by Lincoln Cole
“We got you some soup, mom,” Bethany said. “Ginger had to work tonight, so we’re watching the kids until ten. I thought you’d like the see them.”
“I don’t want any soup,” I said. But I was grateful nonetheless. Grateful that they were here. It takes seeing other people to realize just how lonely you really are. Just seeing the kids was making me feel better.
“It’s chicken noodle,” Adam said. “Your favorite.”
More likely it’s his favorite, I thought, not sure what my favorite is anymore. And I’m sure he has eaten plenty.
But that wasn’t fair. It probably was my favorite, and it actually sounded good. And I was hungry. But I didn’t want to eat in front of them. I only ever ate in front of Calvin, and only because he doesn’t really count. When I ate anything, even in a Styrofoam sealed cup, I ended up spilling a lot on me or the bed or the floor. It was hard to navigate around the shaking. People understood. Of course they did, but that didn’t change anything. I still don’t like to eat in front of people.
Maybe I would eat it later, though, after they left. It did smell good.
“Have Calvin put it in the fridge. I’m not hungry just now.”
Adam took the tray back out of the room, and Calvin followed him. Beth stayed, sitting next to the bed and smiling at me.
“You have crow’s feet,” I said. She laughed.
“I know. I’m getting old.”
“Nonsense, you’re still a baby,” I said. “Where’s Jason been?”
“Busy,” Bethany said. “He’s running his clinic and he’s been working sixty hours a week. He thinks it’s going to slow down soon and he wants to come visit.”
I shrugged as if it didn’t matter. It did. “Don’t have him change his life on my account.”
“He will come by,” Bethany said.
“And Rickie?”
This time Bethany didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Rickie wouldn’t be coming to see me. He probably wouldn’t even come to my funeral. He’d always been a selfish child, and as so often happens, the selfish child turns into a selfish adult. He’d gotten married, found himself a good job, and had himself a nice little family. He was too good for us nowadays, but at least he was happy.
And that’s all I really cared about. Sure it would have been nice to see his family. To get to hold his grandchildren and see his children, but it was more important to me that he had them at all. He wasn’t alone. Life is just too damn tough to go through it alone.
“I’m tired,” I said, settling back on the pillow and closing my eyes.
“Okay mom,” Bethany said. “Erika, Michael, give your great grandmother a hug.”
I forced myself to sit back up, biting back the pain, and gave each of my grandkiddies a hug. It hurt, a lot, but it meant just as much. I even smiled for them, using muscles I hadn’t used in a long time.
Finished, the children fled the room. I couldn’t blame them. Visiting a wrinkled old woman lying in a bed probably wasn’t their idea of a good time.
“Alright mom. I’m gonna let you get some sleep. I’ll see you later,” Bethany said, giving me a hug and kiss on my forehead. It saddened me, for some reason. My memories were fading, but I could still remember clearly when our roles were reversed. When I put her to bed. She was my little girl.
I hate being weak. Hate what I had become.
But, on the other hand, I was very tired. Good rest is always appreciated.
“Good night baby,” I said, settling back and relaxing. The pill, amazing as it was, was fading. And so was I. I closed my eyes and yawned, feeling my hand tap tapping away on the blankets. I barely even noticed the shaking now, and sometimes I even got some real sleep.
“Should I send Calvin in?” Bethany asked at the door.
“No,” I said dreamily. “But tell him to stop puttering…”
And then I fell asleep, content.
Calvin Greenwood
Dead to Right
Present Day
“Bethany had a big crush on you when she was little,” I say, breaking the hanging silence.
“Oh?”
“Yep. She would stare at you all dreamy-eyed.”
“She ended up marrying my brother. You sure it wasn’t him she liked?”
I nod, eyes wistful. “I’m completely sure. I didn’t figure it out, of course. Mellie did. She always knew that kind of stuff. There was a lot of stuff she told me that I would have never figured out on my own.”
“Like what?”
“Like that it was you, your brother, and my own boys egging my house all those years ago. You did it three times in two weeks, and I was ready to raise hell up and down the street before Mellie finally told me. She also told me not to do anything about it. It didn’t matter. It was just boys having fun.”
“You never said anything,” Edward says, remembering. “We thought it was the funniest thing. You never said a word and we finally got bored. You weren’t mad at us?”
“No, Mellie was right. It wasn’t important. But I felt a little cheated knowing, you know? Sometimes I think gullibility is a human defense against secrets we aren’t supposed to know. The more gullible we are the safer. Because sometimes Mellie told me things that I wasn’t supposed to know. Things I didn’t want to know. Or wasn’t allowed to say. Secrets that didn’t belong to me.”
“Like what?”
I wave my hand in dismissal. “Do you have a cigarette?”
“No,” Edward says. “You haven’t smoked in years.”
“That was for Mellie. I’ve wanted one this entire time.”
“It’s a filthy habit.”
“Spare me. I enjoyed smoking, and life is about enjoying things. What’s the point of living to a hundred if none of it’s fun? I’d wrap my cigarettes in bacon if I could.”
Edward smiles.
“Never mind. What was I saying?”
