Peter's Banjo

When I first moved into my new rental, I had no idea what was in store for me. As with any tightly packed cluster of units, the neighbors can be... well... let's just say they can be an integral part of your daily life.

You meet a few taking out the bins... a few pop up occasionally at the mail boxes. Even coming and going from work or sitting around on a weekend can find you bumping into one or two. Well, this time, my neighbor was not what I expected... or wanted, truth be told. At least not at first.

He was an old fellow. Likely somewhere in his eighties, maybe more. The first time I saw him I was grabbing some groceries from the boot of the car trying to get my little fridge and much-too-small cabinets stocked up properly. We shared the same car port. His car, covered with cobwebs, obviously unused in quite a long time. As I slammed the boot shut, arms full, I heard a voice call out asking if I needed any help. Looking around quickly, I didn't see him at first. Then, leaning against the far side of his car, I saw a head pop up just above the roof line of the car. His hair was grey and a bit disheveled, but his eyes were as bright as... well, have you ever seen a child staring wide-eyed at some candy or a toy through a shop window? Well, that's what greeted me. Eyes bright with wonder.

Still struggling slightly with my too many grocery bags trying to do the 'guy thing' of carrying too much, I just had to be polite. "Good morning."

Using the car for support, a short, very frail man came around the car and with a voice as soft as a summer afternoon breeze replied in the most delightful Irish accent, "Tis a wonderful day. Even more so to see such a wonderful new neighbor."

"Why, thank you. My name is Michael."

"Tis a fine old name, Michael. So very pleased to meet you. And I am Peter," he finished with a slight bow.

I loved how he pronounced my name... but the groceries were heavy. "I'm just getting organized. Perhaps we can chat a little later?"

"T'would be a delight to be sure. You run along and we'll chat later. Oh, and welcome to the neighborhood." With his disarming smile, his lovely voice and surprisingly expressive eyes, I knew at once I was wrong about him... he was going to be a pleasant neighbor.

And so he was. Over the next two months or more, Peter and I caught up every couple of days. Sometimes we'd sit in his back veranda and share a cup of coffee - always an Irish coffee when at his place. At my place, sometimes in the little kitchen and sometimes my back veranda, it was tea or coffee, and as I was a bit of a nut for toffee cookies, we always had a few of those as we talked.

An ex-military man, he seemed to have a lot of stories. None of the horrors of war, but always some silly thing that could make me laugh. From the antics and pranks he talked about, I actually began to think serving in the military could be fun. That is until the day he called me over to his house at about eleven at night. He simply said that he needed some help.

It was his voice that troubled me. It had a quiver to it and a thickness that gave me a chill. I knew something was amiss.

Walking into his living room, he was not in his fancy lifting chair. I called out to him to be answered from down the hallway. In all my time visiting with him, he had never really shown me the rest of his house. I figured it was just a mirror of mine. Well, it was sort of a mirror, except the hallway opened out to three bedrooms, not two like my place. It was a bit larger.

Following his voice further down the hallway, I glanced into the two rooms on the sides. One was just that... a bedroom. The other, however, was outfitted like some sort of art studio. With my quick peek, I could see several artists easels, one with what appeared to be a watercolor with a mountain scene.

Once in his bedroom, my worries were confirmed. It appeared he had fallen to the bedside, and was not able to get up. He had dragged the phone by its cord to himself and he lay there in his skivvies. Like a turtle on its back, it was obvious he was not able to right himself. Hurrying to his side, it only took a moment to get him seated on his bed. This time his voice was so shaky, I knew there was something very wrong. In our previous visits, he always leaned against something for support, always stood and seated himself with the aid of the chair or table. He was obviously more frail than I first considered. I was further startled by the scar that ran from the top of his sternum to disappear beneath the band of his underwear.

Seeing my expression as I proceeded to help him, he muttered something about a wound that got him out of the service. But nothing more was said of that.

After several minutes of him thanking me, offering coffee or ice cream (of all things!) he asked if I could put the phone within reach on his night stand. Making certain he was able to lay down okay, I told him I would check on him in the morning.

"Could you please hand me the writing tablet and pen on the side table?"

"Certainly. Here you go." Waiting for a moment while I watched Peter settle in, I could not help but wonder what had happened to him. I just could not imagine and as was my nature, I didn't want to pry. I was certain whatever had happened to him, if he wanted to tell me, he would have. "I'll check on you in the morning, if you don't mind."

"That would be kind of you. Just let me sleep in till about noon. I need to get a little writing done and expect I won't go to sleep for another couple hours."

"You're okay then?"

"Yes, yes... you run along. I'm sorry to have disturbed you so late."

"Peter, it's not a problem. I'm glad I was here to help. You know if you need anything, you need only shout."

With his wonderfully warm smile and that soft almost smoky voice of his, "Thank you, Michael. Sleep well."

As I settled in for the night, I just could not shake the feeling that Peter was a lot worse off than he acted. Though he needed help through the last few months with taking his trash bins out, helping pack his delivered groceries into the fridge and the cupboards, even the odd errands I would run for him to pick up newspapers and a few trips to the book store for him... tonight was different.

