“I already know what you’re going to say, Billy.”
Harold smiled a bit when he saw his son wince at the name.
“Dad, you’re eighty-two. Mom’s been gone for six months. You can’t stay in this house by yourself.”
“Why not? I’ve lived here for five decades. Your mother would not want me to leave our home.”
“What if something happens to you? Jen and I live an hour away.”
“There’s always 911.”
“What if you can’t get to the phone?”
“Then I can’t get to the phone. So what? I just want to sit in my comfortable recliner, occasionally with a good Scotch, and watch TV.”
“All day long?”
“Of course. What, am I going to go play tennis? Go drag racing? Chase skirts? I’m eighty-two. Meals on Wheels keeps me fed. I see no reason to leave the house, Billy. None.”
William sighed and shook his head.
Harold loved watching police TV series and old mystery shows, when he could find them, typically late at night on three-digit cable networks. He spent hours watching shows like Mannix, Ironside, Perry Mason, Hawaii Five-0, even the old Dragnet episodes. His favorite was Matlock. He’d been told, more than once, that he looked like Andy Griffith, and he could easily imagine himself in the scenarios Matlock found himself in during each episode.
One night, an episode of Baretta, starring Robert Blake, was scheduled for two a.m. on channel 306, whatever network that was. Harold had no TV-watching routine, other than stalking the channel scroll for viewing candidates. He didn’t care much for sitcoms (just I Love Lucy and The Honeymooners plots regurgitated ad nauseum), so it was often difficult to find anything of interest.
As the theme song for Baretta began, Harold turned up his hearing aids. He couldn’t hear a damn thing without them, even when the TV was at full volume. This time, his hearing aids were filled with static, so much so that he couldn’t hear the dialogue on the television. It wasn’t so much static, he realized, as murmuring, distant conversation with no discernible words. Unintelligible chatter. “What the hell!”
Harold switched off the TV with the remote and listened. Yes, there were voices. He could hear voices, talk of some kind. But he couldn’t make out the words.
He pulled out the hearing aids, placed them on the coffee table. Nothing. He couldn’t hear a thing. He put the hearing aids back in. He again heard the same noise, like a radio program just out of range. Voices, but not voices. Something else ...
“Damn things are defective!”
He tried adjusting the volume on the hearing aids, to no avail.
Then, he distinctly heard his name, HAROLD, spoken with clarity through the mindless chatter. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he yanked out both devices and tossed them on the table.
He definitely heard his name spoken.
And it was definitely his dead wife who’d spoken it.
The following day, soon after getting out of bed, Harold made a cup of coffee, turned on the TV in the living room, settled into his favorite recliner, and put in his hearing aids. No static, no murmuring. The hearing aids worked perfectly—the Weather Channel came through loud and clear.
Harold shrugged. He must have been hearing things before.
A week passed before Harold heard his wife’s voice through his hearing aids again. He was watching the latest iteration of Hawaii Five-0 (not the same without Jack Lord!) when the static began. This time, he turned down the TV volume, closed his eyes, and just listened.
Whispering. Not quite intelligible, but almost, coming through the noise.
“Mildred?” he said aloud.
The noise became louder, more intense, irritating.
hear
Harold kept his eyes closed, kept silent.
hear
hard
He was pretty sure it was Mildred’s voice.
hard to
“Is it you, Mildred?”
hear me
“I can—”
hard to get
“—hear you.”
hard to get through
“I can hear you, Mildred. I can hear you! Where are you?”
The static was getting too loud.
here
And then he heard nothing but white noise.
William spread a number of pamphlets and brochures across the kitchen table in front of his father.
“What’s this?” Harold asked.
“I just brought them for you to look through. They’re from retirement homes I’d recommend. We really should visit a few, get a feel for what they offer.”
“Not interested.”
“Dad, you need to seriously consider your options.”
“I have.”
“Well, I particularly like Shady Oaks. The facility is clean and the folks there are very nice. Plenty of activities. The food is great. I really think you’d like it there, if you gave it a chance.”
“Not interested.”
“Dad, you can be so stubborn at times! Well, I’ll leave these here for you. Maybe you’ll want to read them later.”
Harold
“I’m here, Mildred.”
it’s hard
“What’s hard?
getting through ... takes all my strength
“Where are you?”
here with you
“I’ve missed you so much.”
I know
Her voice was barely a whisper. Harold turned up the hearing aids, but the static made it difficult.
“Do you miss me?”
I’ve been here
“Why can’t I see you?”
can’t ... manifest
“What?”
not strong
“I don’t understand. Manifest?”
mani ... ong enough
“I don’t understand, Mildred.”
weak
“You know that I love you.”
know
Then there was only static.
