No Fear

by Darcia Helle

  I nodded. I barely knew Tonya and couldn’t come up with her boys’ names if someone waved a million dollars in my face. I didn’t care, either. Tonya’s a young working mother. I’m a retired old lady. The two of us weren’t going to be best friends any time soon.

  Tonya’s husband is a martial arts instructor. Harry had told me that during one of his marathon speaking sessions. I’d seen the man out mowing his lawn and damn near lost my false teeth when my jaw fell open. His muscles glistened in the sunlight, toned and perfect. I might be old, but I still know perfection when I see it.

  I looked at Harry, sitting there in those awful plaid shorts he loved so much. Skinny legs, flabby arms, and a big gut. He’d been trim once, with muscular arms and a stomach made hard from daily sit-ups. He said my cooking made him fat. We both knew better.

  “I saw on the news that it snowed up in Iowa today,” Harry said. “Only a couple inches but it’s hard to believe winter’s already started up there.”

  Iowa? We didn’t know a soul north of Fort Lauderdale.

  “Ever think we missed out?”

  “On what?” I asked.

  “Snow. You know, with the kids. Making those, what do the kids call them? Snow angels?”

  I shook my head. “They got to water ski instead.”

  “That’s true. But maybe we should’ve made it a point to vacation in the snow now and then.”

  We had four children. Our youngest moved out of the house twelve years ago. None of them had rushed off to snowy states, in search of snow angels.

  “We could take the grandkids,” Harry said. “Maybe during Christmas break? We could fly everyone out to Colorado and stay in one of them ski lodges.”

  “I don’t want to go to a ski lodge.”

  “Aww, c'mon, Hazel. Why not? It'd be an adventure.”

  “For one thing, not one of us has clothing warm enough. We don’t own boots, winter coats, gloves, scarves, or hats. I don’t think the girls even own sweatshirts.”

  Harry rubbed his double chin. “I suppose it would get too costly to buy those things for everyone.”

  We had six grandchildren and our youngest daughter was pregnant again. Spending thousands of dollars to shiver in a ski lodge made no sense, particularly when one son-in-law was out of work and two of our grandchildren needed braces. Besides, not once had any of the kids expressed the desire to ski. Or, for that matter, make snow angels.

  I lifted my book and managed to read two sentences before Harry spoke again.

  “What do you think about planting a cherry tree?”

  Without taking my eyes from the page, I said, “That’s fine, if you want one.”

  “I thought about it. The orange trees are doing well. Can be a lot of work, though. Getting all that fruit off the top gets harder each year.” He laughed. “Used to be when I could run up and down a ladder. Now I’m a teetering old fool up on that landing. Getting old is a bitch, ain’t it, darlin’?”

  An hour passed, and Harry was still talking. He’d just finished telling me a story about someone he’d worked with whom I’d never met. Why did I care about this person or the rash he’d developed from whatever medication he’d been taking? I didn’t care. Not one iota.

  Harry motioned to the book I’d been holding. “That a good story?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, since I haven’t had much of a chance to read it.”

  He broke into a wide grin. “Isn’t it great that, after all these years, we still have so much to talk about? Walt tells me he and Josie don’t even sit in the same room half the time. She likes to be on the sun porch, where she does her knitting and listens to the radio. But you know Walt. He’s stuck in front of CNN all day long. A shame, really. Two people work most of their lives, passing each other by and trying their best to steal moments here and there. Hell, between the kids and work, we were lucky if we had a few hours alone every month! Then you retire, seems like you’d want to make up for all that lost time.”

  I tried to smile. Really, I did. Harry was good to me. He never cheated, never hung out at the bars with the guys. He always provided for us and loved our children to a fault. I just wanted him to shut up.

  He squeezed my hand and asked, “You want some sweet tea and a couple cookies?”

