Dick and Jane

When he sighted Buddy’s Hub Cap Shop up ahead, Richard Hardy immediately realized he had missed the bypass — the quicker route to his mother’s assisted living facility — and that he was instead on the road which would take him through the center of his boyhood Minnesota hometown.

“Pay attention, man!” he excoriated himself, pounding the steering wheel.

A few minutes later, creeping his Beamer down Main Street, Richard murmured, “Unbelievable, this place never changes.”

Outside Melvin’s Hardware, as always, ‘Crazy Frankie,’ his hair now graying, sat on a nail barrel, smiling and waving at passersby. Richard waved back. (Frankie had once found and returned twelve-year-old Richard’s lost dog, after three days of non-stop searching around town.)

On the grassy square, a few folks lunched, and a young father, tethered to a toddler, lay on a blanket, reading. Near the Old Well, the square’s centerpiece, a tall-ish blond woman, with a pageboy haircut, stood jabbing a bamboo pole up into a large oak tree — and recognizing her, Richard was suddenly compelled to turn into the nearest parking space.

“Jane Olsen?”

“Oh, hi, Dick! I noticed that little fellow, yesterday, and today he’s still up there. Can you believe that?”

“Jeez, it really is you! I’d have figured you’d be long gone from this place,” said Richard, feeling oddly unsteadied at finding himself — after how many years? — in the presence of Jane Olsen.

Jane, still focusing on matters above, replied: “Do you think you could give me a boost, Dick? Just need a few more inches, I think.”

After some confused hesitation, Richard knelt on one knee; and, as Jane stepped up onto his thigh, a slideshow of childhood memories streamed through his head.

Growing up, he and Jane had never been friends, as such, rarely ever exchanging more than a few words. And yet, even as far back as grade school, there had always been a knowingness between them. In junior high, whenever Richard made a comic remark, it had always been to classmate Jane that he would look to first for a reaction. Passing by one another in high school hallways, acknowledging winks, nods and the occasional funny face had been the rule.

Both, too, in their own ways, had been loners. Richard migrated between the peripheries of the ‘in crowd’ and the ‘out crowd,’ while Jane just mostly kept to herself — except during their junior year, when she had hung with Ernesta, the exchange student from Bolivia.

Hearing a wail, Richard looked up to behold a feline mass bounding down through the branches, to then strike Jane’s shoulder, causing her to lose balance.

After wishing good luck to the speedily departing kitty, Jane — now sprawled atop the supine Richard — asked: “How long has it been, Dick?”

“Twelve years, I think.”

“That long!”

Fifteen minutes later, at Jane’s insistence, the two were being served lunch al fresco at Le Café Francais, one of the few new downtown businesses.

Jane: “I saw your mother the other day. She’s doing a lot better. Settling in, I think.”

“You know my mother?” responded Richard, mildly surprised.

Jane: “A little. I volunteer Wednesdays at her facility. She’s delightful. Even with her dementia she’s sharp as a tack at checkers.”

Richard: “That, I believe.”

Jane: So, what have you been up to, Dick?”

Richard: “You do know, you are the only person on the planet, since probably the second grade, to call me ‘Dick.’

Jane: “You seem a little sad, to me.”

Richard took a bite from his sandwich.

“I could always tell your mood,” Jane continued, “even from the back of class. When you were down, your shoulders kind of slumped; and when you were feeling alright, I remember how you would put your hands behind your head.”

Richard: “I’m a manufacturing rep, farm machinery.”

Jane: “Now that sounds interesting.”

Richard: “Well, it is not. Not for me, at least.”

Jane: “Married? Kids?”

“No kids,” answered Richard, and then, after pulling out his smartphone and paging through a few screens: “…and … ah … not married ... as of June third.

Jane: “Two days ago. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

As they sat in silence for a time, Richard was struck by how very comfortable he felt in Jane Olsen’s presence — she seemed so completely familiar to him. And yet, since going off to college, he realized, he had hardly given her a thought.

“So, what have you been doing ... Jane … since last we met?” he asked.

“Well, a year after we graduated, when I’d finally saved up enough moola, I moved up to St. Paul. University. An apartment … with a roommate. Fast food job. The works. How’s your sandwich?”

Richard: “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Good,” said Jane, before continuing: “But I don’t know … everything seemed pretty complicated ... and I reckoned I must be a small-town girl, after all. So, I came back here … worked at the library for six years … got a degree thingy at the community college … and then started my own little internet business.”

“Business?”

Jane: “You are breaking bread, my good man, with a worldwide purveyor of vintage textbooks. I’ve rented space above Henry Landers’ antique shop.”

Jane pointed across the square.

Jane, continuing: “I live there, as well.”

Richard: “Seriously.”

Jane: “There’s a demand for ‘old-school’ textbooks. People like them. They’re not so dry and full of abstruse language, as so many are today. Clear writing, and a friendly voice. High school chemistry books from the sixties … still relevant on the basics. Western civilization texts are big sellers. Civics. Penmanship. All kinds.”

Richard: “I’m impressed.”

Jane: “It’s a good thing ... for me.”