Harold had no idea how she had made contact with him. He was only pleased that she did. Was she actually haunting the house? Or was she talking to him from the other side? She said she was “here”—but where is “here”? No matter. He was happy to have Mildred in his life again.
They had talked off and on for days, and she seemed to be getting stronger and better able to communicate with him. He did not understand the barriers, what made it so difficult for her, and wished he could help in some way. He’d never believed in the paranormal, yet now it had become a mainstay in his life.
“Mildred, are you here?”
right here
“Can you see me?”
yes
“Why are you here?”
You need me
Harold nodded. He did need her.
why do you watch television so much
“I enjoy it. Now that I’m retired, I just want to kick back and relax. You know, I started working on my Dad’s farm when I was fourteen. I worked hard every year after, supporting our family over the decades. Now, I finally have time to do the thing I enjoy most. Watching TV.”
The noise in his hearing aids was dissipating, usually a sign that she was losing her strength and could no longer communicate with him. Her voice became a whisper.
but there’s so much to do
“Do?”
around the house
“I wish we could go out to dinner together, like old times.”
that would be nice
“I wish I could see you again.”
I know
“Are you happy where you are?”
I’m here
“Are you happy?”
I’d be happier if you didn’t watch TV so much
“But I do vacuum the house, Mildred.”
every week
“No, not every week. Maybe once a month. I don’t see a need to do it more often.”
you must vacuum every week
“Mildred, I’m watching an episode of
McCloud. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find an episode of McCloud?”
not important
“It’s important to me.”
there are more important things
“Such as?”
the kitchen won’t paint itself
“I’m watching my show now.”
why must you disappoint me
“I’m not doing that right now.”
the trash needs to go out
“I’m watching TV. I’ll do it in the morning.”
you’ll forget to do it in the morning ... do it now
“Leave me alone, Mildred.”
do it now
nothing is getting done around this house
look at the dust ... can’t you see the dust
you are the most lazy, inconsiderate man I know
After tolerating several weeks of endless nagging, Harold took another tack.
“Mildred, we were married for fifty-two years. More than half a century. You were my high-school sweetheart, the love of my life. But, darlin’, you have to understand. You’re dead. You died over six months ago. It’s time for you to move on. Go to the light. Go get your heavenly reward. And, for the love of God, leave me the hell alone!”
At first, Harold thought maybe she’d left him; the quiet was almost oppressive. Maybe she understood, finally. Maybe she had moved on after all. A minute went by, then two.
Mildred whispered.
there’s so much to do around the house
Harold sighed.
the kitchen needs to be painted ... you promised me that you’d paint the kitchen ... the dining room chairs need to be varnished
Harold’s sigh was even heavier.
and the carpet in the living room needs to be—
“Mildred, I just want to watch my TV shows. I’m eighty-two years old. I just want to watch TV. I don’t need to paint the kitchen. I don’t even use the dining room anymore.”
but Harold
“It’s only a house. Wood, plaster, and stone. Fifty years from now—hell, ten years from now—it won’t matter one iota if I’ve painted the kitchen or not. If the house hasn’t been bulldozed, it will be owned by someone else who will likely repaint and remodel everything anyway. Those green drapes you spent days deciding on? The next owner will rip them down and put up purple ones. It’s just a house, Mildred. I refuse to waste what little time I have left toiling over a house.”
He wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he heard Mildred crying. Can ghosts cry? If they could talk, Harold assumed they could cry.
it’s our home
He nodded, frowned. Can you hurt a ghost’s feelings?
“Yes, it was our home, and we kept it well. It was a beautiful, loving home” he said. His voice was calm, soothing. “And, when you lived here, I did things around the home to make you happy. I always wanted to make you happy, Mildred. But, doing those things did not make me happy in the same way they did you. Do you understand? Now that you’re not here, I don’t care about those things. When you were here, it was our home. Now, it is my house, and I have no desire to paint anything. It is only a house. It is a home when someone lives in it. When I’m gone, none of this will matter.”
paint the kitchen
Harold shook his head. He removed his hearing aids, placed them on the coffee table, and promptly fell asleep in the recliner.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mayfield, but our technicians have tested your units and have found no malfunction. In fact, they pass every standard test with flying colors.”
“Flying colors my ass! Did you actually listen to them?”
“We could not duplicate what you described. Static, you said?”
“Irritating static.” Harold nodded.
“Hmm ... well, here’s the situation, Mr. Mayfield,” the twenty-something salesman behind the counter said. “The company will not allow me to replace fully functional devices. The warranty clearly states—”
“To hell with the warranty. I want new hearing aids!”
“Dad, don’t be so rude to the young man,” William said. “He’s only trying to help.”
