My eerily long shadow bounced against the babbling creek as I fished my keys out of my jeans. The creek rambled on and on, bubbling like apple cider on Thanksgiving. Down here in Boxley, Arkansas, the women talked just as much as the creeks did.
My great grandaddy always used to say, "As long as there's a'water to gurgle and gossip a'flowin', Boxley 'll never see a drought of women and creeks."
My red pickup glistened in the Arkansas sun. Though its only been spring for the past week, the Summer season had been easing it's way in since the wee hours of yesterday morning.
I slammed the car door and jammed the key in the ignition, placing the bag of crafts in the the passengers seat. Three spools of thick black thread, and four small rolls of purple satin.
The ancient car groaned like Mr.Crimsley, an old loon who resides on the corner of Jud's Diner, that goes around asking for cigarettes even though he's got two already clinging to his cracked lips.
Though I had a long day, and I could feel the calluses forming on my feet and my back ache, yet I wasn't in the mood to head home.
Driving up the bumpy roads on the outskirts of town, I could hear the rattle of empty medicine bottles in the back seat Ellie had asked me to dispose of last week. I nodded my head at her and lugged the paper bag of empty penicillin to the car, thoughtless to whenever I'd get around to throw them out.
The clouds commenced to wilt under the sun as it molted into a benevolent orange. I knew that night was clocking in and Ellie would need her supper promptly at six.
After quickly stopping at the town dump to purge myself of the noisy bottles, I drove my car home. As I sat in the driveway, I painstakingly looked for an sign of Ellie through the freshly washed windows. If she had gone to sleep I would know she wasn't in the mood to eat and would sleep the rest of the night, but if my eyes were to catch sight of an oil lamp I knew she'd be on gawking at the ceiling and I'd have to watch her suffer. Fortunately, all the lights appeared to be off. I carefully closed the door of my truck (the thought of my car making a loud enough sound to wake up Ellie was unnerving) and made my way to the front door.
Inside, the house reeked of herbal ointment and fresh, raw steaks. I dropped my tool box near the door, noticing steaks wrapped in waxed paper resting on the kitchen counter. I stepped through the alcove to where a half-burnt oil candle blazed within the smudged glass, shedding light on a yellow paper.
Dear Mr. Holden Brooks,
I heard about your wife's condition last night. I could't imagine your pain.
She is a wonderful lady, a real staple in Boxley. She'll be missed, boy.
Enjoy the time you have left. Though it might seen terribly rude to send
over fresh steaks, I felt obligated.
Sincerely,
Your butcher, W. Fellers.
The note felt cold in my hand for it's been sitting on frozen steaks for God knows how long. I couldn't help but chuckle at what was written out to be a consoling note. As if steak would heal her. As if steak would make her hate life any less. Well W. Fellers, unless your steak was blessed with magic, this steak is just going to clog her arteries and kill her like a gun would a limping dog. Grabbing the steaks, they weighed light and were feebly cut so large pieces of meat hung on by a thread to the steak its self. The back of the fridge seemed like a suitable place for this "farewell" gift for Ellie.
Shuffling through the cupboard, I decided canned chicken broth would be a proper dinner. As it boiled on the gas stove, the words "… A real staple in Boxely." rendered in my thoughts.
Before she fell ill, Ellie was president of the Boxely Community Club. She, and a few other hens in Boxely, sat in the town hall discussin' matters that needed discussin'. Matters like, what to do with Mr.Crimsley, holiday parades, tour groups for when Northerners came to visit, after school activities for the children, pie baking contests and whether or not Farmer Bolen would let us use his farm for the Corn Maze in October. But months like October all turned out the same way. Boring. Ellie has been cooped up in her bed with the flu since last spring, and for a while all the townspeople assumed she'd be able to get back to making Boxely worth living in before summer ran its course. But when the rest of the Boxely Community Club failed to talk Farmer Bolen into another year of toddlers trampling on his corn stalks, Ellie's flu turned into tuberculosis.