After some silence, Richard spoke up, “Any …. ah …?”

“Significant others?” said Jane, reading his mind. “Well, there were two, maybe three, boyfriends. But I never laughed when I was with them, and you know how much I like to laugh.”

Richard: “I remember, in math class, it’s quiet, and everyone’s working problems, and suddenly you just start giggling at something ... or maybe nothing.”

Jane: “Really?”

Richard: “Really.”

Jane: “Probably about some witty thing that you had said in biology during a frog dissection. Or maybe at your impersonation of Mark Twain in literature.”

Richard: “The class clown.”

Jane: “No, you weren’t that, Dick. Class clowns are attention seekers. With you it was more about … hmmm ... ’Joie de vivre, I’d say.’”

Finished with his meal, Richard turned his chair to face the square. After a time, Jane noticed him brush a tear from the corner of his eye.

Jane: “My grandparents have both passed.”

Richard: “They raised you, I remember that.”

“I’ve got a new family, now,” said Jane, a bit coyly. “Cousins, I found online, from Sweden. We’re having Sunday dinner together, tomorrow, actually. Would you care to join us?”

That afternoon, at the assisted living facility, Richard found that his mother was, indeed, thankfully, settling into the routine.

In the evening, Richard wandered through his childhood home — now two months vacated — calculating the number of days that would be required the coming summer for him to make it ready for sale.

Later, from his old bedroom’s closet, he took down from the upper shelf, a suitcase — the designated repository for his childhood keepsakes — and it was not until well after midnight that Richard repacked its strewn contents and went to bed.

Two o’clock the next afternoon — after having spent the morning with his mother, listening to multiple re-tellings of assisted living gossip — Richard climbed the stairs up from Jane’s street front entry and knocked on her door.

“Hold on! Almost ready!” she called out from inside. Then, after a few ticks: “Okay, I’ll let you in, only if you close your eyes.”

“They’re closed,” announced Richard, bemused and curious.

The door opened, and Jane led Richard inside by the hand — whereupon she instructed: “Now, just stand right there.”

After a moment, Jane’s and some others’ voices, sounding foreign and tinny, commenced to singing: “Happy birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!”

Opening his eyes, Richard beheld, firstly, smiling, singing Jane, wearing a bright red paper party hat; secondly, a birthday cake, with lit candles atop a dining table; and thirdly, beside the cake, a laptop computer — upon whose screen were three smiling, vocalizing faces.

“I know the big day is not until Tuesday …” said Jane, when they had finished singing.

“How did you …?” asked Richard, blushing some.

Jane: “Well, you pick things up along the way, don’t you? The big three-oh! Many happy returns, Dick!” Then, turning to the laptop: “And, I’d like you to meet Gunnar, his wife Tilde and their daughter Hedda. She’s seven.”

Awkwardly, Richard waved at the webcam.

“Hej, Dick!” said the grinning, on-screen Swedes, in unison.

Jane: “Gunnar and I had the exact same great-grandparents. Number one son came to Minnesota, son number two stayed in Sweden. Once a month we have a virtual get-together.”

“We here are having tonight some smelly Swedish fish,” said ‘on-screen’ Tilde, laughing. “Maybe you would like some!?”

“It’s sloppy-Joe’s here in the USA,” announced Jane. Then to Richard: “Coming up this summer they’re having a big family reunion at a resort on the Baltic Sea … at which I’ll be making an online, big-screen TV appearance.”

After the meal, farewells were made and the computer turned off.

“I didn’t think,” said Richard, almost smiling, “that Scandinavians were known for their sense of humor ... but Tilde … she’s …”

“Ain’t she a hoot!?” laughed Jane. “I thought you were going to choke on your food that one time. And Hedda … she seemed quite enchanted by you!”

Richard: “She’s cute.”

Jane: “So, Dick, would you like a cappuccino with your cake? I’ve got a machine.”

Richard: “Sure.”

“We need milk,” said Jane, rising. “The shop’s just ’round the corner. Back in a flash!”

Left alone, Richard stood for a time gazing out the front window, overlooking the square — before then moving to Jane’s desk, pretty much the centerpiece of the space.

Atop the desk stood an old, framed wedding portrait — of her grandparents he presumed — beside which was a stack of three textbooks.

Examining the top one — an eighth grade U.S. History book — he discovered that among the listed names on the inside cover of students that had once ‘possessed’ it,’ was “Richard Hardy” — written in his own thirteen-year-old scrawl.

“Gads!” he murmured.

The second text, he saw, had also once been his! — as was the third, a first-grade reader: ’Fun with Dick and Jane!’

Protruding from the reader, in bookmark fashion, was a business card, which, after removing it, Richard found to read:

Fun with Dick and Jane

~ Vintage School Textbooks ~

Jan e Olsen, Proprietor

Upon the page that had been ‘bookmarked’ — scribbled in the margin by his own six-year-old hand — were the words:

“I Like Jane Olsen”

Hearing Jane returning up the stairs, Richard quickly put the textbooks back in their their place.

With their cake and cappuccino, Jane and Richard sat on the couch engaging in small talk about goings on around town.

