by Ann Zimmerman
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This morning I am laying bacon strips on the microwave dish when the phone rings. I check the caller ID. My mother. I cradle the phone against my shoulder and continue fixing breakfast.
Within seconds she asks, “You remember Gladys Berger?”
“Who?”
“You know – she always wore that flowered hat. She sat in the back pew at church.”
I haven’t attended her church in 30 years. I certainly don’t know Gladys. “Sure,” I say, as I crack four eggs into the frying pan, then drop bread into the toaster.
I wonder if Stan’s still sleeping upstairs. He usually wakes early on the weekend, especially when he smells bacon.
“Well,” my mother continues, “she's a widow. Her husband dropped dead yesterday. Got out of bed and keeled over, right there. Gladys found him. Cerebral hemorrhage, they said.”
“Uh huh,” I mutter, “That’s a shame.” I think, at her age, she’s gotten used to losing people. I slide the eggs onto plates, burn my fingers picking up the bacon, then begin buttering the toast.
She says, “He was only 56. Same as Stan.”
“Really?” I wonder again what’s keeping him.
Suddenly, I hear a loud thud above me. I cover the phone and yell, “Stan?” No answer.
My mother is saying, “Those hemorrhages can happen to anyone, you know, even young people.”
Another thump, louder. I drop the knife. It clatters to the floor. “Gotta go, Mom.” I toss the phone onto a chair. I huff up the stairs. My blood pulses in my temples. My hand trembles as I twist the doorknob. Will my husband be crumpled on the floor?
Still dressed in pajamas, he sits on the edge of the bed. He holds his black shoe in his hand.
I catch my breath, sigh.
“Stan, what’s going on?”
He grins boyishly, turns the shoe over. I see a dark, smashed object on the heel.
“Black Widow,” he says.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2008 by its authors.
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