  I agreed because maybe the food would keep him from speaking for at least a few minutes. Sometimes I thought about poisoning that sweet tea he loved so much. I’d seen a show once about a woman who’d poisoned a bunch of her husbands. She’d killed them for their money. I didn’t want to kill Harry for money. I wanted to kill him for the silence.

  After our snack, I told Harry I was going to sit outside and enjoy the late-afternoon sun. He’d had a tiny spot of cancer removed from his bald head last year and the doctor recommended that he avoid the sun as much as possible. I sometimes managed to sneak outside by myself on the pretense of wanting to sit in the sun, which, to be honest, made me a little queasy since I’d gotten old.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be in the sun,” I reminded him.

  “I’ll pull a chair under the tree.”

  My days went on this way. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts over his constant monologue. I researched poisons on the internet. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was making sure we didn’t have anything dangerous within reach of the grandchildren.

  We watched a show about a woman who shot her husband in self-defense. I knew I couldn’t shoot Harry. I couldn’t do anything that violent. Besides, we didn’t even own a gun.

  I looked up the medication he took for his high blood pressure and the other one he took for his gout. I wanted to know how much it would take to kill him, if it would kill him or only make him sick. When he pulled a chair up beside me, I told him I was making sure that his medications were safe.

  I considered asking my doctor for sleeping pills, then slipping a handful in a cup of hot coffee. How many would it take to kill him? That was something I’d have to research. Maybe I could do that while he showered, during my ten minutes of alone time.

  On a rainy Wednesday morning, I woke up to his voice coming from the kitchen. He was making breakfast, talking to himself about the rain. By noon, my head was buzzing so loudly from his chatter that I had to take two Extra-Strength Tylenol. I wanted it all to stop. While he sat beside me, his jaw working overtime, I closed my eyes and prayed for his death. I asked for it to be painless because, as I said, he was, at heart, a good guy.

  The next morning, I woke to silence. Harry always woke before me. He’d get the coffee going and make us breakfast. And he’d talk. And then talk some more. The sound of his voice always preceded me opening my eyes.

  Today, though, I woke to silence. A glance at the clock startled me. Nearly nine a.m.! I turned over to find Harry sleeping soundlessly beside me. Silence!

  I eased out of bed and went to the kitchen. As quietly as possible, I poured myself a glass of juice and sat at the table. For thirty blissful minutes, I absorbed the quiet and heard my own thoughts. Then, as the novelty wore off, I grew concerned. Harry had never slept this late in all our years together. Maybe he was sick. I should at least check on him.

  I tiptoed back to the bedroom. Still no sound. Not even the heavy breaths or occasional snorts that had driven me crazy for nearly a half-century. And what was that smell? Had he… had he shit himself?

  A tinge of fear slipped down my spine, causing me to tremble. When I touched his forehead, I nearly recoiled at the horror. His skin was cold. So very cold.

  Thirty-seven days have passed since the funeral. My kids have been great, gathering around me and propping me up during the rough patches. Friends brought food, people called to check on me. That couldn’t last, though. They all have their own lives. This last week, my phone rarely rang. My kids are back at work, my grandkids back at school.

  As I sit in my chair, holding my book, I realize that Harry’s voice is gone forever. I have my silence.

  Tears sp
ill from my eyes, fall onto the page, blur the ink.

  Adventures of Jack and Jill

  Dear Jack,

  I’m trying to be an understanding sister because you were hurt yesterday, but what the hell were you thinking? I traipsed all the way up that hill, lugging those stupid metal buckets. The path was narrow and steep, and I broke three nails on the way up. My manicure was destroyed!

  I know you don’t care about the manicure. You said I wasted my money on the fake nails and polish, anyway. But that manicure cost me a full week’s pay. And babysitting all those miserable brats in the Old Lady’s shoe is not easy! Do you have any idea what it’s like to wipe more snotty noses than you can count? And the diapers! I swear the Old Lady keeps Pampers in business all on her own.