Wandering the house for a little while, I looked out the back window at his back veranda. I could see his bedroom light was still on an hour later. Tempted as I was to go back and check on him, I shook my head in resignation and headed to bed myself.

Sleeping like the dead, I heard nothing all night - which is a little unusual for me. I tend to hear the odd car or truck run up the street in the wee hours of the morning. This morning, however, I was surprised when I rolled over to see sunlight streaming in the bedroom window from a high angle. A quick look at the wall clock and I was even more surprised. It was already ten in the morning. I don't think I've slept that late in years.

Morning ablutions done, dressed, a light breakfast with some extra scrambled eggs for Peter, and I was headed over to greet him and see how he slept. Stepping out my door I was met with another surprise - there were several cars parked along the front of his unit. One, was from the coroner's office.

"Oh, God... no...." escaped my lips. Dropping the plate of eggs on the hall table near my door, I stepped around behind my car to get a better view.

Peter's daughter, whom I'd only met once, was standing there with her hands on her hips. When I walked up to her, she looked over with what I could only call a disgusted look on her face.

"I cannot deal with this crap now. I have to be on a plane in four hours and won't be back for two weeks." Handing me an envelope, "Peter left this for you. I'd appreciate it if you would keep an eye on the place until I can get back and have everything hauled off to disposal." With that, she turned and walked away.

All I could do was stand there in wonder. First, how she could not even call him 'dad' or 'father'. Second, how whatever she was doing was so important that she didn't have time to take care of things here that demanded her attention. When the coroner's men carried Peter out, the stretcher looked as if there was nothing but a skeleton beneath the sheet. They stopped in front of me, one asking, "Your father?"

"No... just a good friend."

"Do you need to say 'good bye'? We can give you a moment if you need it." Pulling back the corner of the sheet to reveal Peter's face, looking for all the world as if he was just napping, "Looks like he went peacefully."

"How did you folks know to come?"

"The lady across the common, she's a bit of a busy body if you ask me. She's always calling the health services to check on him. When she didn't see him moving around his living room this morning, she called emergency services saying there was something wrong, that he never missed getting up at five in the morning. Interestingly, our records show she hasn't called services to check on him in almost three months."

Sitting in my kitchen looking at my empty plate, I remembered Peter's eggs by my front door. When I stood in front of the sink to dispose of them, I started to cry. To this day, I don't think I've been so moved by someone's passing. Must have just been some of the pepper I put in the eggs that got into my eyes.

Seated, cold untouched coffee mug in front of me on the coffee table, I finally reached over for the envelope Peter's daughter had given me. Opening it with shaking hands, I had no idea what he could have said to me in a card or letter. Out of the envelope came a card, a letter, and a key.

Reading the card past tears I could not explain, a very shaky though easily read blocked handwriting told me his story.

"Michael, my son, I wish I had better words for you than what little I can pen at this late hour. Your company has been a joy I have not known much over the past few decades. Estranged from my daughter years ago when she could not handle my going to counseling for an attempted suicide, I've felt very much alone in the world. I tried to poison myself. It stopped my heart and tore up my intestines. But I lived.

Between the anti-depression drugs, the counseling, and the physical deterioration, she has found it more and more difficult to visit. About fifteen years ago, she refused to even bring my grandchildren for a visit.

Spending the hours we have shared in stories of our lives, you have brought a joy to me that I have seldom known. I want to thank you for that. But, alas, I do not know how other than to welcome you into my home one last time and offer for you... perhaps even demand for you... to take whatever of mine you might wish. I can assure you, my daughter will simply have it all taken to disposal without even looking to see what is there.

Look around the house. You will find paintings. Some are mine. Some are purchases from over the years. You must take whatever you wish as they will be destroyed or sold off in op-shops for pennies. I have tools. They are yours. Within my studio, you will find watercolors, painting supplies, calligraphy pens, and framing tools. It is all yours. Take what you can use from the kitchen. I've a very nice set of silverware beneath my bed. It was a gift for my daughter that she refused. You must take it and give it to your daughter, or son, or anyone else you wish.

Michael, my son, there is but one single condition to my offer. In the closet of my studio, you will find a very old plectrum banjo. It is yours, too, with the caveat that you only get it if you take every thing else... and learn to play the banjo for me.

A very good mate of mine from the war gave it to me before he killed himself. His only wish was that I should learn to play it. I was not able. With my increasing infirmity, I just could not make my fingers do what was needed and my memory was failing so quickly it was becoming difficult to learn anything requiring that much dexterity.

Promise me this one thing, and it is yours.

My time is at hand, I can feel it. I bid you good night, safe travels, and that you may continue to find the love and passion you so richly deserve in this life.

Your friend, Peter"

A week later, standing at a grave side attended only by people from the funeral home, as I prepared to walk away, I looked one last time down in the hole, saddened that his life, though full, could be so empty.

With tears once again coursing down my cheeks for some silly reason, a burning sensation in my throat, I whispered, "I promise."

It has now been sixteen years since I said goodbye to Peter. I'm seated in my new home with my son and his wife, my daughter and her husband, and their combined children. One, an eight year old, sits beside me playing Hallelujah on my banjo. My daughter reaches up and touches a tear on my cheek.

I kept my promise, Peter.