Her sweet Southern bell voice deteriorated into a whispering wheeze. Her once alabaster skin now gaunt and flawed with blotches of discoloration. Her full, red hair that first attracted me to her in high school now was limp and was a shade of acid washed orange gum drops. Almost transparent. Her plump cheeks now sagged and rigid against her jaw line. The soft, opulent blue eyes that once consumed most of her face, were now sunken and yellowed.
Her broad sense of humor and ability to attract people with kindness was now surreal memory in the back of my mind. Her vivacious lust for life turned into a harrowing hatred for living. From the moment she got the flu, she's just be a rolling stone, tumbling' to death. Getting worse, and weaker with every passing day.
The girl that had stolen my heart at Homecoming ten years ago, was now a shadow of herself. No longer alive, just existing.
As I poured the steaming broth into a saucer, I could hear the dull wheezing of Ellie, beginning to awaken from her rest. Carelessly, I grabbed a bottle of penicillin from the medicine cabinet (knowing she would ask for it) and placed it, along with the soup, on a tray. For the past few weeks, Ellie had asked me to leave her alone with her sewing box. A weeks ago, when her skin still had color, she'd gently say she ain't in the mood for eating, and asked me to leave. Knowing she needed time to herself, I let her. But after that week, and countless trips to Bell's craft, Ellie spent more time with her crafts, then she ever spent with me. Though in the past weeks her head stood straight, and she wasn't so fragile she spent countless hours cutting figures out of fabric, and sewing. One day she spent three hours cutting out purple hearts in a blanket of satin fabric.
"Looky there Ellie Jean. I reckon you got more purple hearts then a civil war veteran." That was the last time I heard her saccharine laugh, or witnessed her plump lips form a radiant smile.
The past seventy-two hours proved that I'd never even hear a giggle, or catch sight of a smirk again. I would bring her food, though she'd only pick at it as if she never seen cooked beets or boiled potatoes ever in her life. I'd set the food on her desk, prop her up like a doll (since she could no longer feel her legs), kiss her forehead, and attempt to make conversation. But she'd never listen. She'd just be cutting away at her fabrics, limply. I told her if I wasn't home and she were to cut her hand open with them scissors she'd surely die. She never listen. She'd keep her frail little mouth shut and keep cutting. I knew her mouth must be riddled with things to say, but her rotted lungs didn't have the wind to form a breath for those unspoken words, but a nod of her limp head would satisfy me.
Slowly, I carried Ellie's food, medication and crafts up the carpeted stairs. I could only imagine how much more effort Ellie could spend on her damn crafts. The poor gal could barely lick her lips, let alone be a tailor.
I pushed open Ellie's door with my back, eyeing the soup as some splashed out of the bowl. The air in the room was thick. "Ellie. Oh my Ellie Jean, I brought you your favorite. Soup and penicillin. I'd say thats better then Mrs. Dillard's pies any day!" I made sure I had a smile on my face as I turned on the large lamp in the corner of the room, placing the bag of crafts at her desk.
Ellie's head was flopped back on a droopy pillow, as if she had been tossed there. Her hair matted underneath her skeletal face with sweat. Her emaciated body barely made a dent on the battered old mattress, though her boney fingers clung onto the sides of it, appearing as though she felt like she was sinking. Peering down at her from the side of the bed, I saw she was awake. "Howdy, darling." I whispered sliding my hand under her surprisingly heavy head. "Feedin' time."
Her body easily slid into place like an imperial rug would on linoleum floors. Her head hung to one side like her puppet master wasn't mindin' the string that was tied to her ear. I placed a spoonful of soup in her pellucid lips. She swallowed it, and returned the favor of coughing up a spat of blood on my shoulder. Her eyes showed no emotion. "It's alright, my love. I hear Mrs.Cummingham, knows how to take blood out of a shirt in a jif." I smiled.