Following a bit silence, Richard asked, “How did you come to get into the used … vintage … textbook business?”

Jane: “Do you remember Mr. Lee, the wood shop teacher from high school? Well, he became the principal. One day, he comes into the library … where I worked, you know … to announce that his pickup is outside and that it is full of old textbooks he wants to donate. Miss Goodricke, the head librarian, tells him, ‘no way, Jose,’ and says that he should, instead, take them to the city dump. Well, for whatever reason, I went out to have a look-see. Some of them, if you can believe it, went back to the nineteen thirties! And, on a whim, I guess, I told him I’d take everything. We spent that afternoon stacking them all in my grandparents’ garage.”

Richard: “Interesting.”

Jane: “There were a number of textbooks from our days at school, Dick.”

“Oh, really,” said Richard, sensing a coy glance from Jane.

“A few weeks later I put a few of them up for auction on eBay. And guess what? They sold like hotcakes. Pretty soon I was buying and selling on a regular basis and then … voilà! … I was in business.”

Richard: “Well done, I’d say.”

Jane: “How’s about an evening stroll on the square, Dick? I want to put the leftovers out for Mr. cat.”

Although it was getting dark, it was still warm as they moved down an azalea lined path.

“So, Dick, what’s the title of your next chapter going to be?” asked Jane, playfully bumping shoulders.

Richard: “’Keep on keeping on,’ I suppose.”

Jane: “I’ve decided to travel … to Europe … to see my family in Sweden … and the rest of it. Have you ever been?”

Richard: “No. Have you made plans?”

Jane: “Nope. Still saving up … and gearing up. I’m a small-town girl, remember.”

After a time they found a park bench where, for a while, they sat in silence — until Richard, elbows on knees, murmured: “This place.”

“Yeah … this place,” agreed Jane, before turning to meaningfully catch his eye: “So, tell me about ... it.”

Richard: “It.”

Jane: “It.”

Richard sighed, and, after a think, said: “Last summer, on a flight from Chicago to Denver, I’d gotten a last-minute, first-class upgrade … frequent flyer. When they brought me my meal ... instead of the roast beef I’d ordered, I got the fish … and I couldn’t handle it … I broke down … started to cry.”

Jane: “Depression.”

Richard: “So I was later informed.”

Jane: “Getting help?”

Richard: “Two months of therapy. Now, a weekly group thing … when I can make it.”

Jane: “What’s it feel like?”

Richard, after a ponder: “For one thing, it’s racing thoughts … like being the absent-minded professor, only to the power of ten. And it’s more pain than sadness, I can tell you that. But it is sadness, too.”

Jane, feeling it, wiped at an eye.

“In September the marriage blew up,” went on Richard.

Jane: “Yeah.”

Richard: “Nobody’s fault, really.”

Jane: “You’ve been through a lot, Dick. All that … and your mom. How are things now?”

Richard: “Not sure … damaged goods, probably.”

Jane lightly bumped shoulders again. “I don’t see that, not from where I’m sitting.”

Richard: “And I hate my job. Did I tell you that?”

Jane grasped, comfortingly, the top of Richard’s hand.

After a few moments, Richard disengaged, sighed, and stood up. “I’ve got a flight at seven in the morning. A sales meeting in Fort Worth. Then there’s a trade show in Omaha.”

“Yeah,” said Jane, softly, standing up, too.

Richard: “Jeez. It’s been really ... weird … in a good way … seeing you again ... Jane. A face from the past.”

Warmly, Jane made brief eye contact with Richard.

“Good luck with your business,” continued Richard, “and all my best to your new family. They’re unbelievable.”

Jane: “Yep, they are that.”

Richard: “Bye, I guess.”

Jane: “Bye. And, good luck, Dick.”

With that, Richard turned and walked away.

When he saw the red blinking lights of the radio tower up ahead, Richard Hardy immediately realized he had taken the wrong road out of town — on his way back to his apartment in Minneapolis — and suddenly his chest heaved, and it felt as if his entire being were deflating.

After pulling off to the side of the road and turning off the engine, he sat gripping the steering wheel, fighting back tears.

Fifteen minutes later, driving back through the center of his Minnesota boyhood hometown, passing by the square, Richard noticed, near the Old Well, a tallish blond woman with a pageboy haircut kneeling, stroking a cat — and he turned into the nearest parking space.

Under the cloudless night sky, they stood, a dozen feet apart — Jane holding the cat.

Richard: “What I wrote in my first-grade reader, I think that it was … it is probably true.”

Jane’s knees wobbled some before she responded, almost in a whisper: “Fun with Dick and Jane.”

Richard: “Yes.”

After some silence, Richard sighed, before continuing: “I believe that it’s time for a change. I’ve decided to hand in my notice at work … move back here … live in my old home. Be near my mother.”

Jane nodded.

“And I thought, perhaps,” went on Richard, “that if you’d be interested … I’d like to take you to

your family reunion in Sweden, this summer. I’ve got more than enough frequent flyer miles, you see.”

Jane: “That, I think, would be … fun ... Richard.”