“You said that Emily knew things.”
“I meant before that,” I say. “What were we talking about?”
“Family,” Edward says, “And why killing yourself would let them down.”
Another moment slips past.
Time does that, I know from experience. Just slips by and you wake up one morning and you’re old and you don’t remember how you got here.
“You two were made for each other,” Edward says.
I snort. “I wasn’t good to her.”
“She was happy. You both were.”
“Not always. I have regrets. We were happy, sure, but she was why. Not me. She made me want to be better. But sometimes…winning her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and worth every second.”
Edward nods, but doesn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if…” I am silent for nearly a minute. “I gave up my dreams for her. For my family. I don’t regret it, but there it is. I had to quit the horses, get a job at a damned factory just to support my family. Did you know that?”
“I knew you worked at the factory,” Edward offers.
“Mellie had to work hard too. She gave up just as much. No, she probably gave up more. She was smarter than me. Had more potential. She lost more when…”
This time the silence drags on longer. Edward waits patiently. He spends the silence glancing around the yard, taking it in. Not even an acre. Put a horse out here and the yard would be picked clean before the horse had even built up a proper hunger.
The lawn and foliage is neatly manicured by a company called Compton Residential. Half of their staff, at least, is comprised of illegal aliens. But they take damn good care of the neighborhood.
A siren blares from the road about a quarter of a mile behind the condo, startling me.
Finally I find the words to continue: “Point is it took me a long time to learn how important Mellie was. And by the time I did realize it, it was almost too late. Hell, it might have been too late. Mellie was everything I had. She was all that I needed, I was just too stupid to see it. None of this
matters without her. You say that I was a saint taking care of her but she took care of me. Even when I was puttering around, cleaning up after her and making her food these last years, she was what kept me going. Without her, there is nothing.”
“You still have a lot,” Edward says. “Your children love you, your neighbors care about you. You even have great grandchildren that want to come by and visit you.”
I shake my head. “My children deserve to be free of me. Out with the old, in with the new.”
“They love you.”
“They love their lives. And they should. They don’t need to love mine too. Mine was Mellie, and she’s gone. I should be with her.”
Edward sighs.
“I already told you, I’m not going to take you to the cemetery. I’m not going to help you do this. If this is your plan, then I’m going to make sure you can’t act on it. I can stay here all day if I have to, until you convince me that you’ve changed your mind.”
I look away. This isn’t where I wanted things to go, but by God I don’t think I have any other choice. Come to think of it, this was Edward’s decision all along. If he wants to stop me, he’s going to make his life and mine miserable in doing it.
That doesn’t make what I’m about to say any easier, though. Or any more right. Quite frankly, it’s probably near the top of the worst things I’ve ever said.
I clear my throat.
“Remember how I told you that Mellie just knew things about people? And some of the things that she knew weren’t things she or I should have known. They were things that a person has the right to protect. Things people should be allowed to keep secret if they want.
“Mellie never judged. I don’t judge, either. Isn’t my place. But we both knew because Mellie knew.
“Sometimes I think it would have been easier if she hadn’t said anything. If she never told me anyone’s secrets. Something that isn’t my secret to reveal.”
“What are you saying?” Edward asks. There is curiosity in his voice, but also a sudden onset of fear.
He knows. He’s scared now. Maybe terrified. I feel terrible, and regret what I’m saying. But I can’t stop. I can’t:
“Nothing. I’m just talking for the sake of talking,” I say, eyes locked on Edward’s. “The thing is, Edward: Mellie had you pegged before you turned fifteen.”
The silence hangs in the air, thick and unyielding.
A hawk cries overhead, swooping past as it hunts for rats.
Edward finally speaks up, his voice strained: “Mr. Greenwood, are you blackmailing me?”
2001 - Edward White
Secrets and Lies
Ed closed the door behind him and hung his coat on a wall hook. Jessica was still at work, her hook hanging empty, but Portia and Quincy were both home. Someone was playing the piano in the living room. After a few seconds Ed smiled. ‘Playing’ wasn’t the right word; ‘banging keys’ was closer. Definitely Portia.
He snuck to the living room, peeking around the corner. Quincy sat on the couch, tapping idly on his Gameboy with one leg thrown over the arm. Portia had her hands balled into fists, slamming them down on the keys with a big grin on her face; it was the best the six year old could do to imitate her fifteen year old brother.
“I’m baaaack!” he said, stepping into view. The music disappeared. Quincy glanced up, but otherwise remained immutable on the couch. Portia turned to face him, her smile widening, and jumped off the bench.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” she said, leaping up into his arms. The excited welcome thrilled him, as it always did. Her smile was contagious, and part of him wished she would never grow older. Never trade her helpless innocence for the self-conscious teenage fears that would consume her in too-few years.
“Hi darling,” he said, rocking her for a moment and then setting her back on the floor. “Did you have fun at school?”
“Yes. We did finger-paint and then had a snack and then watched a movie and then Mrs. Reynolds told us a story,” she said, hands clasped behind her back and rocking from side to side. It was the pose she held whenever she either spoke a lot or was shy.
