text: (Doing a little challenge to get ready for Nanowrimo, one short story every day for October, here's my first intended to write a horror story, but I'm not sure this counts, kind of turned into something else) My name is Amelia Kemper, and after an unfortunate legal incident, I have found myself having to repay a debt to society by way of a sentence of 24 hours of community service. My sentence is to work six four-hour shifts at a local nursing home. The work is easy. They said I would mostly be in the kitchen preparing food, which didn't sound so bad as I do like to cook. This wasn't exactly cooking so much as heating ready-made trays of TV Dinner-like meals that would be delivered by rolling carts to the various Shady Pines nursing home residents. On my first day, I met my supervisor Anita. She's a five-foot Jamaican woman who came to this country legally, worked hard, and obeyed rules to get where she was. Chief wellness coordinator for Shady Pines. Her accent is thick, and her tone doesn't take any guff. I also met Mr. Montechello. Mr. Montechello wasn't an employee of the nursing home but rather a volunteer resident. He had been a chef in his life before these walls and found some waning success in the eighties publishing his own cookbook. *Gourmet simp'le.* He was actually one of the first gourmet chefs to cash in on the early eighties who cashed in on the then in vogue health craze of the low-fat diet before all the diet scientists who whoever it is that's in charge of telling us what's good to eat figured out that it was those delicious carbs, who made up a good third of next decades food pyramid said was so important to the diet of a healthy and happy worker. While the heated TV Dinners were a far call from the gourmet cuisine he used to prepare, his mind was starting to go a bit earlier than most people, and his money had dried up once the second printing of his book failed to achieve any kind of repeat success in the ever-changing world of fad dieting. Like many patients with his particular mental condition in the home, he had his good days and bad days. On his bad days, he would relax in front of the television, get his daily dose of Judge Judy, and, if he was still awake by two o'clock, he would watch General Hospital with those cute and spry seventy-something-year-old back in the game bachelorettes. But, on his good days, he liked to work with his hands, be productive. He loved getting back in the kitchen as simple as work in this kitchen was. He would stack meals and watch times. He couldn't be trusted to set them, but he would watch them and alert the people in charge of the day's meals just before the timers went off. "Now remember, the instructions say you have to heat it at 250 for twenty minutes," he said, giving me the tour under the watchful eye of Amelia. "I have found, you get a more even cook putting it in for five minutes at 200, and then finish off with thirteen minutes at 275," he said. His voice was raspy and old, the kind of old that could be thought full of wisdom, but also spackled and duct-taped together by a slowly unraveling psyche that the last couple of years were not kind to. "We cook the food for what the box says to cook the food for," Amelia said, "Don't listen to him child, you follow directions," she said. I did, followed directions, was just here to do what I was told to do. Finish my time, and get back to my rather uneventful life as a College drop-out with a part-time job bookkeeping for a company that runs management for home owner's associations. That first day I did what I was told. When the first batch came out of the oven, the one to be delivered to the third and top floor of the senior living community, Mr. Monticello took a small gold spoon, a keepsake from his wealthier days. He took a taste of the mashed potatoes when Amelia wasn't looking. "Came out good, heated evenly, good texture, good flavor," he smiled. He held his spoon up to me, "You know why anyone would have a gold spoon?" he asked. "No, I can't say I would know why anyone would have a gold spoon," I said. "See, this is what professional tasters use. Steel has its own flavor. When your tasting, you need a gold spoon, has a neutral flavor, doesn't confuse your tongue. How's it feel knowing everything you've tasted you've tasted wrong?" he asked, laughing a bit. "I'm not sure," I said as he quickly hid his instrument and worked to get the warm trays on the cart for me to deliver. I made my way up to the third floor as Amelia got the meals for the second floor ready. I met all sorts of people, people with stories, people with worries, and people slowly falling into senility. I got to the last room on this run, room 322, and was greeted by a friendly and weak voice, "Are you here to read to me?" an old, overweight lady with a curled bunch of thinning hair on her head asked through a mouth missing more than less of her teeth. I had learned later her name was Mrs. LeBlanc, and that she was the oldest residence in the care of Shady Pines. "No, not the reader. She should be in later," I said, "it's dinner time," I brought the food to her as she sat up in a bed she probably hadn't left for at least a few months. "Could you read to me? They send a girl like you to read to us," she asked me. "I don't know. I have to get back downstairs to get the rest of the dinner," I said. "Gatsby, I love the Great Gatsby," she