Bedside
Tubes, needles, beeping monitors, and a bed tray full of cold stale urine. A yellow plastic pitcher of water sitting on a rolling table, just out of arm's reach. A stale bowl of Jell-O with fruit chunks turning brown. White curtains surrounding the scene, but not muffling the groans and moans coming through the door from the hallway. An oxygen mask was over her mouth and her breath was barely enough to fog it up when she exhaled now. It had been a long wait through the cancer. And the end was near. He still sat there, at the bedside, with her hands drooping in his. They were tiny, clammy, with sagging, aged skin that bunched up and got lost in his meaty palms. But beneath the loose softness, he could feel the hardness of her arthritic bones and knuckles.
Her eyes opened. She struggled to lift her withered arms and pry off the mask. His knees cracked as he hopped to his feet to help her. When the mask was pulled aside, he took her hands back into his, and leaned over the bedside, close enough to kiss her.
"Big Al," she whispered. "This is going to be our last dance."
Her eyes were filled with tears, but they were still beautiful and blue behind their wrinkled, veined curtains.
He felt the tightness in his throat, his eyes pleading to weep with her, but he held her hands more tightly and forced a smile instead.
Her eyes twinkled and dropped a tear from each corner, and then she found the strength to smile from his smile. Hers was a crooked, half-toothless, smile. "I don't know how you still have perfect teeth at 80. And how your liver outlived my body!"
"Baby, if you'd just had a little wine here and there..."
"Oh, shut up. And I bet you're still drinking a bottle of wine every night."
"Well, yes. It helps me deal with you being sick and all."
"Phooey! You'll make any excuse to get drunk."
"But remember our bet?"
"Yes. That you'd outlive me."
"It was the wine."
"Phooey!"
A lot of commotion rose up in the hallway. Squeaking wheels, fast footsteps, and loud voices rushed past. Swinging double doors slammed open, and then flapped several times before fluttering to a stop.
They turned back to one another, shrugged, and smiled.
"Big Al?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you love me?"
"Why, yes, of course."
"That's not what I'm asking. Do you really love me?"
"Of course."
"Don't you ever wish you'd spent your life with another woman?"
"Nope."
"Did I satisfy you?"
"Yep."
"Didn't I nag you too much?"
"Nope."
"Big Al. Please. I don't have a lot of time left. I need to know."
"I love you baby. I always did. You were the best woman a man could want."
She smiled a little bigger, and he could feel from the twitching of her ligaments she was trying to tighten her grip, without success. And her tears were coming back.
"What was your best memory, of us?"
"Well, um... there were so many. But just off the top of my head?"
"Yes."
"It was Christmas, back in our first apartment. You weren't wearing any panties. Just one of my t-shirts. You were decorating the tree, and I was lying on the floor, under you, looking up as you stepped over me."
"Al, please, I'm dying. You were drunk that night too, I remember. And why does it have to be about sex every time? Spare me just this last time? Please?"
"Does this mean I have to think up another memory?"
"Yes."
"Remember when we got Jesse at the pound, when she was just a little puppy?"
"Yes. Tell me more."
"Well. I remember how we put her in a box in the kitchen and she cried until 2 a.m. When we got up and saw her sitting there with sad eyes, we couldn't help but take her back to bed with us. She quieted down and slept right there, between us, for the rest of her life."
"17 years."
"Yeah. We had to take off work for a week when she died. That was really hard."
"It sure was."
"I always felt the closest to you when we went to bed and had Jesse there, right between us. We both would pet her at the same time as she sighed off to sleep."
Big Al's wife exhaled with relief. "Now I know you loved me, Big Al."
"I said I did."
"Yes, you finally did. Now help me put my mask back on. But before you go, do me a favor?"
"Alright."
"Stroke this pillow next to me as I do the same. We'll pretend it is sweet puppy Jesse."
So Al helped his wife back into the mask. Then, with teary eyes, they stroked the pillow between them.
"That's a good girl. Such a sweet puppy, Jesse," choked Big Al. "Go to sleep and dream of the kittens and butterflies."
So she closed her eyes and sighed off to sleep a final time.
