A Tug on the Sleeve

A Tug on the Sleeve

Noel Laflin
3-29-18

(from a longer piece  -  now just the ending)

Luggage had been checked in and Eric was resting comfortably in the wheelchair, as Frieda sat beside him.

Our old neighbors of twenty-five years were departing for Germany, a country much changed since their having departed there in 1929.

But as Eric was dying, and fearing for his wife’s well-being once she was on her own, they decided to head back to the land of their birth where distant relatives – ones they had never even met - would receive and care for them nonetheless.

“I think I’ll find the men’s room,” my dad said, as the four of us waited for a boarding call.  

My dad pulled me aside before he went in search of the restroom.

“Don’t let Eric give you any money while I’m gone,” he whispered.  “I know him, and he’ll wait till I leave.  We are not being paid for this, understand?”

“Got it, dad.  You better hurry.  They may be calling this flight soon.”  He dashed off.

 As soon as my father had disappeared, I felt a tug on my coat sleeve.  Eric pulled me toward him and leaned his face into mine.

“Don’t tell your papa that I gave you this.”  He pushed four folded twenties into my hand.

“Eric, I can’t accept this,” I said, hoping he’d talk me out of my less than fervent refusal.

“Jost take it, boy!” he growled.  “Don’t tell your papa.” 

 With that final admonition, he coughed and pushed himself back from me.  I pocketed the money.  I looked behind me and saw my father returning.

“Everything OK?” he asked, looking suspiciously at Eric and me.

“Ja, ja.  All’s goot,” said the stoic little German, looking threateningly at me.

“Hunky dory, dad,” I said.  I felt the eighty bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Just then the Lufthansa flight number was announced.

We wheeled Eric to the front of the line and were about to hand his care over to a flight attendant.  Hurried goodbyes were made, and Frieda began to cry. 

“Ja, Ja, it is OK now, Frieda,” Eric said, choking back his own tears.

“You be good to your mama and listen to your papa,” he told me.  “Good bye, good neighbors,” he cried, reaching for my father.  My dad took his extended hand and clasped his other hand on top of Eric's.  I did likewise and then embraced Frieda. 

We last saw them being led down the narrow ramp by members of the flight crew. Eric looked old and small in the wheelchair.  Frieda, looming large in contrast, followed patiently behind him, tucking an old lady’s hankie into her sweater pocket. 

I involuntarily tucked something deeper within my own pocket as well.