Over My Dead Body

Wilkerson went about his business, such as it was which is to say not very much. 

Wilkerson’s days were like that now, had been for several years in fact. His business was puttering about, extending the mundane into the profound. Today it was changing a light bulb on the outside post. That involved finding an incandescent bulb, 60 watts. It was no easy task. He went to three hardware stores in three different towns. In the one that had some, way in the back, he bought six, the entire stock. They were made by GE, at least; an American company, or what was an American company. That was important to Wilkerson even if they were crap bulbs.

He got home, put on his reading glasses, and saw they were made in China. Damn. Still, between finding them, getting the stepstool out to the post, unscrewing the glass around the light, and replacing the bulb he’d use up over two hours of his day. Not bad at all. He played the usual games in the paper, read the latest snooze, then added to the comments sections to complain about inept politicians, inane political correctness, and demand to know whatever happened to real news. He might look up the value of his portfolio. (There was no need. His portfolio rarely fluctuated to the point of causing even modest concern. His predilection was for boring, stable, dividend-producing stocks.)  All that took up another couple of hours. 

Add in six fitful hours of sleep plus two hours for meals. There was the nap, in the ratty chair he refused to give up, which had crept up to a full hour. His eyes would close within 30 minutes of sitting down to read some variation of military history. Then he’d wake, get his second and last coffee of the day – 30 minutes – and head out, rain or shine, for a full hour’s walk like his cardiologist insisted.

All that added to 12 hours give or take. The rest of the time was his.

Wilkerson was aware that all the time was his. “I still have most of my marbles,” he’d grouse. But it was a routine, a good routine that felt a lot like a comfortable job. The work was pleasant enough; things needed to get done. He had to eat. He even looked forward to the multitude of doctor visits to help plug the holes, sometimes literally, but mostly in his schedule.

It was a particularly wet day that got his brain working. An ice storm had blown in, knocking down trees, and making the sidewalks effective skating rinks. Had he had skates, he might have tested that theory. But a downed tree blocked the end of the driveway. Ribbons of yellow tape put up by the police warned of sagging power lines.

That put a crimp in the routine. Wilkerson didn’t much like crimps. They gave him extra hours to fill.

Freezing rain was hitting the windows sounded like someone throwing small stones. It had happened before. The house was on a small rise, a block off the Sound; they had a magnificent view from their bedroom’s terrace. “Widow’s walk,” he’d jest. “Widower’s walk,” was Vicky’s retort. Whenever a storm came in they felt it. That morning, he had to force open the porch doors against the Nor’ Easter. The wind had slammed the doors shut but was happy none of the glass panels had busted.

In his head he heard the cliché, “The sea was angry that day,” which made him smile. Today, though, it was rather enraged. The tide was in and big waves, four-, five-foot breakers, were pounding the homes surrounding Beachside Cove.  

He didn’t want the house.. Who would want a house built before the Revolution? Who wants a house that experiences a 100-year storm every 10 years? There was the cedar roof they had to replace as soon as they moved in. And that cracking clapboard, original to the house, and, oh, those ancient wavy-glass windows beckoned the cold wind in and the warm air out. At least that sump pump jury-rigged with “Property of the US Army” stenciled on it worked. It lasted into Nixon’s second term which wasn’t too bad.

But Vicky loved it from the moment they’d walked in. What was it, fifty years ago? She loved it every time a repairman came in to reveal something else that needed desperate fixing. It was almost a script. “Mrs. Wilkerson, could you come here for minute,” they’d say. “I can’t believe it lasted this long!”

“It’s a magical home,” she’d say. “It’s been here forever. We’ll be here forever.” Only it wasn’t we who was there now: just Wilkerson and his memories.

That stormy day, in the knotty-pine den, he looked for something to do. He tried to log onto his computer, but the storm must have smashed the lines. There were books, hundreds of them. He scanned the dusty shelves and focused on the faded gilt on the spine of one, “Twice Told Tales,” by Hawthorne. He shook his head. All the books had been twice told at least. He wasn’t in the mood for a third telling.

Wilkerson wondered what Vicky would do. Cook, likely. She loved cooking. He aspired to being an adequate cook, but nowhere near Vicky’s level. For a while he tried the discipline of three new recipes a week – adding several hours to the routine -- from one of her folders filled with pages cut from magazines and newspapers. The three slipped to two, two to one, and one morphed into the convenience of the hot food and salad bar at a local market. On days like this, when he couldn’t go out, or those when he wouldn’t bother, there was the pantry crammed with cans and jars, some of which weren’t past their expiration date.

Vicky would have picked up a book. She loved her ghost stories. In those last years, she couldn’t remember what she’d read. It gave the book a second life in her only one. Sometimes she’d say, “I think I read this.” She’d put the book down and Wilkerson would imagine a glimpse of light. Later, though, it would be back on her lap and say something like, “Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes? You would love this.”

“When you’re done,” he’d respond. “When you’re done.”

And too soon, she was done. 

Wilkerson didn’t want to read. Cooking for one wasn’t any fun and he as much as it filled time he hated doing dishes. A walk was out of the question. It was a day like this, the sidewalks slick with the scum of another ice storm. Vicky had been dusting the same spots she’d already dusted; she may have forgotten, probably had forgotten. When he told her she looked confused, then frightened, then asked who he was. He told her with infinite patience that he was her husband, that they’d been together fifty years, and pointed to the photos on the mantle she’d been dusting. Her eyes smiled at the photos of the kids. “Oh, of course I know that. Just teasing silly,”

Then she looked outside and commented that the kids would be back from school; they’d close early given the weather. 

Their 40-something kids lived in Sodom and Gomorrah. Sodom was New York. Wilkerson hated New York. He hated the crowds. He hated the attitude. He hated the Yankees. But the daughter married a guy who wouldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Or visiting. She’d come to share his views down to annual Christmas and birthday cards that always ended with “We’d love to see you soon soon soon!”

The son lived in San Francisco, aka Gomorrah. Actually, he lived in Oakland which was worse. His son had a partner; it took Wilkerson some time to get used to that, longer to refer to Julian as his son’s partner. He couldn’t manage calling Julian his son’s husband let alone his son-in-law, and it had nothing to do with Julian being black. Hell, hadn’t Wilkerson voted for Obama the first time? He had, though that was more about Sarah Palin than Obama.

No, it just didn’t sound right, husband and husband. It was a moot point. Occasions to introduce them as anything didn’t arise. Even if one had Wilkerson didn’t know many people in the town. His neighbors were all young rich folks from who knows where and maybe showed up some weekends and a bit in the summer. Friends slipped away when Vicky got sick. That happens when the social one goes first. Bah, Humbug.

That day he should have salted the walk. Then maybe he’d have seen Vicky walk out. He could have stopped her before she got to the sidewalk, before she fell and broke her hip. He told the EMTs she couldn’t have been out there, on the ground, very long. But her busted watch, the fancy gold one he’d bought when she turned 50, had stopped at 1:23, right around the time he’d sat down to reread Philbrick’s Mayflower. The knock on the door woke him.

They didn’t need to tell him that hip fractures in the elderly weren’t good. Vicky wasn’t that old; 80 being the new 70 and all. But what with the fracture, time on the cold ground – the EMTs arrived at 3:11 – and, who knows, she’d probably been developing something all along -- the pneumonia did her in. She didn’t seem to be aware of much between the dementia and morphine until that final morning. Her eyes lit up as she reached for Wilkerson’s hand. “We did okay, didn’t we Will?” she said. He smiled back, “We did just fine, just fine.”

“I know,” she said. And that was that.

The light flickered off. He had expected that. The ice was caked on everything. He could see the lines bent under the weight, thicker than a fire hose with the frozen bulk. When it ended, when the sun came out, the ice would sparkle from the branches, dropping chips of ice like falling diamonds. It would be beautiful but that would have to wait.

As soon as his lights went he heard the rumble and looked outside for the repair trucks. The rumble wasn’t from any trucks. The rumble was the sound of generators starting from some of the surrounding homes. They were empty this time of year. The once neighborhood was deadly quiet in the off-season and too loud in-season. He tried to remember who was still around. He came up with one name: his own.

Vicky had wanted a generator. He didn’t want to spend the money. He used the excuse that it didn’t fit with their ancient home, and they were too loud anyhow. “People survived the Revolution in this house without power. If they can, we can,” he’d said. They got a woodstove. It was a soapstone thing, retained heat, and fit the place. In the end, it cost nearly as much as a generator and so Vicky reminded him. But it kept the old Cape warm and in a pinch you could cook on the top. 

He wanted to get a fire going, but didn’t bring in wood. What was in the pile out back was epoxied under a ice coating. His own coat would have to do. He held his hand on the stove, half expecting some warmth. It had been a long while since he felt that warmth. In the olden days, when the kids were small, when the electricity went, they’d lay out sleeping bags in front of the stove. It was an indoor camping trip replete with hot chocolate, Jiffy Pop, and s’mores. They were good days. The very best.

It was the sound of breaking glass outside that roused him from such thoughts. The wind was bending the branches of the maple in front, shattering their ice-encasings onto the ground. One big branch had fallen, a huge one, and he worried about the tree itself. It wasn’t in good shape; an arborist had told him as much. He’d said it really need to be taken down. The tree guy said it would cost plenty. But, he said, if Wilkerson didn’t mind he’d keep the wood for his bowl-turning hobby and haul the rest for firewood. The tree, he figured, was maybe 250 years old. That meant it was standing when whoever built the house moved in. It was there during the Revolution. Maybe tapped for sugaring for God knows how many years. It shaded the residents in summer. It held swings for generations of kids. And come the fall, its leaves burst into a bonfire which must have made everyone who lived beneath it cheer. It certainly did Vicky and Wilkerson. Didn’t it just? Then it would drop piles of leaves for kids to jump in. For him to burn until the town squashed that practice. He missed the rich smoke. Environmentalists be damned.

And that tree man wanted to take it down! Over my dead body.

He eyed the falling ice. Funny that. It wasn’t melting off, hardly; it was getting colder. It was the wind now. Snow was blowing in, accumulating quickly. If his TV worked he might have heard a blizzard was coming. But he knew one was on its way. A song came to mind, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

He had to think twice. Had he said it aloud or just thought it? He didn’t say or think “thought it.” In his mind it was “thunk it.” He had a teacher who got him going on that. Fifth grade it was. Over seventy years before. He hadn’t “thunk” about her in eons. “There’s a fungus among us!” she’d say, a phrase he repeated in non sequitur fashion to moans and groans of those who’d heard him say it a million times before. That teacher switched between “Bless us and save us said Mrs O’Davis!” to “I’ll be goddamned!” He worried that such language, a delight to the class, might get her in trouble. She laughed at the idea. “Ya think I’m some sort of Joan de Arc? Cherub, there are too many rings on this old trunk for them to chop down.”

“I could use that wood,” he thunk. Yes, he could use it. There were enough snapped branches on the ground to get a decent fire going and that big one had split down the middle. Given the way they splintered, they were clearly dead. And if dead, they’d be dry. And if dry, they’ll burn. They’ll burn like damnation.

He started with armfuls of small branches. Kindling. They were easy bundles he dropped in front of the woodstove. Bark broke off some; he’d have to vacuum, a task he despised as evidenced by the collections dust around the house. Ah, he thought, I’m in luck! Without electricity, the vacuum would wait. He opened the stove’s door to see a generous mound of ancient ash. That he would scoop up with the aid of a metal shovel Vicky had insisted they get when they bought the stove. “In case we have to carry out live embers,” she explained. He complained about the added cost. He often complained about added costs. Now, he regretted giving her such grief.  What cliché would fit, he mused? Water under the bridge, spilled milk? He settled on ‘don’t sweat the small stuff.’ He had sweated small stuff too much.

Were the branches he lugged small stuff? No, he decided. He was sweating from the effort. If he stopped, he knew he’d get chilled. He’d need heat soon. The snow was growing deeper by the minute. If it wasn’t for his efforts, he’d have been cold already. And there was still that big branch to go.

He got the shovel out to that branch and inserted it into the convenient spilt which unfortunately didn’t split the way he intended. The shovel stuck. With one boot on the branch, two hands on the shovel, and an octogenarian’s back, Wilkerson pushed and pulled. The shovel came out, the log split down the middle – why did he ever call it a branch?!? – and Wilkerson slipped back with the benefit of momentum and the slick ice underlying the snow.

Two thin arms helped him up. “That hurt,” he said, brushing away the snow and broken bits of tree clinging to his old hunting coat. “Good God man,” came the retort, “Aren’t you a bit old for this nonsense? And now, look at you, sweating…”

Wilkerson filled in the blank. “Like the proverbial pig!” he said.

“I was going to say, like a sinner in church,” she said. “But whatever suits you. Now go inside and warm up. I’ll make some cocoa. And, yes, you can have your whipped cream, no matter what that cardiologist said.”

“Wait,” he shouted. There was something he wanted to say. Something about the stove, the oven not working right, but he couldn’t get it out.

“Well?” she said.

“I, uh, it slipped my mind. It was on the tidy tip of my tongue, too” He was embarrassed at this forgetfulness but proud of the tidy-tip-tongue-too phrase.

“If it’s importance enough, it’ll come back,” she said. “Maybe a bit of sweeping will jog your memory.”

“What about the vacuum?” he said.

“We’re out of bags. We’ll go later to the hardware man in Cook’s Harbor. He’s open Saturday. And we need bulbs, while we’re at it. Roads will be salted by then,” she said. “Now get in that house before you catch your death.”

The line repairman just happened to look down from his cherry picker. Odd, he thought. That storm had dropped over two feet of snow, but that old maple tree’s branches had worked like an umbrella keeping it to a couple of inches.

He could just make out a red and black plaid under the snow.