BODY SNATCHERS, M.D.

Mildred Pearson noticed the car the instant it turned onto her residential cal-de-sac. She watched the big black sedan with a vague sense of trepidation, as it slowed in front of her house at 1227 Elmhurst.

When she’d first spotted the car she had been standing behind the curtains of her living room side window. That was where she’d liked to watch the local comings and goings along Elmhurst and that was how she knew the car didn’t belong to anyone on the block.

It looked out of place. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of her unease at first, but then she realized, the car reminded her of a hearse, which, at her advanced age, brought to mind thoughts of damp graves, internments, and final resting-places.

What a depressing car to be riding around in on such a bright, sunny day. She thought.

It was a beautiful mid-weekday in early summer. A workday, a school day, an ordinary day: The female postal carrier, that Mildred thought might be stealing her mail, was halfway through her route. The Jenkins’s were having an exterminator over to take care of those pesky termites in their basement. Mr. Hasting, a retired schoolteacher, was mowing his front lawn within an inch of its life, while his wife, a retired stay-at-home mother, re-arranged their lawn ornaments with loving care. Mrs. Kellerman (nee’ Fischer – recently divorced and reassuming her “maiden” name) was taking “barky” Benji, the former couple’s much fought over Cocker Spaniel, out for a mid morning stroll. Mrs. Matson, who still believed herself to be carrying on a clandestine extra-marital affair, let her “plumber” in through the side door. All these little dramas were playing themselves out, but it was the car that held Mildred’s attention.

She supposed it might be a visiting relation, but no one with good sense would come calling on a Wednesday morning. No-sir-ree, the proper day to pay a friendly visit was Saturday afternoon or maybe late Sunday morning.

Mildred supposed the driver of the car could be lost, in need of some direction, but as she reached for the bifocals hung on a chain at her neck, the sedan pulled to a stop at the curb in front of her house and two young men got out.

She didn’t recognize either of them.

The taller, lankier one sprang out of the passenger seat while the shorter, fatter driver struggled to heave himself out from behind the wheel, before joining his companion on the sidewalk.

With temperatures soaring into the mid-80s Mildred knew they had to be hot in their dark suits and ties. As she watched, they leaned toward each other to consult the clipboard the shorter one was holding then turned and looked at the Pearson house. Mildred stepped back from the window – letting the window curtain fall into place.

Mildred didn’t think they looked lost anymore. She thought it looked like they’d found what they were searching for.

Bible thumpers, she surmised. Two young devotees come to try to convert her, in her remaining years, to the ways of the Lord. Mildred wasn’t interested in anyone’s two-cent tale of redemption. She believed she’d be meeting her maker soon enough, and frankly she thought he had a lot of explaining to do.

Mildred had had a falling out with God after Reginald, her dear, sweet husband of 44 years had died and she wanted an explanation from them both.

It had been the final words of her dying husband that had injected doubt into her heart. Just before Reginald had passed, as she’d sat in the Hospice Unit, holding his fragile boney hand in a gentle grasp, he’d beckoned her closer.

“Milly?”

Mildred leaned in. “Yes?”

“Milly…” Reginald gasped, “You were a hard woman to love…”

Then his hand went limp in hers.

“Reg?” Mildred had said, giving his fingers a hard squeeze, but that was it. He was gone. Dead. In one incomplete sentence: the death of life, the birth of doubt.

After 44 years of marriage, bearing and raising his children, Reginald had left his loving wife in doubt and the Good Lord hadn’t seen fit to give the man two more minutes to clarify himself.

Mildred had given it a considerable amount of thought and in her estimation,  there were only two words that could follow the sentence: “You were a hard woman to love…”

But or and.

Mildred had decided that her tiffs with Reginald and the Big Guy in the sky could only be mended with a face-to-face and that would happen in its own good time.

She eyed the two young men as they headed up her front walk, then scrambled over to another window, as quickly as an arthritic right hip would allow, as her visitors disappeared out of her line of sight onto the front porch.

A moment later the doorbell rang.

As the peel of the bell faded to silence, the only other sound in the quiet house came from a forgotten program playing on television in a distant room. It had been one of those awful shows where men find out if they’re a child’s biological father. What nonsense. If you’ve got to ask the question, you are not the father.

The bell rang again. Mildred contemplated ignoring it, but decided that a distraction would break up the monotony of soap operas, trash TV talk shows, and her increasing frequent trips to the ladies – which she supposed was better than adult diapers.

She smiled as she remembered how Reginald used to call the toilet her “porcelain throne.” If that was before or after she’d become so difficult to love, she didn’t know.

What she did know was that company was company. As an elderly widow, she didn’t discount that.

People either feared or they forgot about an old woman living alone. She hadn’t had a visitor since her youngest son stopped over last month to bring flowers on Mother’s Day and introduce her to his 38-year-old stewardess (oh,-they-don’t-call-them-‘stewdesses’-anymore-Mother-they’re-called-flight-attendents now) “girlfriend” turned-fiancée. Before that, no one since the spring and the Girl Scouts on their cookie drive. Nothing like a Thin Mint.

