But he wasn’t. The attachment was real, and it was growing stronger, not weaker, and attachment was the one thing in life he had never sought. In fact, he had long actively opposed it.
The second month went into the past. “This has been a happy time in my life, Jerome,” Veronica told him. “It’s almost... almost as if...”
He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Almost as if what?”
She tossed the question aside with a shake of her head. “Nothing, my dear. Nothing at all. We are going to the concert tonight, aren’t we? It’s Mozart, you know. I love Mozart!”
Jerome folded his paper and sighed lightly. He too loved Mozart.
When the third month had come and gone, he knew that the situation would never arrive at a propitious time. He would never grow tired of her, nor she of him. They would go through the remaining years hand in hand...
And that was not what he wanted. It never had been, it never would be.
He would be gentle. There would be no pain. Veronica would simply go to sleep and never wake up. Who could ask a better end? Who could offer a better end? In fact, when you got right down to it, what could be a more positive act of love?
They went to another concert the following week. Beethoven. They both loved Beethoven, and when they returned to the suite both Jerome and Veronica still felt the lingering, soul-deep stirrings of the music. It would be the ideal night for it. He had obtained the poison the previous week, and now, as Veronica prepared for bed, he poured it into the decanter of port, from which she almost invariably drank a small glass before retiring.
She was humming a theme from the Moonlight Sonata. “Would you like your glass of wine, darling?” he called from the livingroom.
“The concert was wonderful, darling, didn’t you think so? You’re so fond of Beethoven.”
“Yes. Absolutely fabulous. Shall I bring your wine?”
“Thank you... wait... no. No, I really don’t think I shall have it tonight. The music was intoxicating!”
He felt a sudden surge of relief as he replaced the glass stopper in the decanter. It would allow another day.
In her nightgown and robe, Veronica appeared at the door, smiling. “I think I shall cook chicken timbale tomorrow night! Would you like that, darling?”
“I should positively love that, my sweet,” he said, pushing the decanter to the back of the sideboard. Twenty-four hours more, and once again things would be normal. Life, as he knew it, would resume.
Jerome kissed his wife warmly as they went to bed, and Veronica returned the kiss with equal ardor.
The air conditioned suite was an oasis after the intolerable heat of the cemetery. It was done, at last. The service had been nice, considering the cost, and despite the heat. Perhaps, in a way, the heat had been an ally, speeding the funeral as it had. Grief — real grief — was an unaccustomed experience, and the sooner done with the better. Still, there was no denying it this time, there was a definite feeling of loss. Could it have been a mistake, an irremediable mistake, this time? Had age been given its proper due? Did not the final onslaught of time bring with it a need for quiet and congenial companionship? It had existed. The bond had been more than formal, it had been real.
It was over. Past. And it had been without pain, which was a consolation in itself. No need to dwell upon it further, for business was business and somewhere a new mate was waiting, waiting for that letter that reached slyly into the heart. In fact, the correspondence this time had given rise to new ideas, new approaches. There had been a noticeable talent there.
Funny, Veronica thought as she pushed back the black veil, how all of them had been so inordinately fond of her chicken timbale. She shook off her thoughts, and pausing only long enough to pour herself a much-needed glass of the port, she began to compose a letter of loneliness to another senior citizens club.
Senior citizens... she had always despised the phrase. She often wondered what sort of idiot invented it.
It Could Be Fatal
by Clark Howard
One who adopts “the double standard” for himself may find that, like a swinging door, it can move in two directions.
The first call came on a Friday, at two o’clock in the morning.
The maid awakened Boyce Harper and told him the caller had said it was urgent.
“What is it, Boyce?” asked his wife, Jean, from the twin bed next to his.
“I don’t know.” He pushed himself up from the pillow and took the extension the maid was holding. “Hello,” he said sleepily.
“Mr. Boyce Harper? This is Carmichael Hospital calling. Is your mother Mrs. Eugenie Harper?”
“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?” He sat up now in alarm.
“I’m afraid she’s been in an accident, Mr. Harper. Can you get down here right away?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Boyce, already getting out of bed. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t think we’d better waste any time right now, Mr. Harper,” the caller replied. “It’s pretty serious. Just come to the receiving desk when you get here.”
“Certainly,” said Boyce. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
His face had drained white by the time he replaced the receiver. “It’s mother,” he said to his wife. “She’s been in some kind of accident.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Jean, starting to get up.
“Don’t bother,” Boyce said coldly. “You don’t like mother; you never have. This is no time to start pretending you do.”
“All right,” his wife said, “have it your way.” She drew the covers back over her.
Harper dressed quickly and drove across town to Carmichael Hospital. When he arrived at the receiving desk, his hands were trembling and his stomach was jerking nervously. “I’m Boyce Harper,” he said. The hospital clerk looked at him incongruously.
“Who?”
“Boyce Harper,” he said impatiently. “My mother was brought here after an accident. They said I was to come right over.”
“They?” said the clerk, frowning. “Who do you mean?”
“Now look,” Boyce said hotly, “somebody called me an hour ago and said you had my mother here in serious condition and—”
“What’s your mother’s name?” the clerk interrupted.
“Eugenie Harper. Mrs. Eugenie Harper.”
The clerk flipped through a cardex file. “I’m sorry but I don’t have that name on the patient list. Maybe it was another hospital—”
“No, no, it wasn’t another hospital, it was this hospital. They said Carmichael Hospital.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but if her name isn’t in the patient index—”
“Let me speak to whoever’s in charge here,” Boyce demanded.
Thirty minutes later Boyce had been convinced by the hospital’s chief resident that his mother was not then nor had ever been in Carmichael Hospital. Completely confused, it now occurred to Boyce to telephone his mother’s house to see if she was there. She was — sound asleep, her housekeeper said. She had been in all evening.
Boyce stepped out of the booth and stood fuming in the hospital lobby. What a dirty, rotten trick to pull, he thought angrily. Who could be sadistic enough to do a thing like that to him? He swore softly and left the hospital.
Outside in the parking lot he found his right front tire flat. A thin four-inch nail had been driven into the casing.
And that had been the result of the first call.
Boyce Harper was a big man; big of body, big of face. He was handsome, with clean-cut features and dark, wavy hair slashed with steel gray. He had an engaging smile and an impressive manner. His bearing, his carriage, his dress, were all faultless.