Comments
| 2. | Johnny Wraith | Mon Apr 02, 2007 @ 07:26AM |
Lori,
Thanks for reading and commenting on <i>Bedside</i>.
This story is one of my purest, in the lack-of-vulgarity sense, granted there's still death and nudity in it.
The power in it, I think, is the use of a pet to bring out the emotions in people. My toughest buddies can't stop from crying when the dog in a Disney movie triumphantly finds its way home, or must be put down after fighting a bear to save its family.
| 3. | chris | Wed Apr 04, 2007 @ 08:08PM |
Hi Johnny,
I enjoyed this story. I kept expecting a twist, but then by the end I was glad there wasn't one. Very well written, just the right distance in the POV. Like the way you develop his character. Half expected him to off himself along with her. But again, like I said, glad he didn't.
That's the nicest way I've ever seen a writer kill off his wife man.
| 4. | Johnny Wraith | my website | Sun Apr 08, 2007 @ 10:11AM |
Chris,
It was hard for me to hold back from doing something radical at the end, like I usually do. In fact, my first inclination was to end the story with Big Al going to his favorite watering hole and ordering a drink like nothing had happened, as if his wife's death wasn't a big deal. I'm glad I didn't do it that way.
| 5. | Tanya D | Wed Apr 18, 2007 @ 03:50PM |
I'm also glad you didn't end it that way... if you had, the story wouldn't have evoked any emotion aside from dissatisfaction. I'm glad that you're willing to put up a story with heart, even if you had to sneak a sexual element into it. There's hope for you yet ;-)
P.S. I don't think I've enjoyed one this much since Coffee With Jesus.
| 7. | Tanya D | Tue Apr 24, 2007 @ 02:08PM |
Maybe it's a "guy thing" because I judge movies based on the feeling in my heart, not the feeling in my pants...
In the end, what I remember are emotions, messages and feelings of love, hate, shock, and mourning. That's what leaves a lasting impact. The sexual aspect of many stories end up barely a fleeting memory. That type of gratification is temporary at best.
It is my impression that you write for yourself more then for your readers and that is one of the reasons why I respect you (the other is for creating this site and putting yourself out there)... but consider my opinion food for thought... or simply just an alternative perspective on how to leave a permanent dent in the world (should you be at all interested in doing so).
| 8. | Tanya D | Tue Apr 24, 2007 @ 02:27PM |
**Side note: This story is a great example of my point. I read it just under a week ago and I barely remember the details of the sexual content, other then there was something mentioned about looking up a skirt. What I do remember is (also what I'm willing to bet money on that I'll still remember a year from now): the moment when a tear welled up in my right eye as I pictured the elderly couple in bed, petting the pillow... and that the dog's name was Jesse. These are the details that left "a dent" for me.**
| 9. | Johnny Wraith | Thu Apr 26, 2007 @ 08:29AM |
Tanya,
Your points are well-taken. I thank you for them.
In many cases, especially in the case of <i>Coffee with Jesus</i>, I've kept my dirty mouth out of the equation, for the most part. As a result, I was able to write a piece that didn't distract with decadence.
As I writer, I often see the sex, alcohol, and violence of my stories as a purging. Sometimes I feel I've almost written the decadence out of my self. Sometimes I feel it will only take a few more stories and I'll be rid of the "Wraith." However, I doubt the "Wraith" will ever die. It will always be there in my words, even in the stories where the "Johnny Wraith" and "Johnny Angel" are in greater balance.
I'm not sure if I said anything deeply philosophical. It felt like it when I was saying it.
In the end, my takeaway from your comments is that I should endeavor to produce more stories like <i>Coffee</i>
| 10. | Tanya D | Thu Apr 26, 2007 @ 09:00AM |
Something tells me that the next one could very well have something to do with a certain cemetery in our nation's capital...
P.S. Next to Coffee, Lunch Money was another favorite for different reasons. It was very real, an interesting aspect of childhood vs. innocence and while an underlying theme may have been "Classic Wraith"... the language used was what allowed the story to exist as poignant rather then vulgar. It may even have been the perfect balance between your Angel and Wraith. Ok, no more comments on this story about other stories... I promise!
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