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The Barkers’ old couch materializes as I approach their curb ahead. It’s still here, as it has been for weeks. Olive green corduroy, it’s in decent shape. They’re just plain lazy not calling the Salvation Army to pick it up. Someone could use that furniture.
As I near, a dark form takes shape, stretched out on the couch. My light shines on long pale legs, a tiny dress, and knotted blonde hair nearly covering a girl’s face. She must be cold. Or dead. She’s just a teenager, twenty at most. She coughs, but doesn’t wake. Good, not dead. This is a quiet, suburban street, but the girl has probably been here all night. Maybe she’s drunk, or drugged. This is not safe. Should I wake her? Should I call 911?
I’m not brave—I don’t like to intrude. So I walk down the street a couple of houses, and make the phone call.
“I don’t wanna wait. I’m just startin' my walk,” I complain. “Yes, she’s breathing. OK, OK.” I balance from foot to foot, not looking at the couch.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” I say to the 9-1-1 man, who wants me to keep the connection open. I edge down the street a little farther. I’m three houses away now.
A squad car arrives, pulling up right in front of the Barkers’ house. I stay where I am, out of the way.
Eventually, the cop walks toward me. It’s getting light now. I can see his bright badge and his black gun. Somehow I feel guilty.
Then he says, “There’s no girl on that couch.”
He takes hold of my elbow. “Mrs. Capshaw. Jennifer. Get in the car, please. I’ll take you home.”
I don’t like him touching me. “Aren’t you gonna look for the girl? It’s cold out. She isn’t dressed warmly. What about a helicopter? You need to search for her. And I have to finish my walk.”
At home, my husband tells the cop he’ll take care of me.
Later that day, I scour the local news online to see if a girl has been reported missing. None has.
The next morning is even colder and darker. As I approach the Barkers’ house, the voice in my head scolds me for always walking in the same direction. The couch is still there by the curb. A figure is curled in a ball. It’s the same girl. In the same clothes. She must be freezing. I can see with my flashlight that she’s breathing. I hurry by. “You’re on your own,” I say. She must party every night. A word comes to mind that I haven’t heard in years: "slut.” No phone call today. I refuse to endure the cop’s condescension or insinuation, as if I’m the one who has done something wrong.
During my three-mile walk, 6,990 steps, I shove the girl out of my mind. When I get home, I don’t tell my husband that I’ve seen her again. This is not my problem.
When morning number three arrives, I feel the pull of the Barkers’ couch. I hadn’t slept well at all. I throw on my walking gear.
I’m practically running. My flashlight beam scans the street. It illuminates the couch. The girl is sitting up, staring into the dark. She is dressed in the same scant clothing—a paisley mini dress, years out-of-style.
Exhausted, I drop down next to her on the couch. It feels damp and cold. “Let me walk you home,” I say.
“I can’t go home.” She stifles a sob.
“Why?”
“Because of what they did,” she chokes.
“The boys?” I ask, brushing hair from her eyes.
“How did you know?” She pulls her little dress toward her knees.
“I hadn’t thought about it in years,” I admit. “I hadn’t wanted to think about it. I never told anyone. Not telling made me a little crazy.” Tears sting my eyes.
“My name’s Jennifer,” she offers.
“I know,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
Portrait in Black, mixed media and acrylic, by Paula Bernstein
Susan sits in the driveway on her old webbed lawn chair, its red and white stripes fraying. The sun is warm on her jeans. She watches her first robin running on the grass. She sniffs the green air, and sighs.
“I saw snowdrops blooming on my walk this morning,” her neighbor Jackie says as she drags a chair next to Susan’s.. They have been friends for years—many turns of the earth, many changes of season. Last week was wintry white. Today, pink buds unfold on tree limbs. The snow has melted to mud.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing shorts in March,” Susan mutters. She shades her eyes against the shocking blue sky that has replaced the muted gray of winter.