said, pointing to the book on her nightstand. "Would you believe I've read that book over a hundred times, but my eyes, they're so old now, I can't read anymore, Gatsby always made me comfortable, you know my husband was in the war too, he came back, and he won me," she said. Her voice was so horse and raspy, raspy like all the old people here. "Just read to me, the last girl didn't read to me, I thought when we had a new girl maybe she would, oh, I would love to just hear the first chapter," she said. I looked at my watch. The next meal wouldn't be ready to be taken up to the second floor for at least another ten minutes, "Okay, I guess I could, just the first chapter?" I asked as I took the book and pulled a small chair up to the bed. I began to read as she ate her re-heated dinner. As I neared the end of the first chapter, she dropped her fork and fell back on her three-layer bunch of pillows and drifted off into sleep, and it appeared to be a very deep sleep. She was out. I shrugged, got my cart, and wheeled it back to the service elevator to get back to the first floor and back to the kitchen for my next set of deliveries. On my way back to the kitchen, I passed one of the rooms, room 106, and an angry, old greybeard with a bald head lashed out at me, "It’s supper time, where’s my damn food,” he said. “It’s coming,” I said, jumping back a bit. He had nasty yellow teeth, most of them missing. Liver spots stuck out all over his skull and his beard was patchy in places, looking as if it had no care or concern for itself. He balanced himself on a cane with a silver wolf’s head on the handle of it. I would later come to learn that this was Mr. Abernathy, the resident grump of Shady Pines. The word I heard from the other residents was that he would just trudge around the common room the few times he wasn’t sequestering himself in his own room. He said he was just waiting to die. His kids were dead, his daughter was killed in a drunk driving accident, she was the drunk, and his son died of an OD after getting his first big acting job as a side character in some science fiction straight to DVD movie. I went back to the kitchen and got the next collection of trays. I delivered them to the second floor. Got my share of kind hellos from the little old ladies and got more than a few lecherous looks from some of the younger seventy-something men who fancied themselves on the market now that their wives were dead and the house sold to afford a nice nest egg for their comfy retirement and enough to leave a bit to their sometimes thankful children. Thankfully, I finished my run on the second floor without another request to read or provide some other such service. And I came back to Ms. Amelia and Mr. Monticello as they were cleaning. Well, really, Amelia was doing all the cleaning, being that it was later in the day, Mr. Monticello was basically taking a wet rag and wiping down the same spot he had been wiping for the last hour of my shift. With my four hours for the day done, I gave my apron to Ms. Amelia and clocked out for the day. When I pulled my civic into the parking lot of Shady Pines, I saw a big black van at the side of the building is loaded with a gurney and a black bag atop it that could be nothing else but a body. When I went inside to clock in with Amelia, I asked about the truck, and she told me that “Mrs. LeBlanc died last night,” she said, “Get used to it. How long you here? Six shifts, you most likely going to see at least three while you’re here, ” she said. Mrs. LeBlanc, that lady to who just yesterday I read the first chapter of the Great Gatsby. “Wait, I just talked to her,” I said, “I mean, I talked to her yesterday,” I said, “Was she really that bad? She looked healthy, I mean, at least I think she was healthy,” “People go when they go, no one controls it,” Amelia said. I shook off the haunting thought of maybe being the last person someone had talked to before they died and focused on my work. I just wanted to finish my shifts and get out of here. Said shifts were pretty simple, sometimes I would work the kitchen, and sometimes when I worked the kitchen, Mr. Monticello would try to tell me how fat is the number one killer in the middle of one of his foggier periods of men younger than he was. How it clogs one’s arteries and leads to heart attacks. He even told me that a heart attack is what put his younger brother in the grave at the tender age of sixty-nine. “You know you’re a nice girl. If my grandson wasn’t married, I would have liked to introduce you,” Mr. Monticello said. “Oh, that’s really nice,” I smiled and laughed nervously. Once again, after we heated the meals to Mr. Monticello’s instructions as Ms. Amelia was busy tending to a disruption caused by Mr. Abernathy, I had one of those bad days that Ms. Amelia warned me that tenants could have here at Shady Pines. I had finished my last delivery of the day, room 122. The door had a well out of date easter decoration, most likely from the tenant’s grandchild, that said the man in this room was a Mr. Schedony, “Is that you Karen?” he asked. I had learned later he was blind, like, blind-blind. “I can’t see, Karen, lovely Karen, just tell me you’re here,” he said. I learned later he was talking about his daughter, who hadn’t visited him in going on six years now. He was put in Shady Pines seven years ago. “I’m sorry, I’m not Karen,” I said, creeping into