Our crumbling minds

“Margie, Margie wake up.” Marg can feel Lenny’s breath coat the outside of her lips like a thick mustard. Lenny hasn’t brushed his teeth in days. She wants to tell the nurses, but she knows it would only make Lenny angry. Besides, what’s the point. There is no one to impress anymore. Well, except her.

“Just a second Lenny.” Marg peels her eyes open slowly. A few of her eyelashes are meshed together. They feel crusty. She doesn’t mind though, it’s the sign of a good sleep.

“Margie, Margie hurry up!” Lenny wraps his deeply lined hand around Marg’s and tugs on her wrist, with what he thinks is enough strength to pull her out of bed.

Margie plays along. She holds down the electric button to lower the rails on her bed and slides herself out in one swift motion. Before Marg can finish pulling on her cardigan Lenny thrusts the little black book in front of her face.

“Look! I’ve finally worked it out! I’ve got it!” Lenny points to a diary entry scribbled down in cursive font. It is dated 12 March 1943.

Instantly, without reading the diary note, Marg realises what Lenny is talking about. She knows how to contort her lips so that Lenny is convinced that this is as new to her as it is to him. Without saying a word, she lets Lenny lead her out of their room and down the corridor.

“I knew it was there. I knew it,” Lenny mutters under his breath. “Aren’t you excited to get away from here Margie?”

Marg holds her bony finger up to her lips, hushing Lenny. She knows that if the nurses interrupt Lenny’s quest he will lose his mind. For now, Lenny stays quiet. He slips his fingers between Marg’s. Their knuckles slide together perfectly, as if the bones from each of their hands have ever so slightly worn down from all the years of being intertwined.

Lenny pushes on the door leading out into the garden. It clicks gently behind them. Marg instinctively begins walking over to the oak tree. Its branches are outstretched, as if awaiting Marg and Lenny’s familiar embrace. She quickly stops herself, remembering this is Lenny’s quest. It’s all meant to be new to her.

“No Margie, over here.” Lenny summons her to the other side of the tree. “It should be right here”.

Just like a young boy digging in a sand pit, Lenny drops to his knees and starts shifting the dirt from under him with nothing but his bare hands. Soil starts to fill the gaps under his nails and scratches begin to accumulate between the wrinkles on his hands. He keeps going.

Marg’s eyes linger on Lenny, desperate to return his dignity to him. She knows though, that she must wait.

“It has to be here. Dad wrote that he buried it under the biggest bulging root of the oak tree. This looks like the biggest one, doesn’t it Margie?”

Marg nods slowly.

Lenny continues flinging dirt everywhere. The soil is soft from the heavy downpour yesterday, making the digging easier than last week. Lenny’s elbows are now invisible, plunged into the depths of the hole he has dug.

“This is it,” Marg thinks to herself. Any moment now.

Lenny sighs heavily. The very outer corners of his eyes droop down, defeated. Lenny looks up at Marg. The glimmer of her diamond ring catches his eyes. He grabs a fistful of dirt and flings it, with as much strength as he can muster, against the tree trunk. This is Marg’s queue.

“Lenny darling, look where we are.” Confusion spills out of Lenny’s eyes. “This is our home now, remember darling.”

Marg slides herself down beside Lenny and pulls his head onto her shoulder with just enough force to let him know she’s taking charge.

“Remember you brought me this ring?” She wiggles the ring around on her finger. It is looser now, but it still manages to sit underneath her arthritis ridden knuckle. Lenny hasn’t caught on yet.

“Remember Lenny. You stole your dad’s diary and dug up the money he was hiding in the backyard. You brought me this ring and we ran away together. We got our house on Maine street. Come on Lenny, I know you remember, I know it.

Marg pulls the little black notebook out of Lenny’s pocket, and opens it up to the page dated 12 March 1943. She shows him the year and then holds Lenny’s left wrist up, so that his watch face is on display. She points to the tiny square that keeps track of the date and year.

“Look, Lenny. 2021.” Marg brushes her hand against the back of Lenny’s head where little tufts of hair are sprouting out. It’s her favourite spot.

“You found the money Lenny. You did it.”

Lenny doesn’t say a word. He sits with his head perched on Marg’s shoulder staring at the bulging root of the oak tree.