“What was the story about?”
“A princess in a tower and the prince that came to rescue her and he had a pet dog and it was named Spot.”
“That sounds like a good story,” he said. She nodded several times, still grinning. “Do you want to help me cook dinner? Your mom will be home soon.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
“Alright honey, go get changed and we’ll start dinner.”
She bounded off, running for the stairs. Ed turned to Quincy. “And what about you?”
“What?” Quincy asked, not looking up from the screen.
“How was school?”
“It was okay,” he said, turning it all into one word: Sokay.
“Just okay? Not fantastic. Not wonderful. Not spectacular.”
“Just okay,” Quincy repeated absently.
“Do you have any homework?”
“No.”
“Is it done already?”
“Yep.”
“Can I see it?”
Quincy looked up, a flicker of fear in his eyes, gone as fast as it came. “I left it at school.”
“Oh? I asked you to bring your homework home so we could go over it together.”
“I forgot. But I already finished it. In intervention.”
“Well,” Ed said, “tomorrow bring it home so we can go over it.”
“Tomorrow is Friday. They don’t give homework on the weekends.”
Bullshit. “Then bring Monday’s home so we can look it over.”
“Okay.”
“Did you practice your piano?”
“Portia wanted to play.”
Ed fought down an exasperated sigh. “She’s six.”
“She wanted to play!”
“Your school performance is tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Well, are you ready? You need to practice.”
“I will.”
“We’ll be eating dinner as soon as your mom’s home. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
“Okay.”
A slow minute passed. Ed folded his arms over his chest. Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad.
“Now,” Ed said.
“In a minute.”
“Not a minute. Now.”
Quincy sighed, setting his Gameboy on the arm of the couch and standing up. “I don’t even like piano,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Ed to hear. But he did head for the piano and grab his sheet music. He threw himself onto the bench the way only a teenager can. Every movement stiff and exaggerated. Ed watched, just long enough to make sure Quincy was playing, and then headed to the kitchen.
He’s talented, Ed knew, smiling to himself. Quincy was good. Maybe not professional good, but considering the difficulty of pieces he was playing it was quite impressive. He still missed keys and struggled with tempo, but when he was composing his own material he truly flourished.
Tomorrow his school was putting on a jazz concert, and Quincy had been tasked with writing two solos, one for a rendition of In the Know and the other on a class composed jazz piece called Flower’s in July. The song was a chance for Mrs. Rankle, the music teacher, to quietly show off her subpar writing chops to the community in the guise of a music composition, but no one minded. The parents were proud of their children regardless.
Ed wished he knew how to play, so he could help his son learn. Dreams flitted past—unrealistic, he knew—of his son growing up to be a great composer.
Not likely.
Portia reappeared, her blue school dress traded for a pink house one. “Ready?” he asked.
“Uh huh.”
He grabbed a well-used step ladder and set it against the sink. “You clean the veggies and I’ll cut the chicken,” he said, handing her the bag with green peppers and onions. They were the only two vegetables they could get her to eat, and he would have to heat up a can of spinach to get Quincy to ea
t anything green. How nice would it be if they liked the same vegetables? How much money would it save us each month?
He picked up the cleaver and dragged half of a slimy chicken out of the plastic bag. He used soy sauce, garlic, and a few seasoning spices. He avoided dry or acidic substances. Too many people marinated meat in vinegar or alcohol, then wondered why their meat ended up dry. He would have preferred to use the slow cooker, but he’d been in a hurry to get to work this morning.
Portia climbed onto the ladder and leaned over to the sink, turning on the hot water. Cold would never serve the six year old. Like her mom, Ed thought with a smile. If I can’t get Jessica to use cold water to wash vegetables, what chance do I have in changing her daughter’s mind?
“Good job,” he said as she turned the green pepper over in her hands, rubbing the sides clean. He wasn’t sure if she would ever have an interest in cooking or just wanted to be helpful, and he also wondered if this counted as reinforcing gender stereotypes, but decided it didn’t matter. She was learning a skill and he was getting to spend time with her. Wasn’t that enough?
She handed him the bell pepper and he put his Victoronix knife to use, rapidly slicing the veggies into bite-sized pieces. Portia watched him, eyes studying his movements with the chef knife, and he hoped she wasn’t in any hurry to try and emulate him. He’d cut himself many-a-time slicing vegetables with his stamped knife and was afraid of the inevitable ER trip to reattach his six-year-old’s finger.
The oven beeped. Ed sliced up the onions and peppers and filled a pan with quartered chicken, sauce, and the vegetables.
“Can we make cookies?” Portia asked.
“Cookies?”
“Uh huh.”
“Peanut butter and anchovy cookies?”
She cringed. “No, chocolate chip.”
“Chocolate chip and anchovies?”
“No dad,” she said, exasperated, “just chocolate chip.”
“Oh, okay. Sure,” Ed said. “You gather the stuff and we’ll bake some.”
Ed called out ingredients for his family-famous chocolate-chip cookies while Portia ran around and grabbed them. It took her a minute to find the vanilla and salt, which gave him enough time to finish prepping the chicken.