After three more spoonfuls of soup, and one more spat of blood, Ellie looked full.
"Was it good?"I routinely questioned. Ellie didn't answer, just placed her hand on her leather bonded bible. "Want me to read to ya?" My eyes brightened to which Ellie replied with an effortless sag of the mouth. Suddenly, vibrations started rumbling in her throat, like a cattle truck on a dirt road. I scrutinized her eyes when they winced out of pain as she deeply inhaled then exhaled the word. "Box." Quickly remembering how she used to talk four days ago and how forlorn it had become. As expected, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach for I knew it would be another night of her fumbling to get a thimble on as I resided on the couch at 7:30 P.M.
"Ellie, why don't we just spend tonight with each other. Just being with each other."
After I spoke the room grew silent.
"Box." She said more hoarsely, cutting through the silence. Her eyes narrowed on the craft box, resting on the oak wood shelf in the open armoire. "Ellie, why? My stars, I'm gettin' to thinkin' you like that box more then you'll ever love me." I could feel a lump form in my throat, and for a second I wondered if this is how Tuberculosis felt, but the desperation in her eyes for that damn box showed she didn't care how I felt, so I quit caring how she felt. "This in't easy, Ellie. I been sittin' here watchin' you die and helpin' you day in and day out. 'Least you can do is tell me you love me other then godforsaken box. Gosh, you do't even got the strength to sit up, shoot, so how do you got the strength to do thems crafts?!" My heart no longer pumped blood through my veins but desperation, anger, hopelessness and a looming lust for the girl I married. Her eyes averted meeting my wild glance. Her arm lunged out and she flung forward as if we were preforming an exorcism, I held my breath out of fear and bewilderment.
Her mouth twisted and her eyes turned into slits. "Box." She moaned. My heart rate slowed into a nonexistent beat. The whole room started spinning as though my body was thrown into a parallel universe where everything was blacker than night, and numbness was the closest thing to emotion. The sheer shock of Ellie's words had cut me open and took my will to live.
After what seemed like hours in my own subconscious, battling off thoughts I could only handle in my sleep, reality dawned on me like a drizzle in april. "If that's what you want, Ellie. Take your damn box, I'm going out for a while. I don't wan'a burden you any longer." I carried the large box over to her, it was heavier than I remember. Gently, I rested it by her side. She peered up at me, and for a second I thought I saw my old Ellie Jean banging' up against those glass eyes, begging to be set free. Thoughtless, I leaned to kiss her thin lips passionately, and was interrupted by the word "Box."
I twisted my face in anger, and left.
After stomping down the stairs like my eldest sister, Barbra, when she was a teen, I flung the luke warm soup pot into the sink. "Damnit!"
Being in the house rendered me indisposed. Knowing that someone I love with every ounce of my being, who will be dead before next week, quit loving me, hurt more than stepping on a rusted nail. The girl that took my breath away with her pink crochet sweater and barrettes, who was once so tender, sexy, loving, intelligent and engaging was know just a large mass of hate who rather bestow death upon me rather then herself.
I needed to rid myself of her for the night.
The dial tone on the phone (which I barely used since it was made for Northerners not Southerners) hummed three times before Mrs. Margret Ronsen answered. "Hello?" "Yes. This is Mr.Brooks. How are you? I was wonderin' if your husband was around,"
"Oh good, well tell him I'll meet him in town in a bit and if it ain't to much, can you come over and visit Ellie. She needs her friends now. Thank you, Mrs. Ronsen. Bye bye now."
In a time period of ten minutes, Mrs.Ronsen came over with a glazed lane cake and soon I was racing to town, aggravated and gnawing on a tooth pick.
Henry Ronsen, and a few familiar Boxely cronies, stood up against the pillars to Connely's Saloon, in Harrison. Diligently approaching, with my hands jammed in my pockets, I reckoned that Henry and his men had been drinking way before I got there. As I stood in front of Henry, his body swayed then his legs pivoted to keep him standing.