The doorbell rang again. Mildred tsked. The impatience of the younger generation was astounding, she thought, then shouted, “Coming!”

As she grabbed her cane and shuffled to the door, she stopped to take a quick look at herself in the hall mirror. She grinned at her reflection. A 68-year-old widow still thrilled at the prospect of gentlemen callers – even if they’d only come calling to sell her salvation for her soul or siding for her house.

She arrived at the door a little breathless then eased it open a crack. Up close they were a little older than they’d appeared from the sidewalk.

The skinny one squinted against the sunlight. He had one of those pinched faces with beady little eyes. It was the kind of face only a truly dedicated mother could love.

On closer inspection, Sticks and Bones wasn’t even half as appealing as, his side kick, Plumpkin. The cherubic one had a fat round face and a nice wide smile. All warm and welcoming. You couldn’t help but smile back - so she did, offering him two neat rows of perfectly dentured teeth.

“I’m Charles Grubber and this is my colleague Elliot Chamers,” the skinny one introduced himself and his fat friend.

Straight to business. No time for pleasantries. That attitude wasn’t going to get him anywhere with that face, Mildred thought. She also thought they smelled faintly of paint thinner or something chemical.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Chubs greeted. “Are you Mrs. Mildred Pearson?”

“I am.”

“We’d just like a few minutes of your time.” It was the skinny ugly one again.

Fully expecting the next words out of their mouths to be: Have you been saved? We can paint your house for a small fee? Quality Life is an excellent insurance policy? She preempted by saying, “Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested. I’m an old woman on a fixed income.”

“Oh, we’re not selling anything, ma’am,” Chubby offered, with another wide grin.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you get in on out of the heat and come join me for a glass of iced cold lemonade,” she offered.

The fat one, being fat, probably hadn’t turned down too many glasses of anything.

“Sure” he said, cutting right over Skinny Minnie as he was about to decline.

Rude and ugly, Mildred thought. She forced a smile and stepped aside to let them pass as she said, “This way Mr. Gobber, Mr. Chambers.”

“No, my name is--” Sticks began again.

Mildred cut him off, “No?” she queried, staring him down.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he said and hurried past her into the house.

As she led them into the kitchen and poured out three tall glasses of lemonade with lots of ice, they made small talk, exchanged pleasantries, chatted about the weather.

She gave Chunky Soup a wink, as she sat out a plate of cookies. When everyone was settled, Mildred told them about Reginald. They tried to protest, but she would hear none of it and told them the whole story. She asked what they thought her level of lovable-ness might be.

“Off the charts lovable.” Fats said, reaching for another cookie - his third.

“Two thumbs up!” Boney chimed it. It was a false compliment. He was a bandwagon jumper and she knew he wanted to get on with the matter of what brought them there – but it would do.

Mildred smiled, certain they were right, and Reginald who had known her for 46 years (their marriage included) was wrong. Over the course of their lives together Reginald had often called her “testy.” Mildred freely admitted that she was a woman who spoke her mind but did that make her “hard to love.” Did it? She asked the two young men.

“Of course not.”

“No.”

“You’re charming.”

“Charming!”

They said.

Mildred thought so too.

She mentioned Ronnie and his stewardess.

“I think they call them flight attendants.” It was the Thin Man.

“Pardon?” she said.

“Stewardesses are called flight attendants now.”

“You don’t say.”

A long silence fell, in which the only sounds that could be heard were the Hastings lawn mower, “barky” Benji yapping his way through the neighborhood, the television host in the next room announcing that whoever was “Not the father!” followed by cheerful hoops and hollers, and the gentle tinkling of ice floating in glasses of lemonade.

Mildred broke the silence by asking, “Now, what brings you to my doorstep on this fine morning.”

They glanced at each other then turned back to Mildred.

“You’re on our list.” The Homely Twig said.

Mildred stared back at him blankly.

“You filled out one of the survey cards asking for more information during a home visit for-”

“I most certainly did not.” Mildred objected, interrupting him.

“We don’t just go door to door,” Bean pole put in. “You had to have signed up to be on the list.”

She continued to stare.

“Maybe you don’t remember.”

Mildred’s eyes narrowed, “There is nothing wrong with my memory, son.”

“It’s just, you are on the list.”

“Would you please stop talking about your list!”

“Okay! Let’s all start over.” It was the Puffy Peacemaker. “We should explain. We’re M1s. First year students from the University College of Medicine and we’re here to ask if you’ve given any more thought to making a small donation in the name of science?”

“You said you didn’t want any money. . . “ Mildred countered.

“We’re not talking about money, ma’am,” Chunky said.

“No,” Skinny followed up. “We don’t want your money, we want your body.”

“Excuse me?” Mildred was thinking she must have misheard.

“Yes, we’re here today to talk about your body,” Chunk confirmed.

