Since retiring, my husband kept the same morning routine. Herb would amble from the bedroom around 8:30 a.m. wearing plaid boxer shorts and a ten-year-old wife beater with sweat stains at the armpits that defied detergent. He’d plop down at the table, greet me with a where’s-my-breakfast glare, and thumb through the newspaper hunting the daily crossword puzzle.
Frankly, I missed the days when Herb jumped out of bed at five, left me undisturbed, and grabbed a bagel on the way to work.
“Herb, you never talk to me,” I whined. Silence.
Without looking up from his puzzle, Herb blurted out, “Recondite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Seven letters. Second one’s a B.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know some obscure word?” I said.
“That’s it,” he shouted. “Obscure!”
I hadn’t seen him that excited since our wedding night. To thank me, he shoved his empty coffee cup in my direction.
“We’re out of coffee,” I informed him. “How ‘bout a Colt 45 malt liquor?”
His eyes brightened until I said I was being facetious.
“I put coffee on that shopping list I handed you three days ago,” I chided him. “If you’d done as I asked, there’d be plenty of coffee.”
He merely shrugged.
Whenever I confided to my sister, Joan would say, “Trudy, I advised you not to marry him forty-five years ago.” How could I know Joan had the power of prophecy? She ended our conversations with, “Pray about it.”
Oh how I prayed.
Then a few Sundays ago, Pastor Jeff gave a sermon based on 1 Corinthians, chapter 15, verse 55. O death, where is thy sting. It gave me an idea. As I exited the church that morning I told Jeff, “I’ve been praying for God’s help.”
Pastor clasped me by the elbow and said, “God helps those who help themselves.” I nodded. That’s exactly what I intended to do.
Herb belched. It was time to call my sister and put my plan in motion.
After a few minutes of small talk I told Joan, in a voice loud enough to draw Herb’s attention, “I spotted a swarm of bees this morning in the snapdragons just outside our kitchen window.”
Herb glanced up from the crossword puzzle, a twinge of apprehension in his eyes.
“You’re right, Joan. I hope they stay outside. You know how allergic Herb is. I added an EpiPen to his shopping list, since we’re all out.” I neglected to mention that I’d destroyed the only one we had. “Oh no!” I shrieked, “One’s buzzing around Herb. I gotta go.” I ended the call.
Herb bolted upright looking first left, then right.
That’s when I jabbed him in the left shoulder with the syringe of bee serum. He slapped his hand over the spot, rubbing it. Herb’s eyes widened like he’d just seen a purple jackalope lumbering through the kitchen. His body convulsed. It all happened so fast.
According to the coroner, death was from anaphylactic shock. I credited the power of prayer.
Nice story.
ReplyDeleteI feel as though it could use some editing. In part, Elmore Leonard's rule about dialogue tags. And "wife beaters" don't have cloth around the armpits.
ReplyDelete