"Well looky here! Holden Brooks! Boy I thought you'd never leave you house and you little lady." His breath smelled of rum. His entourage jeered with laughter as they clung onto the posts of Connely's as though they were experiencing their own tornados.
I realized one guy with a red nose, that continued to laugh, was Dill Howard, a man I work with.
"So, Holdy! I reckon you're looking for some fun tonight, ain't chya?" Henry nudged, as he slipped a cigarette into his already pursed lips. "Just here to drink, Henry." I murmured, wishing I brought my sweater. Preferably the sweater Ellie knit for me. Where was that thing?
"Oh, boy once you get a peep of what's inside," a hiccup uttered from his lips. "Boy, drinking will be the last thing you want. Ya'll wanna be completely sober for this."
He grabbed my shoulder and sagged on me, attempting to push me inside. Dill, and another crony that looked very similar to Dill pushed the door open like toy shoulders. A puff of smoke and a loud belch welcomed me inside.
The loud sound of men roared inside the saloon. Drinks were soaring, and being ingested like each men was on death row. Cusses were shouted to one side of the room and was retaliated with violent punches. Men, rocked back and forth in their stools, guzzling whiskey until they felt their liver get a disease. The faint pangs of a piano floated above the noise, seeming so out of place. Glasses were being shattered, men were vomiting in the corner, and most frightening was the slew of women who were paying attention to them.
"It's a brothel." I whispered, knowing it was a waste of breath because no one could possibly hear me.
"It's a brothel!" Henry laughed forcibly. At first I thought he had heard me, but then I realized he was acting as if this were some kind of a surprise party.
The last time I'd ever been in a brothel was in my teens, and my elder cousin Billy Rayland thought a fine blonde gal would be an appropriate eighteenth birthday present from him to me. He was right. It was.
"Henry, I got a wife. You got a wife. We can't been in a place like this. I reckon we just head back to Boxely and drink 'till we see stars at The Lodge." I choked on my guilt, and felt sweat beads racing down my brow. Henry, took a long drag of his cigarette, as he patted Dil's back when a women pulled him into a dark room yonder the bar keeps office. The crowd of men roared, and kept drinking.
Henry spoke. "Holden. Y-You know just as well as I do that your wife is a burlap sack of potatoes. When w-was," he was interrupted by a loogie, "Was the last time Ol' Jean did something for Ol'Holden. Ain't you hard up on it?"
If I wasn't a church going man I would have the will of slapping Henry Ronsen right across the face.
"Ain't you got manners? Dare you talk about my lady like that. She ain't dead yet."
Henry staggered back with a impish expression planted on his face. He took a long drag of his coffin nail and a swig of whisky. "So Holden. Tell me why you came out here tonight. Hadda have a reason, ain't chi boy. I know she been gettin' on your last good nerve. She's been keepin' you busier than a moth in a mitten. W-why don't you just spend some time with yourself. I reckon she'd still be alive in the morning', mhm."
For such a drunk bastard, Henry knew what he said, and said what he meant. For the next four hours, A cockeyed Henry, a satisfied Dill and I drank until it hurt.
To feel the smooth taste of gin on tongue brought back memories of when Ellie Jean and I would keep liquor in the house, occasionally enjoying a glass with dinner.
Soon Ellie was a memory.
When Henry saw I was drunk enough, he rooked me under his shoulder. Pixilated, I dragged myself along with him into the room next to the bar keeps office.
"W-Where we goin', 'Enry." I chuckled as the room turned lopsided. "Ain't need care 'bout that. Just let 'er do the work." Soon, I was dumped against a black love seat. My head slamming against the wooden plank behind it.
"Have your way with him, Margie May. Jesus Christ, he needs it." Two hands dragged across my jeans as a blonde blur kept me captivated. Red lips stuck out in the middle of cream color cloud. "What's your name, big boy?" Said a voice as sweet as marmalade. "Well I'm Holden Brooks, from B-Boxely, Arkansas. I ain't got no kids, if you wanted to know." I said inebriated. "Thas fine, Holden. Thas mighty fine. You know your way around a lady, Mr. Holden Brooks from Boxely, Arkansas?"
