Helen

Making my way to the bathroom, I stop and peer out of my bedroom window. To my left I see 12B and Hawthorne intersecting and the old Salem Cemetery just caddy corner to the house. The cemetery scared Helen at first when we moved in. She has always been so much more superstitious than me. She’d hear a creak or a crack in the night, the house settling or animals or kids doing things in the fields.

“What was that? Did you hear that?” she’d say, waking me up with a shake.

“Huh? What? It’s nothing, just the house or something. Go to sleep.” I’d say.

“I don’t like that cemetery.”

I told her, “The dead are dead, Helen. They stay that way. Your imagination is getting the best of you.”

After a while, she stopped being so scared of the cemetery. Nothing around us really but that cemetery, this house, green fields and that God awful eye sore of a propane tank staring right back at me through the window. I don’t know why a high tank of gas next to our house doesn't scare her and a bunch of dead bodies does, but I guess people are silly that way.

In the kitchen, bread from Helen’s sandwich began to mold. She had not touched the sandwich in some time. “Helen?” I called. No answer. She must be at the market, I think. Helen and I have been married for 52 years, and we moved to Inwood in 1982.

The first week we moved in, she went to the market that Tuesday for something, I can’t remember. Went back again that Thursday when our boy got the flu, and she has been off to the market every Tuesday and Thursday ever since. Must be Tuesday then, I think. I take the plate, being careful to not touch the green mold growing on the bread and toss the sandwich out.

After throwing the sandwich out, I, myself, am hungry so I pop the fridge open and find some fried chicken and potato salad saved in Tupperware. I don’t really remember us eating potato salad or fried chicken recently, but to be honest my memory is not as sharp as it once was. I nuke some of the chicken and sit myself down in front of the television. I eat.

“You going to spend your entire retirement on the couch, Jim?” Helen yelps, waking me up.

I grumble awake. “What? Oh, no. You wouldn’t let me enjoy my retirement would you?

Always making me do this and do that.”

“Ha. The last thing I saw you do was take the trash out last week.” she says.

“I get it. I’ll take it out.”

“Thank you, Dear.”

I sit up and swing the foot of my La-Z-Boy recliner back into its stationary position. I slide my TV tray out, giving me room to move. I stand and walk towards the kitchen. It is slow moving these days.

“I left a little surprise in the freezer for you yesterday when I went to the market.” Helen says.

“Oh?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

I walk through the dining room and open the kitchen door. The kitchen is bright with sun shining in from a large window above the sink, which is full of dishes. Across from the sink are the table and white washed cupboards. We have a new stainless steel refrigerator that Jerry, a new kid at the Sears, sold us. He’s a good kid. Now what was I doing? Oh right. I hobble on over to the fridge and pop open the left side. The freezer side of the fridge is pretty barren except for an open container ice cream Drumsticks.

Ice cream Drumsticks are my favorite treat in the entire world. Creamy vanilla covered in rich chocolate and sprinkled with roasted peanuts. Then they take it and slap it on a cone. Helen does the shopping because she knows if I went I would buy them every time. Something my doctor insists will give me another heart attack.

“You were not kidding about the surprise!” I say. I peek in and see that one is missing. Helen must have eaten one already while I was asleep on the couch. Strange, though, as she doesn’t really like ice cream. “Just couldn’t resist, huh?” I sit down at the table and bite in. Wonderful. No other words are really necessary when explaining the taste of the ice cream Drumstick.

A few minutes of bliss and the dance with my Drumstick is done. I take my wrapper and walk to the trash can. I push my foot down on the lever that makes the steel lid on the can flip open and I throw the wrapper into the can. It floats all the way down the bottom to join its ever evolving friend, the moldy sandwich. Now what was I doing? I head back to the living room to sit down for a few minutes and flip on the television.

“You going to answer that?” Helen asks. I grumble awake.

“What? The phone’s ringing?”

“No, the doors banging.” She says.

Helen is well into her crocheting and I wouldn’t expect her to stop and answer the door on account of my dozing off.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not sure.” she says.

Mary, our eldest, is at the door. She lives in Tulsa and rarely has time to come see us.

She married Bill about a decade ago and they gave us two nice grandsons. Bill is a sales executive down there and Mary is a teacher for children who are deaf.

