The Tramp Clown's Secret
The sky was clear, the moon nearly full. Fireflies rose from the gardens and drifted over manicured lawns where old timers, arm in arm with nurses or slumped forward in wheelchairs, returned from late afternoon strolls. Two male residents sat on the porch of the nursing home in flannel shirts and overalls, sipping chamomile tea in their rockers. They had spent the last few hours catching up, as they had not seen each other in sixty years. “I really do miss her,” Sam muttered, eyes moist and red beneath his flat cap. Virgil stopped rocking and leaned sideways over the small wicker table between them. “What’s that you say?” Sam raised his mucus-lined voice. “ Ruthie . I miss Ruthie.” “Oh.” Sam stared into his mug as if hypnotized by a vision there, the lines of his face deep enough to hold thin shadows. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. Finally he put his tea down and said, “Virgil, there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to ask you for sixty years now.”