"I reckon so."
"Mighty fine, Holden. Mighty fine." She sat her smooth body on top of mine.
I could feel myself enjoying her knowledgeable touch.
"I really shouldn't be doing this, Miss. I'm a church goin' man, you know." My words becoming so slurred I wasn't sure if she understood me.
"Holden, you may be a church goin' man, and you might even have a wife. But let me tell you something, God don't watch over this place, you hear? So, whaddya say, Mr.Brooks? Your secrets safe with me." Her soft hand ran through my hair.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The next thing I felt was the sweet voice bitten at my neck and the breeze against my bare skin. Ain't never been so cold, yet so warm in my entire time on God's green earth.
"Holden. Get yourself awake!" I splash of ice water nearly froze me solid.
"What's the big idea?" I grumbled.
Henry slid me off what I thought was a pillow, and which I later realized was a women's lap, and out into his car.
"Oh Henry," I said miserably. "What did I do?!"
Henry, wide eyed, directed Dill to take my car home, since he lived in Harrison anyways. "You overslept is what you did."
The car ride was like a hay ride in October. Not to fast, nor to slow, just the longest and bumpiest ride of your life.
As we drove into Boxely, I felt my mind sober up. Last night no longer was a fog, but became a clear picture of shame.
"How could I do this? I wa'n't even that mad at Ellie. How could I spend a night with another women, half outta my wits!? Oh God'll never forgive me, ya hear? I'm just gonna go home and pray Ellie Jean could for-"
"Holden." Henry said dreamily.
As if reading his mind, I stared out the window to see all the townspeople gathered around my house. Many were sobbing and others were bowing their heads as Dr.Montgomery walked through the door. Time flung into slow motion.
"What are ya'll doing at my house?!" I cried inside the car. Henry locked me in, as he jetted to meet his hysterical wife. Through the window I saw her mouth move at a million miles per word, and when she finally finished,she buried her head in her husbands chest. Henry put his hand to his forehead and stared at the dirt path that was my garage. They began talking again, pointing at the car, possibly pointing at me. I didn't have the power to open the door.
Seconds later, Henry pulled me out the car and solemnly hauled me to the front door. I put on the mask of a sober man. "Ellie. Where is my Ellie?!" I screamed, staring into the crowd of red eyed town people. They all turned their heads in shame.
I threw Henry off of me, and staggered into the house. It was a silent as the first day Ellie and I bought it over a decade ago. Dr.Montgomery sauntered down the stairs.
"Doc, o-oh god Doc. Where, where is Ellie?! Mrs.Ronsen darn called the ambulance to come and get 'er, I reckon. Right? Right?! Listen, Doc, is she upstairs?! Well!? Is she?! Oh that p-poor girl. My poor girl, Doc, tell me she's upstairs, tell me she's upstairs and breathing' Doc, I'm begging you. My Ellie Jean. God, not my Ellie Jean." I shrieked. I could feel the room start spinning out of control, like I didn't exist in this world, and it was my first time visiting. My heart rate thumped like the hooves of two hundred horses. It took all my might not to collapse.
"I'm so sorry, Mr.Holden." Dr.Montgomery placed his shaky hand against my shoulder.
"No!" I shrieked. Tears crusading down my face, my body in a frenzy to run up the stairs.
Every step I took another piece of myself welted off and abated in my tracks. I no longer felt like I existed. Like there was a fire burning upstairs, and I was ready to burn with it.
At the top of the stairs, I flung Ellie's door open and collapsed inside. The room was no longer thick, but aerated and crestfallen. The lamp was off, the windows were wide open. The armoire looked smaller than it did last night, making the room seem out of place in this house. Then there was Ellie.
