I remember. The day before New Year’s Eve he told Sol that he was no longer welcome in the home… persona non grata.” Denise laughed darkly. “Well this money-grubbing Jew ignored all my protests and objections to the contrary about installing the luxurious gadgetry.” 

Denise watched as her sister sliced several pieces of soda bread and placed the Irish stew on the stove to warm. “I notice you have a rather well-stocked refrigerator these days,” Helen noted, retrieving a stick of butter from a lower rack.

“Courtesy of the miserly Jew,” Denise repeated with an acerbic smile. “He also mowed the lawn earlier in the week, washed two loads of laundry, and got my groceries.” The light-hearted smile quickly deepened. “He was here all day yesterday, supervising the stairwell installation and before leaving came and sat with me while I fixed a cup of tea. When the tea was finished, Sol continued sitting quietly before finally leaving.” Denise pivoted the wheelchair so she could look her sister full in the face. “You know that phrase ministers use to finalize the wedding vows?”

“With this ring I thee wed,” Helen replied.

“It does quite mean that.” Denise shook her head from side to side. “According to Sol, the final words in biblical Hebrew, mikoodashet lee, mean ‘sacred and beloved’. The true meaning is ‘With this ring you are sacred and beloved unto me.’’’ A handful of tears began to dribble down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. “He said that besides his late wife, there was only one other woman in his life who was truly mikoodashet.” “After saying that he didn’t talk much. Language wasn't necessary, a frivolous distraction.” 

“My husband and I had moments like that before he died - moments of blissful solitude that brushed your soul like an unspoken blessing, a gossamer gift from God or some higher power transcending speech.” Denise glanced up at her sister then looked away. “Solomon… he just sat there quietly sipping his tea, and the silent nothingness evolved into endless solace and joy. There are moments when there’s no need to share your deepest sentiments; far better to keep lips tightly sealed.” The stew was beginning to froth and bubble filling the room with a richly aromatic  redolence, as Helen wandered back to the stove. “I told Solomon that I was a bedraggled and decrepit old fool,” Denise continued, “and that he’d missed out on everything of worth.”

“And what was his response?”

“He said, ‘Not everything, just the past fifty years.’”

“That guy’s a regular comedian… a practical jokester," Helen tittered as she ladled the steamy stew into bowls.

“No, nothing of the sort! You missed the point altogether,” Denise shot back so harshly that the remark set her normally complacent sister back on her heels. “We were high school sweethearts; father wrecked our dreams, but now, like starcrossed lovers, we’re making up for lost time.”