  The broken nails weren’t the worst of it, though. Last night, I had a date with Peter Piper. Well, I was supposed to have a date with him. That’s what the manicure was for. But, after I tumbled down the hill after you, I had to go all around the mulberry bush helping Humpty Dumpty pick up his pieces. He fell off the wall trying to catch you as you rolled past him. Poor Humpty was a mess, crying all these yolky tears. You know the King’s men couldn’t even put him back together the last time he fell. They had to fly in a specialist from Boston. Fortunately, this time wasn’t as bad.

  Humpty and I finally found all his pieces, and Mother Goose came running over to tell me you had a bad gash on your head. They’d tried to take you to the hospital, but London Bridge was falling down and they couldn’t get you to the other side. She wanted me to know King Cole’s private physician was stitching you up over at the castle. Nobody cared that my head, shoulders, knees, and toes were all dirty and bruised. No one cared about my manicure, either. Still, I would have come to see you right then. You are my brother, after all, and I care what happens to you. I was on my way, in fact, when three blind mice raced past me. The Farmer’s wife had been chopping carrots and had accidently cut off their tails! The mice were screeching so loud, I didn’t hear Boy Blue blowing his horn in warning. Next thing I knew, the wheels on the bus almost ran right over me!

  By this time, it was getting late and I knew I’d never make it back to town in time for my date. I couldn’t call Peter because my cellphone shattered under one of those stupid metal pails. So I stopped at Miss Muffet’s house to use her phone. She was eating a big bowl of porridge, which, by the way, smelled delicious. My stomach grumbled to remind me of the appetite I’d built up from all the running around. I was dialing the phone when suddenly Muffet shrieked loud enough to burst my eardrums. Her bowl went flying through the air, smashed on floor, and splattered bits of porridge all over me. The stuff was even in my hair! When I finally managed to calm her down, she told me she’d been frightened by a spider that sat down beside her. I checked, and it was an itsy, bitsy spider! I practically needed a magnifying glass to see it.

  I cleaned myself up as best I could, then finally made the call to Peter. His roommate Jack Horner answered, and told me Peter had left long ago. He thought I stood him up, so he took Bo Peep to Old MacDonald’s for fresh pumpkin pie. And you know how Bo Peep is. She wears those frilly dresses and bats her long lashes, while putting on the helpless girl act. The guys always fall for it, too. I’ve probably lost my chance with Peter now.

  All of this wouldn’t be nearly as upsetting if I could make the least bit of sense out of you insisting I meet you up on that hill in the first place. I can’t believe you fell for that nonsense Muffin Man told you. Did you honestly think there was a magical well up on that hilltop? Water does not flow uphill!

  I’m sorry you’re injured, Jack, but yesterday was the absolute worst day of my life and I’m exhausted. I won’t be picking you up at the castle. London Bridge is completely destroyed, so you’ll have to row your boat down the stream. I plan to spend the day in bed, with the covers over my head. Queen of Hearts brought over some hot cross buns. You can have those for dinner. Please don’t disturb me.

  Your sister,

  Jill

  Loneliness

  “What do you see?” Rick asked.

  “Loneliness,” I replied.

  I hadn’t meant to say the word aloud. I’d been sitting here by the window, watching the palm trees sway and the occasional car pass by, thinking it should feel peaceful but all it felt was lonely.

  Rick reached for my hand. I pulled away and said, “No,” in a weary voice I hardly recognized as my own.

  His fingers grazed my arm. His touch left a trail of electrical current. I remembered how good his arms felt, how safe I felt there.

  But that was before.

  Rick always asked what I saw when I looked outside, as if my world was somehow different than his. I’d give him silly answers, like purple unicorns and talking trees. Sometimes I’d weave elaborate tales of a fantasy world outside our windows. He’d pretend to take me seriously, looking through the glass for the passing chariot. It had been a game between us.

  We shared many types of intimacy.

  We knew everything about each other.

  Or so I’d thought.

  “Kelly, please talk to me.”