the room. “Oh you, you talked to Elizabeth,” he smiled, “Oh, I know you, I heard about you,” he said. Elizabeth, Mrs. LeBlanc as I knew her. “You like to read to us,” he sat up in his bed, his head looking around “The nurse brought me this book I had loaned Elizabeth, Great Gatsby, I loaned it to her what, two, three years ago, since my eyes went and I couldn’t read it myself, why don’t you read it to me?” he asked. “Umm, I kind of have to get back to work,” I said. That was a bit of a lie. He was my last delivery of the day. I would just have to wipe down some surfaces and set the oven to cleaning mode before my shift was done, and I could head out for the day. “Oh please, please read to me,” he took a deep breath. It sounded like it was hard for him to take a breath that deep as he fell back against his pillows. “Okay, I can read for you,” I said. I felt bad, this poor blind old man. He just wanted someone to read to him. I would discover soon that all any of these poor tenants wanted was just for someone to read to them. I went to the chair by his bed and took the book that was sitting on the nightstand. “Okay,” I shrugged and opened the book, and began to read the words. “Oh, thank you, such a nice story,” he smiled. I was halfway through the fourth page before he was passed out and snoring. The next day I arrived at Shady Pines, ready to bang out another shift and secretly hoping that I wouldn’t have another awkward encounter with a senior citizen who wanted me to read to them. I read The Great Gatsby in high school, and that one time was more than enough for me. Reading to these octogenarians, I found they passed out just before I finished the first chapter. As I parked my car, I saw the ambulance loading another black-bagged body into its carriage. I clocked in with Ms. Amelia, and sure enough, she told me that Mr. Shedony had passed last night, maybe earlier, the morning check-in at his room found him dead. The proper authorities were called to dispose of another dead resident of Shady Pines. “I got to tend to clean out the rooms of our recent vacancies. I’m gonna trust you with preparing the food. I can count on you, right?” Amelia asked. Mr. Monticello and I were in the kitchen being addressed by her, but I could tell she was only talking to me. It was a simple job, and after three days, I figured out how things needed to be done, and Mr. Monticello told me how things could be done better. I cooked the meals and delivered them as Mr. Monticello prepared the next round for the next floor. On this trip, I wasn’t badgered to read for someone. In fact, the tenants were a bit reserved to accept food from me. The ones happy to be in Shady Pines were at least. When I got to Mr. Abernathy’s room, he scowled and scolded me, “Where were you? Why don’t you do what you’re supposed to do?” he asked, angry and curmudgeonly. “Umm, I am. Here’s your dinner,” I said, handing him his heated tray. “Just bringing me food, can’t even do what you’re good at,” he said. I shook off his scolding and made my way back to the kitchen. Ms. Amelia was still busy dealing with cleaning out Mrs. LeBlac and Mr. Shedony’s rooms. Mr. Monticello came to me after we, I, was done wiping down the kitchen and getting it ready for another day of heating ready to eat meals. “I heard you’re leaving us soon,” he said, smiling. He was always so nice when he was functioning. When the demon of old age wasn’t putting him through the wringer, he really was a nice man. “Yeah, I’ll be here one more day, but yeah, I’m leaving,” I smiled. “I want to give you something,” he said. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m just working here. There’s no reason for you to give me anything,” I said. “No, no, my grandchildren don’t visit me, my children don’t even visit me, I’m not just going to leave this for them to pan through and fight each other for once I’m gone, and I hope to be gone soon,” he said. “Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re not going to be gone for a while, what are you? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, if you can crack seventy, that’s a good sign, and you were a health food chef,” I said, “If anyone here can crack ninety, it’s going to be you,” I said. “Oh, I’ve no intention of cracking ninety, come with me,” he said, leaving the kitchen as I followed him back to his room. Room 124, a room I skipped while he was busy in the kitchen. Ms. Amelia would bring him his meal after our work was done, give him some time to rest after a job well done. Once I followed him into his room, he went to his dresser and dug through his socks and underwear to find a trinket, a small pocket watch, gold shell, gold just like his tasting spoon. “This is the only thing I bought with the one big score of money I made. I put the rest in the nest egg that allowed me to retire in all the luxury you’ve seen that I live in,” he smiled and approached me, dangling the watch in his hands. I looked around, a modest, single bedroom. Small, cozy as someone trying to sell a person on living here would say. Spackled wallpaper with a flower pattern and a small bathroom with a walk-in bath lacking a rim that could cause the senior clientele of this building to trip and die before, or maybe after, their time. This room looked exactly like every other room I had seen while delivering food to the elderly resediments of Shady Pines. I reached my