| Shann Palmer |
||||
| Margaret Takes Her Leave The room smells of tuna fish, moldy cheese, and heating oil. Cornered by the television line-of-sight, the chair is shaped from years of devotion to her curved spine, her expansive seat. She is small but seems larger there. Gossip amuses her, she has no truck with politics or news. The home-care nurse chatters pleasantly about movie stars and survivor shows. Margaret wishes her gone, but knows it is necessary to be poked, prodded by these people. Sometimes they bring treats. It would be this girl or another, all speaking too loudly, smiling too much, asking about her children, suggesting moving to a place where there would be more "activities...opportunities". meaning a place where they could keep their noses in her business. Such thoughts are a bad mix to her, like vinegar to sweet milk, pickles in cherry jell-o. She was happy to wave the woman out, thinking it might be nice if just once, one of her visitors could be a young man. Her only son is in Nevada, her daughter dead ten years now. That was her business, she had burned the letters, most of the pictures, no need for strangers to paw through the past. Children meddled, friends had too many good intentions, it was just as well. She wanted to give it all up right then, but "My Foolish Heart" was on at nine pm and TV Guide said Elvis imitators were on the late show. It was his birthday, or his death day, she didn't know which, didn't really matter. Pouring out the contents of a can of noodle soup into the sink, she washed it, careful not to ruin the label, and put the empty back on the shelf. Her cupboard was not bare. She had plenty of teas and soups. Showering, sitting on a stool in the bathtub, she thought of her husband, long gone. She sniffed at the soap, letting the lilac scent surround her with summers in Louisiana. Rembert had taken care of her and the children, but she never loved him. There was another man who moved away, he was dead now. She'd burned his picture, too. Tonight, she would sleep in her lounge chair, as usual, wrapped in blankets, a sweatshirt over her nightgown. During the day she wore a muumuu, sometimes with an apron. She looked as if she'd been busy that way. She'd been thinking about tonight a long time, it wasn't a plan as much as inevitability. Her affairs were orderly, paperwork minimal. There were a few boxes packed in the front hall closet, the rest spirited out a little at a time to the Goodwill, drawers all empty, cabinets and fridge filled with empty bottles and boxes, colored water and torn newspaper for weight, rice for noise. She thought of it like one of those prisoner of war movies where the soldiers dig a tunnel under the camp , carrying out pockets full of dirt to the yard, shaking it to the ground, a little at a time. The nurses never check too throughly if they see dishes washed and habits kept up. They would see what she wanted them to, and no more than that, no more. It was snowing. She turned off the furnace, opened every window. After unlocking the doors- she wanted nothing broken for her sake- she sat down to watch television, glad it was a love story. Mismatched lovers, broken dreams, she knew the end before it came. The room smelled clean, new. |
||||
|
