That same wedding suit was now encased in a plastic garment bag at the far end of the bedroom closet, where it had been shoved along the rack, past the tweed jackets and comfortable trousers he’d worn throughout his working life. What was he to do with a wedding outfit now? He didn’t have the shoulders he’d once had; he knew the jacket would sag. He should donate it back to Sally Ann so someone could claim it as vintage clothing. Some young guy could wear it to his own celebration. So what if fifty-five years had passed since Tom had picked out the items second-hand?

Although his son frequently urged him to visit the family in Edmonton, Tom had not left town since Ida’s death, except for his volunteer work. The year he turned seventy, he’d begun to close the shop one day a week so he could drive for Wheels of Hope. If some other volunteer driver had to cancel, Tom sometimes took on an extra day in addition to his own. His job was to transport people to and from their appointments at the Greenley Health Centre, an hour’s drive away. Passengers were those who could no longer handle a vehicle, didn’t own one in the first place or were too ill to manage their lives. All required cancer treatments or diagnostic procedures that were not available at the hospital in town. Greenley was a teaching hospital comprising various specialties that the Wilna Creek hospital didn’t have.

Tom kept up the volunteer work after Ida died because he was used to being around people. The past two weeks, he’d had only one passenger on his list—though he could comfortably manage three in the car, and often did. Depended on who needed what and which days appointments were scheduled. The sole passenger of his recent trips was a man named Dave who lived at the Haven, the local seniors’ residence. During the drives to Greenley, Dave kept up a running commentary about life at the Haven. Dave was built like a barrel and had a short, thick neck and a big voice.

Tom recalled some of their conversations. “We call ourselves inmates,” Dave had told him. Tom was beginning to feel as if he knew the inmates, though he’d been inside the Haven only a few times. Mostly, he sat in the car in the parking circle by the front door, waiting for his assigned passengers. “A lotta memories bottled up in that place, for a lotta people,” Dave said, though he didn’t say if the memories were good or bad. Tom figured that could mean both.

Dave had more to tell. “I have to get up early to go downstairs because two copies of the paper are delivered to the main lobby for residents. Can you believe this? People fight over the bleeding paper to get to the obituaries. As for me, I’m up at six, shower, get dressed, wear a tie. I’m not one of those unwashed men who make everyone hold their breath and stare straight ahead in the elevator while waiting for the door to open. When we go to the dining room, we have designated tables—groups of four, groups of six. If someone has a problem with seating, well, they can request a move, but generally we get along okay. If not, we can take complaints to the management, ha-ha! Every Friday for lunch, we have haddock and fries. A woman at my table—her name is Rose—picks up her fries with her fingers and eats as if she’s going to stab the back of her throat with every chip.” Dave was laughing out loud, and Tom couldn’t help but join in. “She snaps her brassiere straps in the elevator. I don’t think she realizes what she’s doing, but the rest of us notice. Rose plays a helluva hand of bridge, though; I’ll say that for her.”