hand out. My only thought was to not look rude, not disappointed this poor, nice, old man who wanted nothing more but to give me a gift. He dropped the watch in my hand, and its chain fell into my palm, “I don’t need to know the time anymore. There’s no need for time, not here,” he smiled. “For this gift, I just have a favor,” he said as he took a seat on his bed, kicked off his shoes, and laid back, resting his head on a stack of two pillows. “What’s that?” I asked. Mr. Monticello pointed to his nightstand, “I got a gift from a dear friend, who himself got it from a dear friend, open the nightstand,” he said. I did, and inside the drawer was the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby. The same copy I read to Mrs. Leblanc, the same copy I read to Mr. Shedony. “I’ve heard you like to read to us, please, would you read to me?” he asked. My eyes were wide as I saw that damn book, as I thought of the fate that the last two people I read this book to was, “I...I don’t know if I should,” I said. “Please, just read to me,” he said, getting comfortable in his bed, making sure he was well supported, in a position with little neck or back pain. “I’d really like to be read too,” he said. I gulped, my heart beating, it was just a coincidence I said to myself, “Okay, Mr. Monticello, I’ll read to you,” I took the book, I looked at the pocket watch he gave me, my four-hour shift was just now over, my last shift as just now over. Right now, I was just a volunteer helping out. I took a seat by the bed as Mr. Monticello folded his hands over his chest and found the sweet spot lying in his bed. I opened the book and took a deep breath, “In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.” I read to Mr. Monticello, and just before I finished the first chapter, he was passed out in a peaceful sleep. He looked so peaceful. I got up and found a spare tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away and left back to the kitchen to check out with Ms. Amelia. This was the last day of my service to Shady Pines. I had no reason to ever come back here. I came back the next day. I made sure to get there at seven o’clock when the residents awoke the seniors. Sure enough, there was an ambulance there, loading in a body wrapped in a black bag. I rushed inside through the front door. When I was an employee here, I was told to use the side door, but I was no longer an employee here, so I came in through the front. I made my way to the back room where the kitchen was, my eyes looking around, desperate to find Mr. Monticello. “Oh, you want to volunteer now?” Ms. Amelia asked, “You volunteer?” she asked again. “No, I don’t want to volunteer,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was force myself to carry more of those horrible meals to these old people who wanted me to read to them, “I just wanted to visit. Where is Mr. Monticello?” I asked, “Is he in the kitchen?” I asked. “Oh, sweety, Mr. Monticello is not with us anymore,” she said. I had to collect myself for a moment. I looked down, blamed myself, “He was smiling when he died, child. He was happy,” she said. “Can I go to his room?” I asked. “Child, we ain’t done cleaning it,” she said, “You don’t want to go to dead man’s room. What do you need there?” “There is something there, something that,” I shook my head, I had read the first chapter of that stupid book to three different people, and they had all died after I finished reading to them. That book was killing people. I had to get it out of here. “Can’t let you go into his room, that’s for his family to do, and after his family, we send people in to clean it, he died there, his son in here earlier, asking about some watch,” she said, “You see some watch he had, I have never seen him with some watch,” she said as she went back to her work, setting the oven to 250. I held my tongue, “No, I don’t know about any watch, how did...How did Mr. Monticello die?” I asked. “When someone that age dies, you don’t be asking questions. People that old just die said he went in his sleep the ambulance did, just a death, natural,” she said. “Natural death,” I nodded, taking another deep breath. “Where’s his funeral? Is he even having one?” I asked. Mr. Monticello was so nice, and he was nice to me. He told me that his kids didn’t give a damn about him. I gave a damn about him. He gave me his watch. I was maybe the last voice he heard before he passed. I wanted to go. “His family cremating him, no ceremony, I’m sorry, dear,” Ms. Amelia put her hand on my shoulder. “I just-” I was cut off by the sound of a gunshot ringing through Shady Pines. Ms. Amelia shrieked, “Oh God! oh god!” she cried out as we ran to the common room. Most of the tenants of Shady Pines were in shock, and for a good reason. Mr. Abernathy’s body was lying in the middle of the room, on the ground, a luger held loosely in his hand and a hole in the back of his head as he laid collapsed in the middle of the room. “What happened?” I asked. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” one of the younger ladies said, she was in her late sixties and new to Shady Pines, “He just came in and asked where the girl who reads was,” she said, she was crying, her wrinkly skin contorting as she tried to wipe her tears away. “What girl who reads?” I asked. “The girl who reads, he said, asked where’s that damn girl who reads, he said he just wanted to die,” she said.