“My body?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, as if they’d practiced it perfectly.

“Have you given any more thought to donating your body to medical science?” Chunky asked.

“I’m still sort of using it.”

“Well, not now, of course, but after your . . . “ Skinny faltered, seeming to have backed himself into a corner. He struggled to come up with a fitting euphemism.

“Dead?” Mildred offered.

“Yes. Right. Exactly. Dead.”

They wanted her body. They wanted her dead body.

“Well, what’d ya say?” Skinny asked.

“Well, I say, no, son. Mildred Annis Fletcher Pearson is going into the ground the way that God and nature intended with all my body parts… well, most of them intact.”

“But you were an organ donor for years.”

“That’s not the same thing,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” Sticks protested.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“It. Is. Not,” Mildred shot back – emphatically.

“Ma’a--“

“Don’t ‘ma’am, me, Mr. Givens.”

“Gruber.” Sticky said. “My name is--“

“Let’s all calm down,” Chunky said, trying to be the voice of reason.

“I’ve grown quite attached to my old bag of bones. I can’t really see donating them to medical science so that the likes of you can dice me up in, what’s that called. . . “

“Gross Anatomy,” Chunky offered.

“Yes, it certainly sounds gross,” she said.

“No, I meant the kind of anatomy.”

“Be that as it may, I can’t abide people poking and prodding me. Seeing all my privates,” Mildred said, casting a glance in the direction of the parts in question.

The young men’s eyes followed her gaze, their eyes drifting lower than still lower. When they fully understood their eyes quickly swept up and turned away.

Sticks hung his head, covering his face. Chunks started coughing.

It was an awkward moment that lingered, in which it was announced from the next room that yet another man was “not the father!”

“But you’ll be dead,” Skinny said finally.

“Yes, I think we’ve established that.”

“Mrs. Pearson,” Chunky jumped in all calm and kindness.

It was the practiced, patient tone Mildred was certain would be his “doctor voice.” The one he planned to use on his future difficult patients. To Mildred it sounded stagey, rehearsed, phony. She was liking him less and less by the minute.

“Maybe we can come to some kind of compromise.”

“Here’s a compromise for you: You can have my dead body . . . over my dead body.”

“Mrs. Pearson!” Sticks pleaded.

“Get out!”

“But?” Chunk put in, before she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

Mildred stood and glared down at them. “I’ll show you to the door.” She said then started limping out of the room, leaving them with no choice but to follow.

They hurried along behind her and stood in the foyer while she unlocked the door and showed them out.

“Good day, Mr. Grubber, Mr. Chamers, I can’t say it’s been a pleasant visit.”

As the young men plodded outside, Sticks tried one last time, “We could leave you with some literature. . .”

“Do you want me to tell you what you can do with that literature?” Mildred asked, then slammed the door in their faces.

Mildred took up her position at the window, peering out from behind the curtain. A ghost of a smile played across her lips as she watched the two young men standing on the curb, staring back at 1227 Elmhurst, trying to figure out what went wrong.

She chuckled as she thought about it, they’d come for her body, but instead she’d given them a piece of her mind.

After washing and rinsing the lemonade glasses, Mildred made a fresh batch of sun tea, steeped in the rays of the sunlight. There was nothing like sweet iced tea on a warm afternoon.

As she settled back into her sitting room chair, taking up a position in front of the television, Mildred noticed that the earlier show had been replaced by one about people taking lie detector test to prove their love.

What was the world coming too? Mildred thought as she shook her head and pulled out a stack of postage-paid, mail-in cards.

The idea had first come to her as she sat alone with Reginald in his hospital room. Their sons rarely visiting, most of their friends dead or wasting away in this or that nursing home. When she’d glanced over and had seen a pamphlet entitled: “How to Gift Your Mortal Remains,” she’d thought, if you didn’t get company – you could make company.

Reginald had died not long after and she’d lost the thread of the idea. For a while after his funeral family and friends had come over almost daily, neighbors had dropped in to check on her or called to make sure she didn’t need anything. Then the pull of their own lives had drawn them back, they visited with less and less frequency, and finally one day they just stopped. The house was too large for a single woman – so quiet and empty. She missed the hustle and bustle of a husband and four sons.

She had never known loneliness until then. In her big house full of memories. That was when she’d taken to watching the comings of goings of the locals. That’s how she filled her day – watching slices of other people’s lives through the gap in the curtain.

It was one day, weeks later, when she was going through Reginald’s things from the Hospice House that she found the pamphlet again. After that she had started collecting mail-in postcards everywhere she found them.

Now, Mildred flipped through her stack, she saw various invitations and offers. She slowed at the card for a free, one-hour, in-home steam cleaning demonstration. Peering down at her spotless carpet, Mildred spilled a spot of iced tea on the rug for good measure.

As she filled out the reply card, Mildred knew she had to get it into the mail by tomorrow if she wanted a new visitor next week. After all, company was company.