An interminable time later, the door closed behind the last of them. Not a moment too soon; he was quite literally on the verge of collapse.
Margo sensed it. She said, "Why don't you go upstairs and get into bed? I'll clean up here."
"Are you sure? I can help—"
"No, I don't need any help. Go on upstairs."
He obeyed, holding onto the banister for support. He and Katy had not shared a bedroom for the past three years; there had been no physical side to their marriage in almost four, and he had liked to read at night, and she had liked to listen to her radio. He was grateful, now that she was gone, that he did not have to occupy a bed he had shared with her. That would have been intolerable.
He undressed, avoided looking at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed in the dark. His heart was pounding. Downstairs in the kitchen, Margo made small sounds as she cleaned up after the mourners.
You're so brave, George . . .
No, he thought, I'm not. I'm weak—much weaker than poor Katy. Much, much weaker.
He forced himself to stop thinking, willed his mind blank.
Time passed; he had no idea how many minutes. The house was still now. Margo had finished her chores.
He lay rigidly, listening. Waiting.
A long while later, he heard Margo's steps in the hall. They approached, grew louder . . . and went on past. The door of her room opened, shut again with a soft click.
He released the breath he had been holding in a ragged sigh. Not tonight, then. He hadn't expected it to be tonight, not this night. Tomorrow? The need in him was so strong it was an exquisite torture. How he yearned to feel her arms around him, to be drawn fiercely, possessively against the hard nakedness of her body, to succumb to the strength of her, the overpowering dominant strength of her! She had killed Katy for him; he had no doubt of it. When would she come to claim her prize?
Tomorrow?
Please, he thought as he began to masturbate, please let it be tomorrow.
Some titles are irresistible. Or rather; from a writer's perspective, some lines and phrases are such perfect titles that they cry out for stories to be created for them. "Skeleton Rattle Your Mouldy Leg," for instance, a don marquis quote that inspired a "Nameless Detective" novelette. "The Mayor of Asshole Valley "—I haven't found the right story for that one yet, but I will eventually. And "I Think I Will Not Hang Myself Today," all thanks to G. K Chesterton. As I wrote in an earlier headnote, fictioneers are notoriously poor judges of their own work; so I realize I'm inviting disagreement when I say that this little title-generated tale is among the two or three best, if not the best, of the three-hundred-plus shorts I've written. So be it. That's the reason I've saved it as the final entry in these pages.
I Think I Will Not Hang Myself Today
The leaves on the trees were dying.
She had noted that before, of course; neither her mind nor her powers of observation had been eroded by the passing years. But this morning, seen from her bedroom window, it seemed somehow a sudden thing, as if the maples and Japanese elms had changed color overnight, from bright green to red and brittle gold. Just yesterday it had been summer, now all at once it was autumn.
John had been taken from her on an October afternoon. It would be fitting if autumn were her time, too.
Perhaps today, she thought. Why not today?
For a while longer, Miranda stood looking out at the cold morning, the sky more gray than blue. Wind rattled the frail leaves, now and then tore one loose and swirled it to the ground. Even from a distance, the maple leaves resembled withered hands, their veins and skeletal bone structure clearly visible. The wind, blowing from east to west, sent the fallen ones skittering across the lawn and its bordering flower beds, piled them in heaps along the wall of the old barn.
Looking at the barn this morning filled her with sadness. Once, when John was alive, the skirling whine of his power saws and the fine, fresh smells of sawdust and wood stain and lemon oil made the barn seem alive, as sturdy and indestructible as the beautiful furniture that came from his workshop. Now it was a sagging shell, a lonely place of drafts and shadows and ghosts, its high center beam like the crosspiece of a gallows.
So little left, she thought as she turned from the window. John gone these many years. Moira gone—no family left at all. Lord Byron gone six months, and as much as she missed the little Sealyham's companionship, she hadn't the heart to replace him with another pet. Gone, too, were most of her friends. And the pleasures of teaching grammar and classic English literature, the satisfaction that came from helping to shape young minds. ("We're sorry, Mrs. Halliday, but you know the mandatory retirement age in our district is sixty-five.") For a time there had been a few students to privately tutor, but none had come since last spring. County library cutbacks had ended her volunteer work at the local branch. The arthritis made it all but impossible for her to continue her sewing projects for homeless children. Even Mrs. Boyer in the next block had found someone younger and stronger to babysit her two preschoolers.
The loneliness had been endurable when she was needed, really needed. Being able to help others had given some meaning and purpose to her life. Now, though, she had become the needy one, requiring help with the cleaning, the yardwork, her weekly grocery shopping. All too soon, she would no longer be able to drive her car, and then she would be housebound, totally dependent on others. If that happened...
No, she thought, it mustn't. I'm sorry, John, but it mustn't.
She thought again of the old barn, his workshop, the long, high rafter beam. When it had become clear and irrefutable what she must one day do, there had never been any question as to the method. Mr. Gilbert Chesterton had seen to that. She had bought the rope that very day, and it was still out there waiting. She would have to stand on a ladder in order to loop it around the beam—not an easy task, even though the knot had long ago been tied. But she would manage. She had always managed, hadn't she? Supremely capable, John had called her. That, and the most determined woman he had ever known; once her mind was made up, nothing would change it. Yes, and the end would be quick and she would not suffer. No one should ever have to suffer when the time came.
Chesterton's lines ran through her mind again:
The strangest whim has seized me.
. . . After all
I think I will not hang myself today.
She had first come across "A Ballade of Suicide," one of his minor works, when she was a girl, and there had been something so haunting in those three lines that she had never forgotten them. One day, she would alter the last of the lines by deleting the word "not." This day, perhaps...
Miranda bathed and dressed and brushed her hair, which she kept short and wavy in the fashion John had liked. Satisfied with her appearance, she made her way downstairs and fixed a somewhat larger breakfast than usual—a soft-boiled egg to go with her habitual tea and toast. Then she washed the dishes—her hands were not paining too badly this morning—and entered the living room.