The Between Years

the cusp of Alzheimer's, though Randy was sure he was completely afflicted with the disease. Bupa had never let Randy's dad take him to be diagnosed. After his lapdog Sparky died, he had only Britcoms like Coronation Street to keep him company. A retirement home would have been a safer place for him-the whole family agreed on that-but he wouldn't give up the house that had been passed down through the generations, and Randy understood why. Built in 1830, the house had been inhabited only by his family. For anyone else to live there seemed blasphemous.

    Last year, Randy's Dad had taken McDonald's to the house for dinner. Randy remembered him being concerned with how the meal would affect his sugar, but he figured there was little use in living if you couldn't enjoy your favorite meals. According to Dad, the visit was like any other, with the old man muttering with a mouth stuffed full of Big Mac. First, he carried on about the war then he asked when Nana was coming home. Except he added that he didn't feel well and hadn't all week. His confession to several bouts of vomiting that day alarmed Dad. Dad asked him if he wanted to go to the emergency room, but he refused. The next morning, Dad returned to the house to find Bupa collapsed at the top of the stairs.

    Now, Randy realized he was the final generation to live in the house because he had no one to pass it on. The line stops here, he told himself. Of course, that would have happened anyway, he decided, since no family member would tackle the place, and the property would be on the market shortly. Yet nothing inside the house had been touched, and no one had changed a thing.

    Randy grabbed a half-bottle of water from his duffel bag, unscrewed the cap, and took a long gulp to slake his thirst. He wanted more, but he felt like an anvil had been tied to his ankles, and wouldn't be released until he got at least a few hours sleep.

    Then he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and let them hit the floor. He hauled his shirt over his head then checked the blind to make sure no one could see him. Once he stretched, he flopped onto the couch and pulled the afghan over himself. At first, he felt relieved, since his muscles and joints finally had a chance to rest, but the dust forced him to constantly scratch his arms, chest, back and ass. Still, he preferred this to the Holiday Inn, since he could imagine the despair a hotel room would bring, not to mention the burden on his wallet.

    He closed his eyes. At first, he heard only the furnace rattling, and the odd car that whipped past the house. He felt too tired to not immediately fall asleep, but he drifted a while, and decided he would have to take sleep as it came. After all that had happened, an uneventful sleep seemed like too much to ask for.

CHAPTER 7
    Randy's watch read 2 p.m. when he woke. His eyes had fluttered open several times throughout the day, but he closed them quickly and refused to roll off the couch. Now he decided he would happy with the six hours of spotty sleep he achieved instead of the ten hours of solid sleep he wanted. He sat up, stretched, cracked his knuckles and stood up. His head felt heavy and he rubbed the crusty stuff out of his eyes.

    When he stepped into his pant leg, and pulled his jeans up to his waist, he felt the cell phone bulge from his pocket. He fished it out of his pocket, flipped it open, but hesitated before turning it on. Then he slid the phone back into its pouch and stuffed it back in his pocket. He decided he wasn't ready to call Carol yet, and he wasn't ready to listen to voice mail message from her either. That wasn't stubborn in his opinion; that was just making sure he said nothing he would regret.

    Randy would admit that one evening had made a difference, and that he was thinking clearer now than he had been last night. A few hours of sleep had calmed his nerves and offered him a clearer perspective. His hands no longer shook and he had lost the urge to grit his teeth or strike anyone. That was progress as far as he was concerned.

    He slipped out to the Avondale, whose parking lot had offered a safe haven to him and his car last night, to pick up something modest to eat. He would do more substantial grocery shopping later, when he had more energy. The Avondale was only a block away from the house anyway. A bag of Doritos, a bottle of ginger ale, a carton of milk, and some Hostess cupcakes would suffice for now. Normally he preferred fruits and veggies, but