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It would be Jim. Roger recognized the voice on the line with the first word. Funny how certain years carved their marks, sights and sounds not letting you go even if you wanted them to. (He didn't.)
"Morris," he said softly without preamble, "He's gone."
Shock stifled any response. He berated himself; they all knew it was coming. Roger realized with a start that Jim was still speaking.
"...and call the others."
"It's - it's real now." The senseless response felt so juvenille, while Jim seemed old, wise. Chuck's best friend, taking on this task. Roger retraced the last few words - Jim said this was the first call, or something.
Roger stuttered out, "I'll - I can call Joe."
"Alright," he answered, slow and serious and reassuring. "There's no details on anything yet, but I thought -" The air went taut then, quiet, and Roger squeezed his eyes shut.
"Yeah," his voice sounded painfully normal. "That's good. Thanks, Captain."
Jim's only answer was a slow breath, so Roger waited.
"Well. Guess I'll call the rest of those misfits then."
"You'd better," Roger coughed a laugh.
He pressed a finger to the switchhook, keeping the handset in his grip. His other hand fumbled across the rotary, searching out numbers by feel.
Joe greeted him cheerily, propping the door as Roger took the steps. The big family gatherings were of the past, but on occasion, for no specific reason, Joe would invite the locals to stop by. Roger always took him up on it. Besides, navigating the city reminded him why he liked living out where he did.
"Bobby and Shorty will be here too," Joe mused, peering out at the overcast April morning.
They made idle chatter, familiar and reflexive, until the others arrived, exchanging greetings and settling in seats. After a pause, Bobby cleared his throat.
"You all ought to know about Adam?"
Roger stilled, glancing at Joe and Shorty's matching questioning expressions, then answered. "Don't think we do."
"He passed in his sleep last Friday," Bobby provided. "Margaret called yesterday. Family gathered the day before that to send his ashes to the water."
Shorty dropped his head, speaking to the floor, "Gentlest arms in the boat. Pure force too." Joe stared at his hands.
Roger's thoughts wandered along with his eyes. His gaze snagged on the oar hanging on Joe's wall, so familiar he could feel it in his fists. He could even picture Gordy's stroke just ahead of him.
One more oar at rest now, his mind whispered reluctantly.
An age comes where hearing of a death becomes a familiar cadence, a well-traveled path of call and response. It's a shadow that feels more like clockwork than premonition when you've lived to see (nearly) the bookends of a century. There'd be news of Roger's old neighbors, family, friends, former co-workers, updates unwelcome but accepted.
But certain voices being the herald were a kind of jolt. Something deep inside him felt 20 years old again at the sound of Shorty's deep voice, pulling up memories of sore muscles, card games on long train rides and old jokes. Roger pictured him on the other end of the line, an unrealistically young, smiling face, fantastically imposed with the thick white mustache he's worn for decades now.
Then Shorty said Johnny's name and the news. Johnny's boyish face filled Rogers's mind, his flashing eyes, proud and tilted chin, the reluctant ease Johnny found in their company and journey.
"Well, I hope our old pal is enjoying some rest," Roger heard himself saying.
"Can't imagine he would," Shorty laughed back. "He's probably taking to whatever other tasks he didn't get around to mastering these past 80 years. I'm sure he had a long list."
Roger nodded in agreement, and Shorty seemed to hear it.
He bent to wrap an arm around Eleanor's small frame. She firmly patted his shoulder in return.
"You meant the world to George, you know," she said, eyes damp. "All of you, all this time, being there for him."
"He was always there for us," Roger answered. "And could always count on him giving us a good time."
She nodded with an understanding smile, and he turned away only to see a half-circle of familiar bent backs.
Don's hand rested on Joe's shoulder blade, but he looked off towards the skyline, profile glowing a warm orange. Bobby and Jim had stopped beside the pair and rested palms against Joe's back too, bright against the dark suit jacket. Roger thought that, just then, there was no place he'd rather be.
The four of them weren't a part of any ceremony or service. Yet the next time they managed to gather, it was on all of their minds, and Bobby came ready. They sat on park benches after walking carefully over the sloped grassy ground. Bundled in coats and winter hats, Bobby leaned to tug a bottle of champagne from his bag.
"Knew he wouldn't remember this time," Bobby ventured, dry humor in his voice even though he kept looking away at the water. "So I brought it. Care to join me?"
Jim passed out the glasses, and they toasted to the world traveler, the stroke, their friend.
"Kind of thought he'd stick around long enough to keep an eye on each of us," Jim said wryly.
"We were the good ones, you know," Joe answered.
"Hadn't given him enough to do lately, I guess," Roger responded, mouth twitching a little. "Poor little fella got bored."
Jim's eyes sparkled as he chortled, "Makes sense that that would be the thing to take him out when you think of it."
It had been arranged quietly for the morning before fall turnout. Just them, Jim's daughter, and a university athletic official.
Supposedly, it was to feel like a ceremony, watching the ashes spill out, catching air and light in their drift to the water. Somehow it only felt like an ordinary morning on the cut. It felt like friends and beauty and effort and life.
"Was always easy to know where his loyalties lay."
Roger turned towards Joe's voice, nodding. "It's right that he should rest here."
The familiar shape of the shell house stood large behind them as they walked back to the waiting car and Judy, ready to take him and then her father home.
The family had pulled out the photo albums, circling around with flimsy paper plates softened by the cake and melting ice cream. Roger looked around the room at the mix of ages there to celebrate his birthday but mostly leaving him alone. He didn't mind. Now and then someone would hold up a photo towards him. He squinted, smiled or nodded back, appreciating the gesture even if he didn't always discern what he was looking at.
A black and white picture was dropped in his lap, his own young face smiling up at him. He grinned helplessly back, but it was aimed at the other man stretched out in a tiny rowboat. His thumb rubbed against Joe's face.
He missed his friend.
"Get me an envelope?" He asked, pointing to the corner desk. "I'd like to send this to his daughter. She always was collecting these sorts of things."