“I can order a new pair, no problem,” the salesman said. “But your insurance and your Medicare doesn’t cover it at all. You would have to pay out-of-pocket for the new hearing aids.”
Harold sighed. “Fine. I just can’t wear those any more. The incessant noise will drive me insane.”
“I’ll cover the costs,” William said to the salesman. “Do you need a down-payment?”
The new, sleek hearing aids only made Mildred’s voice more distinct and shrill.
why must you be such a slob
Harold ignored her. It was becoming more difficult for him every day to do so. But, to hear the television, he also had to hear her. He had no options.
He flipped through the channels using the TV remote.
when was the last time you washed those windows
He then happened upon a show about ghost hunting, on that science fiction channel that he usually avoided. He stopped scrolling. He was never interested in these shows before, believing them to be bunk—just a bunch of supposed researchers wandering through spooky houses with flashlights and other contraptions. But now he had a different perspective. He settled back to watch the show.
“Billy, I was watching one of those ghost-chasing shows last week. Do you ever watch those shows?”
“You shouldn’t watch that junk, Dad. It’s all fake. There’s no such thing as a ghost.”
don’t tell William about me
“Well, on this show, the guys looking for ghosts were using all kinds of gizmos—videocams, gadgets that could detect electromagnetic fields, and recorders that could pick up sounds and voices that the ghost chasers couldn’t hear with the naked ear. They could record voices of spirits, Billy.”
“Really, Dad. It’s garbage.”
“They’re called EVPs. Electronic voice phenomena.”
“It’s not real. They’re probably just recording fragments of radio broadcasts or CB radios or something.”
“I don’t know, Billy. It seemed legit to me.”
“Dad—”
“I think I’m picking up EVPs through my hearing aids.”
William stared at his father.
“Your mother has been talking to me, Billy.”
“Oh, Dad—”
I told you not to tell him ... I told you
“Where’s the friggin’ remote?” Harold said aloud to the others in the room. No one seemed to hear him, which didn’t surprise him in the least. He’d been largely ignored at the Shady Oaks Retirement Home, ever since Billy had left him here the week before.
will you stop worrying about the stupid television
Harold sat on the couch in the TV room, facing the big-screen television fastened high on the wall.
why did you let William put you in this place
The remote wasn’t on the coffee table in front of him, just a pile of old magazines. The end table nearest him was piled with hardback books—no remote.
is William selling our house
“Yes, Mildred, Billy is selling our house. Do you see the TV controller anywhere?”
you can’t let William sell the house
“Sure I can. I’m no longer living there. And you’re no longer living.”
why are you being so cruel
“Just stating the obvious. So, do you see the remote or not?”
don’t you care about our home
“Fine. Don’t help me then.”
A large woman slept at the other end of the couch, her head tilted back, drool pooling at the corner of her mouth. Her snoring was cavernous. The remote was buried between her clenched thighs.
“Dammit,” Harold said. He reached for the remote, careful not to touch the woman and wake her.
you need to get on the phone immediately and call William
Harold gingerly extricated the remote; it was slathered with the woman’s thigh sweat. “Dammit,”
he said again.
call William and tell him not to sell our house ... call him now
He started flipping through the channels, trying to find anything of interest. Anything to take his mind away.
I want you to move back into our house and ... and ... fix things
There was an episode of Matlock. Thank the stars and all that was holy! He cranked up the volume on the TV.
Harold, are you listening to me
He closed his eyes. It was time. Long past time, actually.
don’t ignore me
He twisted the hearing aid from his left ear, rolled it in his palm, contemplating ...
Harold, don’t you dare
... and then dropped the tiny device to the floor. He crushed it under his heel like a walnut.
“I love you, Mildred,” he whispered.
He reached for the hearing aid in his right ear ...
NOOOOOOOO
... dropped it to the floor and crushed it as well.
The silence was immediate, welcome relief.
Harold looked around the room at his fellow Shady Oaks denizens, all in varied degrees of conversation. A group of old codgers played poker at a card table in the corner—maybe he’d join them tomorrow night. He glanced at the sleeping woman slouched on the couch next to him. No one seemed to have noticed his actions. He reached down to the floor and gathered the hearing aid debris in his hand, and then placed the ruined devices in his shirt pocket. He’d flush them down the toilet when he returned to his room later in the evening.
Harold stared for a time at the television, hearing nothing but a low growl, even with the TV at full volume. The episode of Matlock was one he’d seen so many times that he didn’t have to hear the TV to know what Andy Griffith was saying.
He abruptly realized just how boring television reruns were.
Harold sighed. What now? Thumb twiddling?
Then, he remembered the pile of books stacked on the end table, all hardbacks. The book on the top of the pile was Mickey Spillane’s classic I, the Jury.
Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad! Page 27