“Well, hey there, dear. Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming.” I say.

“Dad.” Mary says.

She steps in, sets her luggage down and hugs me. It feels like forever since she hugged me. I look at her face; it’s tired and sad.

“You ok, dear?”

“I’ll be ok. Just got to get through this, you know?”

“Sure, I understand.”

“But how are you, Dad? Are you holding up?”

“Me? I’m doing just fine, dear. Don’t need to worry about us.” I say.

“Don’t hold her up at the door the entire time, Jim. Let the poor girl in.” Helen says.

“Right, right,” I say, “I’m sorry, dear. Let me take your bag and you come in and take a seat.”

Mary comes in and sits down, but I can tell right away something is wrong. I, too, sit on my chair and wait for her to say something. Helen continues to crotchet and Mary isn’t even acknowledging her. She sits straight up and is stiff. Her hands are not relaxed at all; instead they are balled in fists placed near her stomach. She feels distant and cold. Helen and she seem worlds apart. I sit back in my chair, close my eyes and try to calm myself down for a minute or two.

“You going to eat with us or not?” Helen says.

I perk up and look into the dining room. Helen is sitting at the table with Mary. Mary is waiting to eat some meatloaf and peas. Helen has no plate.

“You’re not eating?” I ask.

“I couldn’t wait for you. But your daughter was nice enough to, so get over here.”

Mary looks confused. “I’m waiting, Dad.”

“I see, I see. Sorry, must have dozed off again. Thanks for waiting.”

“Sure Dad.”

We eat and I don’t really talk. Helen and Mary are not talking at all and I start to feel again like something is not right.

“Did I do something?” I question.

“What?” Mary says.

“Why are you not talking to your mother? Why are you sitting so stiffly and acting nervous? Is something wrong? Are the kids ok?”

“Talking to mom? Dad I am here because I can’t talk to mom, I have to talk to you. I’ve spoken to you on the phone multiple times, but your neighbors say it makes no difference,” she says.

“The neighbors? What neighbors? Nicole and Hank down the road? Now that you mention it they have been snooping around. I told you mother—.”

“Dad, they are not snooping around, I asked them to watch after you?”

“Why? I’m fine. I’m eating right and everything is normal.”

“Eating right? Dad, besides chicken that Nicole left in the fridge, only drumsticks are in that thing,” she says. “I had to go out just to get this food to cook meatloaf.”

Confused, I walk hurriedly into the kitchen and throw open the refrigerator. Empty. I open the trashcan to reveal one completely green sandwich and dozens of Drumstick wrappers. “What is going on?” I cry out. I turn back to the refrigerator and fling open the freezer. Full of unopened and opened drumstick boxes, some of them completely empty. I run back into the dining room.

“Are you two playing a trick on me?” I ask.

“Dad, who are you two? It is just me here,” she says.

My heart starts up like a car engine and I’m confused. “Mary, please, I don’t feel ready for jokes.” I start feeling light headed so I sit down.

“Dad, take is easy. OK?”

“Just… will someone tell me what is going on?”

“Dad, mom is not here. She died two weeks ago, on the way to the market.”

“What?”

“I was here, all the kids were here. We went to the funeral and everything, just across the street at Salem. She went to the market and had a heart attack in the frozen food section. She was buying you drumsticks. Do you remember?”

I feel like I could pass out any minute. Helen is staring at me crocheting at the kitchen table. “Stop with the damn crocheting, Helen!”

“Dad, no one is crocheting.”

I get up to rip the crochet needles out of Helen’s hands. I want to throw them at Mary and yell, “See!” I get closer and fumble through the needles and fall over Helen and her chair.

Since I fell when Mary stayed over and since I had another heart attack I’ve been moved into a new home. It’s not so bad; they do give me Drumsticks once a week. I don’t have to worry about taking out the trash. I play poker sometimes with the guys, but right now I am sitting in my room watching the television about to doze off.

“You going to sit around all day or are you going to see about getting me some more yarn for my crocheting?” Helen asks.

I grumble and get up out of my chair, “I’ll see what I can do.” I say.

I walk out into the common room. It’s all still pretty foreign to me. I see one of the guys playing cards. I sit down and wait a hand before I can join in. After some time and too much defeat, I leave to head back to my room. I enter and sit down in my chair. What was I doing?