KW09b:Chickens by Laurence Shames Page B

empty except for the occasional group of bargain-hunting Germans or Norwegians. It had become a lonely place, and privately admitting it made Bert feel suddenly very tired. He didn’t want to give in and sit but he put his good hand on the table next to Joey’s papers and leaned a fair bit of his weight on it. Very softly, the words not wanting to come out, he said, “Joey, I don’t know where else to go.”
    Joey frowned and pondered that, or pretended to. In fact he already had a suggestion ready. It was something he and Sandra had talked about. But he somehow felt it would be more considerate to Bert to let it seem that the thought had emerged that very moment, pulled into being by the two of them talking. Very deliberately, he said, “I have an idea--”
    Bert leaned a little farther forward but said nothing. He was hopeful that Joey’s idea might be something good or at least possible but he also knew that an idea meant change and change was never easy.
    “—but only if you feel like doing me a favor.”
    The old man knew this was bullshit. Joey wasn’t about to ask a favor. He was about to offer one and was trying in his sweet but see-through way to make it seem the other way around. Bert waited him out.
    “I’m wondering if maybe you’d like to move into the compound.”
    This took the old man completely by surprise. He became suddenly aware of the weight of his jaw; he couldn’t tell if his mouth fell slightly open or if it only felt like it did. The compound was a cluster of small cottages around a common area with a pool and hot tub in a nice but not too nice part of town. Bert had several times visited it with Joey, who owned and managed the place. It would never in a million years have occurred to Bert that someday he might live there. “The compound?” he said. “ That compound? With a bunch of lunatics and nudists?”
    “They’re not nudists,” Joey said. “It’s clothing optional. Most people keep a towel on or something. Most of the time. And they’re not lunatics. Mostly. A little different, true. But look, you just said you keep crazy hours. So do they. You’ll have company. And it’s a nice group in there now. Got a couple nurses, a bartender, a fishing guide, a guy who thinks he’s a writer, a guy who gives a different answer every time I ask him what he does. Look, I have a vacancy and I don’t want the headaches of dealing with transients. Take the place and I’m set.” 
    Bert didn’t remember sitting but he now found that he was in a chair. The fingers of his good hand were drumming on the arm of it. He was trying to think about the compound but what he saw in his mind was an image of his long-dead wife standing at the kitchen counter in the Paradiso condo back when it was still considered a prime address. She was wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and stirring a cup of instant coffee; the spoon clanked against the sides of the mug and clanked again when she dropped it in the sink before taking the hot coffee to the little table by the window. Bert said, “Nah, Joey. Thanks, but movin’ out, it’s just not somethin’ I could do.”
     
    On moving day Bert was a nervous wreck, even though he’d made it clear that this was only an experiment. He might leave in a day, a week, he wasn’t promising anything. For now he took almost nothing from his condo: one suitcase, a few photographs, his scuffed and ancient stovetop espresso-maker, some dog food and a bagful of squeak toys.
    It was mid-afternoon when Joey punched in a code and opened up the compound gate. The two men stepped through it onto a crunching white gravel pathway that wound through hibiscus hedges toward a free-form swimming pool. No one seemed to be around and the place was very quiet. The hot tub was capped by a vinyl cover; a whiff of warm chlorine escaped. The water in the pool was undisturbed save for tiny oozing waves that spread out from the skimmers. The overarching palms were still; the new green fronds