  His voice held a quiet plea. I shook my head. Talking was pointless. Words could never fix this.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I heard the honesty in his voice. Apologies, even the sincere ones, came too late. Apologies couldn’t undo the damage.

  “I know,” I said on a sigh.

  “She didn’t mean anything to me,” he said. “I don’t even know why I did it.”

  “She meant enough for you to do it more than once.”

  Rick reached out to touch me, but thought better of it and let his hand fall by his side. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  I thought we had the perfect relationship. We were best friends. Lovers. Partners. I trusted Rick completely.

  All that was before.

  Now when he touched me, I imagined his hands running over her bare skin. His touch no longer belonged to me alone.

  Each time his cellphone rang, I watched his face and wondered if she was the person bringing that smile to his eyes.

  Each time he walked out the door, I felt the betrayal to my core. How many times had he lied with ease, telling me he was going one place while he was really going to rendezvous with her? How many times had I rushed into his arms at the end of the day, not knowing those arms had been holding her just hours before?

  His lies broke the honesty anchoring us together.

  I was weightless now.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Despite everything, I didn’t doubt those words. And I would love him forever. But our love was now tangled in lies. Love doesn’t work without trust.

  I used to love who I was when we were together. I didn’t like who I’d have to be if I stayed. That woman whose husband cheated. That woman who doesn’t have enough self-respect to walk away.

  Rick sat across from me. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear to see my anguish reflected in his eyes.

  “It’ll never happen again,” he said. “I swear to you.”

  “With her?” I asked. “Or with anyone?”

  “I only want you,” he said softly.

  His voice held the weight of unshed tears.

  I felt the loss of something profound. Our love had become like a priceless vase that shattered. We could glue it back together, but it would never be the same.

  This would be easier if I could hate him for what he did. But all I felt was deep despair.

  The world outside my window hadn’t changed, yet it all looked different. I had a crack running through me that distorted my view.

  “The world is a crowded but lonely place,” I said.

  I’d never truly understood the feeling of loneliness.

  But that was before.

  You Can Call Me Ari

  Lorraine stepped into the waiting room. Surprisingly, she found herself alone. That was certainly a first. Every doctor’s office she’d ever been
in had an overflow of patients, sitting in uncomfortable chairs with long outdated magazines and irritating music for company. Maybe chiropractors were different and didn’t load their patients in like herds of cattle.

  She walked over to the reception desk but found it, too, was empty. Had she gotten her appointment wrong? Lorraine checked her watch. Nearly two o’clock. Odd that the place would be deserted in the middle of the afternoon.

  She’d never been to a chiropractor before. The idea of having her bones cracked and moved around didn’t sound the least bit appealing. But it had been six weeks since the car accident and the pain in her neck and back still kept her up nights. Betty, her best friend, had convinced her to give Dr. Grant a chance. Now, here she was, standing alone in an office that appeared abandoned. This could be a sign for her to turn around and go right back home.

  For a moment, Lorraine considered listening to that little voice telling her to flee the scene. Then she turned and a horrible twinge raced up her spine. She let out an involuntary gasp. Damn that hurt! With a resigned sigh, she moved gingerly toward one of the chairs.

  Just as she was about to lower herself onto a seat, the door leading to the exam rooms popped open. A man, presumably Dr. Grant, smiled at her. He stood about 5'10", had dark hair and wide-set, dark eyes. He wore tan chinos and a bold-striped, short-sleeved dress shirt. No white lab coat proclaimed him to be doctor or mad scientist.

  “Lorraine?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I'm Dr. Grant. You can come on back.”

  Nervous butterflies fluttered in Lorraine's stomach. As she followed the doctor into the hall, she said, “It’s very quiet in here.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Grant replied. “That awful flu going around seems to have struck many of my patients. Even James, my office manager, is out sick today.”

  “Oh, that's too bad. I’ve been lucky to avoid it so far.”

  Dr. Grant stepped aside and motioned Lorraine into a room. “Right in here,” he said.