“It’s 70 degrees. The sun feels glorious.” Jackie plops on her chair, stretching out her arms and legs.
“Global warming,” Susan grouses.
“Vitamin D,” Jackie responds. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that big hat.”
“No skin cancer for me, thank you.” Susan flips up the collar of the canvas jacket that covers her cardigan and peeks at Jackie’s long smooth legs. The breeze brings children’s laughter. A woodpecker drums in the distance.
“You don’t transition well,” Jackie states as she turns her face to the sun.
“I know. It has been winter for so long. It just takes me awhile.”
“I think you’re afraid.”
“I just like sweaters.”
“Right. You’re the Cardigan Queen. And you don’t like change.”
“Let’s just sit here and enjoy,” Susan crosses her legs, and her arms. Cardinals call to each other from nearby trees: “Pretty, pretty, pretty.” She thinks about the winter.
“You could start with a new haircut, something cute and short,” suggests Jackie, “A new season, a new you?”
“I like my hair the way it is.”
“At least get some blonde highlights. All that gray is too drab.”
Susan sighs and re-crosses her legs. Jackie holds out her bare arms, as if to hug the spring sunshine. Susan pulls down her sleeves. Both women wave as three little boys ride by on their bikes, one with training wheels. On the lawn, two robins tussle to unite, to start anew.
“Birds do it,” Jackie sings as she leans back and closes her eyes. “I need to lose some weight,” says Susan, huddling into her coat.
“Don’t we all. Let’s go shopping tomorrow. We’ll get you some spring clothes. You look like an old brown bear.”
“I never have transitioned well, even as a girl. I couldn’t keep up with the new styles. I wore the same Easter bonnet every year.”
“You had a rough winter.” Jackie turns to look at her friend. “I’m glad you’re out.”
“The first spring without Harvey,” Susan whispers.
“Good riddance. He’s with what’s-her-name now. It’s your time to blossom, start a new life.”
“Easier said than done, Jackie. The kids are gone, now Harvey.”
The women sit in silence. Susan’s eyes follow two squirrels chasing across the grass, green among patches of brown. They dart under the forsythia, with its spots of yellow blooms.
She unties her hat, removes it, and fluffs her hair. The sun warms her cheeks.
"Aren’t you hot?” Jackie asks as she sits up to admire her own pink arms.
Susan unbuttons her jacket and struggles to pull off each sleeve. She looks at her friend and smiles.
“Now the cardigan,” Jackie says.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” sing the cardinals.
Notes from the Frontline of Old Age
Now What? is a revealing, witty series of reflections on living while old. Butler offers the reader a welcome glimpse into the richness, foolishness, limitations, bravado, and freedom of a vividly lived 88-year-old life.
From balky knees and balkier institutions to late-life friendships, continuing resistance against fools and knaves, and gratitude for each new morning, Butler writes the truth of old age exactly as she lives it: vividly, imperfectly, on her own terms. These clear-eyed observations refuse syrup and sentiment. Instead, they offer the relief of recognition—and the freedom that comes from naming what we’re not supposed to say out loud.
For every person who is old, becoming old, or loving someone who is, “Now What?” is a companion and a dare: keep telling the truth, keep choosing your life, and keep going.
Available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, or your favorite independent bookstore.
Mary Donahue Brown is a retired English teacher. She has always loved reading and writing. Currently, she could not live without her writers' critique group. They each write a short story a week, critique throughout the week, and present it to the group on Mondays. Mary lives in Pittsford, NY.
Paula Bernstein, a retired physician and scientist, began painting during the pandemic. She works in acrylic and collage. She is also the author of a nine-volume medical mystery series, Hannah Kline Mysteries, and her short stories have been published widely in anthologies and literary magazines. Her website is 
Darlene Detienne lives and works on the Oregon coast. She received her first camera as a child and has engaged in nature photography for over fifty years. Most mornings, she can be found on the beautiful beaches or in the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest.