Where is Mrs. Clink

“Where is Mrs. Clink?”

Rutherford Clink looked up from his steaming mug of coffee and saw the mail carrier at the door. The old mail carrier had wrinkles lining his weathered face, much like Rutherford. Rutherford had been sitting on the porch enjoying the birds. His wife, Fiona, had put out hummingbird feeders and the birds just flocked to their front yard.

He replied, “At the market.”

He handed the letters across the porch railing and smiled, “She usually likes to give me a corn muffin on Mondays.”

“Oh,” He nodded, “I think she’s made a batch. I’ll go check and bring one back for you.”

Rutherford went back inside the house, quickly finding the muffins in a bread basket on the kitchen table. He brought one back for the man, who smiled thankfully and strolled down the road.

He was nearing eighty and had been retired for almost 15 years. What he enjoyed most about his days were the birds that visited the yard, watching reruns of Bonanza, and trips to BJ’s out in Auburn. He loved the prices there. Nothing was cheap anymore, but you could get paper towels in bulk, white t-shirts, and packs of canned tomato soup all in one place. Wasn’t that a good deal? It was nearing nine-thirty; he ought to get dressed and shave so he could head over there. 

“I’ll be back,” He called out. 

He found his keys and got in the car. Soon, the big signs with low prices were soothing him as he leisurely strolled the aisles pushing a shopping basket. He opened a package of cookies (intending to buy them later) and munched on an oatmeal raisin cookie. Without warning, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, wondering who it was. 

“Where’s Mrs. Clink?” 

He laughed, “Oh, she’s at an appointment,” he explained to the familiar face, Mrs. Warden from church. 

Mrs. Warden furrowed her brows. 

She asked, “But I spoke to her on Sunday and she said she was free to go to breakfast this morning. She never called so I went shopping. Will you tell her to give me a call?” 

He nodded, “Of course. Maybe she forgot, her memory’s been off lately.” 

Mrs. Warden forced a smile, “I always thought Mrs. Clink had the best memory of the two of us. Well, I’ll see you on Sunday, won’t I? I’m bringing donuts for after the service.” 

He patted his stomach and said, “I better have Mrs. Clink let my pants out.” 

After Mrs. Warden pushed her cart towards the registers, Mr. Clink decided he didn’t need much more at the store. He picked up a big can of baked beans and a box of oatmeal and headed for the registers himself. As he was paying, the cashier (her name tag read “Carmella”)  recognized him. 

“Hey you! You’re back already! Aren’t you in here every week?” She prattled on. 

He replied, “I do come here often, Miss, but I like the deals.” 

She agreed, “Yeah, that’s a good deal on these beans. Hey- where’s your wife? Isn’t she always with you? Such a nice lady. She always says hi to me and she remembers my name.”

He said, “My wife is probably home making a cup of tea. Have a nice day, Carmella.” 

Once Mr. Clink left the store, he planned to stop at his daughter’s house to drop off the baked beans. When she was a little girl, there was no better comfort food. As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed his daughter’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She was fifty-five and had two kids in college, so it wasn’t unusual that she wasn’t home. He left the beans on the front porch along with a Tupperware container of corn muffins. It would remind her of her mother’s cooking and fill her belly on a cold night. He knew they were going to get a snow storm; he had an ache in his knee. Besides that, Google had told him when he’d asked it the weather. 

As he prepared to drive back home, his grandson, Patrick appeared. He was in basketball shorts despite the 30 degree temperature and looked sweaty. Mr. Clink assumed that he’d been jogging around the block. 

“Grampy, how are you?” 

“Oh, I didn’t think you were home, Buddy,” Mr. Clink said cheerily. 

Patrick looked towards the passenger seat thoughtfully and inquired, “Where’s Nanny? I wanted her to come see my game tonight.” 

Mr. Clink replied, smiling, “I’ll tell her about it, Buddy. What time is the game?”  

“Seven o’clock,” Patrick said. 

“Alright, but no promises, Buddy. Nanny might be tired,” he explained. 

Patrick looked at him quizzically. 

“She’s never missed a game, Grampy,” he reminded him. 

“I’ll see you later,” Mr. Clink ended the conversation and started the car up. 

By the time, he got back home, he was getting a bit tired of the questions about Mrs. Clink. He took off his shoes by the door and slipped on his fleece-lined slippers. As he strode through to the kitchen, he let out a yelp of  surprise for the first time that day. 

“There you are, Aggie,” He said softly. 

“I’ve been waiting for you, dear,” Mrs. Clink said in a gravelly voice. 

She lunged towards him with a serrated knife, a glint in her ice-cold blue eyes. 

“You let the mailman go this morning!” She raged at him, slicing at his ear awkwardly, the arthritis in her hand searing as she tried to swing at him once more. 

“I… I…” he gasped, terrified that she’d kill him this time.

“You’re up, honey. It’s your turn,” She cackled as she swiped at him repeatedly, hacking bits of him off. 

Then, when Mr. Clink was quiet and laying in a scarlet drenched heap on the mosaic tiles, Mrs. Clink sat down at the kitchen table and opened the mail. 

“These god damn bill collectors,” She spat as she read some of the medical bills, “I’ll get him tomorrow. Then I’ll head on in to see Carmella.”