Her body, still as a board, laid quietly on her bed. She, like the armoire, looked smaller than they had been last night. Ellie's bones seemed more noticeable, and her skin color turned to a awful pale. Her eyes were closed, and her hair was brushed, as if she were going to church, or something. I knew she wasn't going anywhere, but yet her motionless body reminded me of the Ellie Jean I fell in love with. Relaxed.
Her night gown was soaked in blood from the belly, up, yet it wasn't frightening. Just the looming portrait of who Ellie was before she died.
I cradled her lifeless body, and weeped, tormented with guilt. She smelled like sun flowers. Like she always did.
"Holden." Mrs.Ronsen called from the door way, she must've heard me screaming the words "I'm sorry." from downstairs.
"Yessum?" I cried. Holding Ellie's face to my neck. Making sure it wasn't the disgusting side the prostitute and kissed.
"I tried doing everything I could. I wired the bar, and I called Dr.Montgomery right aw-"
"Thank you, Mrs.Ronsen."
Fidgiting with her hands, Mrs.Ronsen spoke again, this time more matter-of-factly. "She said she loved you, you know." Her words tortured my heart, making me sick to my stomach.
"I love her too, Mrs.Ronsen. Is that all? I want time with Ellie before the undertaker arrives."
"I know, I know. But Holden. She wanted me to give you something. " Mrs.Ronsen walked over to the armoire and pulled out Ellie's craft box. She lugged it towards me, and placed it by the foot of the bed. "I know my husband is a cheating bastard, but shame on your soul, Holden Brooks. You don't deserve something like this, you careless excuse for a man. Not from a women with such a beautiful soul, you don't. Ain't you got sense?" She touched Ellie's hand, and stormed off. I held Ellie's hand, crying, I opened the damn craft box.
On top was a note.
Dear My Love,
I miss you already. I feel death creeping upon me, and I would be lying if I said I was scared.
I'm writing this letter as a goodbye and an explanation so you don't go on running yourself ragged with unanswered questions.
First,
I never stopped loving you.
Second,
I pushed you away 'coz I couldn't bear watching you watching me die.
Third,
You're as stupid as you look, pumpkin pie. I could never love crafts more than you.
Four,
Live life as full as you would if I were still alive. We'll be together soon enough.
I'm in love with you, Holden and thank you for putting up with my illness.
You're a saint of a husband. I don't know what I did to deserve this disease.
..But God surely knows how to make people pay for mistakes they might not even know they've done, don't ya reckon?
And if you wanted to see what "damn craft" I was working on, look in the box. It's a lil' bit of my sweat, blood and tears.
It's proof that I still love you…and always will.
Goodbye my soulmate,
Your bride, Ellie Jean Gaden-Brooks.
Tears dripped on the note, as I pulled a large quilt out of the craft box. I spread the quilt against the floor and began to sob, harder than I'd ever sobbed before.
The purple quilt, laced with ribbon and decorated with patches of my clothing, such as my sweater, and her crochet sweater from high school. And in the middle of all the beautiful stitch work was was five purple hearts with five skillfully written words.
To the man I love.
I felt the sides, feeling the knots of the thread, and how the work went from neat to sloppy. Parts of blood were faint memories against the satin quilt, and it finally hit me, that Ellie was gone. This quilt was created to be her legacy.
An inconsolable feeling ran down my spine. I couldn't even perceive how badly I wished I wouldn't of gotten upset last night.
She'll forever think I'm a saint.
As I wrapped herself and I in the quilt, I felt a tickle rummaging in my throat, and pain stinging in my lungs. I coughed into my palm, and placed my hand on Ellie's cold face.
"Undertakers here." Called Henry from downstairs. I sighed, a kissed Ellie lightly on the lips. Slowly, I pulled my hand off her face, revealing a dime sized spot of blood, and the sudden taste of iron in my trembling mouth.
Gender:
Points: 300
Reviews: 0