End of the Road Page 8

  “The hell with it.”

  One or two of those old people were still married and living together, but most were women alone. A few of them still had husbands but usually the husbands were in nursing homes. It was rare to see a man limping down the narrow paths.

  It was a long time since she’d had a man. But God she’d had a lot of them. Which was really, when you got right down to it, what had stalled her acting career. She had discovered men. Well, she had discovered sex.

  “Always a late bloomer.”

  What she loved about sex, aside from the physical sensations, which were fantastic (even now she smiled as she thought of those long ago physical sensations) was the feeling of intimacy, closeness, and caring. But the great thing was, you didn't really have to care. You didn't need a real relationship, all you needed to do was fuck. That wasn't a word they had used much in her 20s and 30s. Mind you it had been used, but it was used more as a curse word, or for emphasis.

  Nowadays, if one was to believe the movies and books, it was used almost as a greeting. ‘Hey girl, want to fuck?’ Or ‘Fuck, my man, how you doing?’ She herself never got to use the word very much, which was alright, there were plenty of other words. The important thing was not talking about it, but doing it.

  Back in the bathroom she took up a blue sponge to wipe off the counter. Dog hairs caught in the dampness of the sponge. She ran water over it and watched some of the hairs detach and swirl down into the drain. How many dogs had she owned? Sparrow, the Beninese whose name was—YoYo! Fuck you Alzheimer’s.

  Then there was Freckles, the neurotic Springer Spaniel, who looked like beauty personified when he loped gracefully over the fields. Somewhere in between there had been one other. And of course, there was the last one. But she wasn’t going to think about him.

  Change the subject.

  “How many men did you fuck?” she asked the mirror.

  By today's standards, at least according to what she read and occasionally overheard, she'd actually been rather miserly. The first was David. They had met at the White Horse Inn in Greenwich Village. After a few dates they had gone to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, where he had introduced her to sex. Which she had liked immensely, and from then on was an enthusiastic participant. She had been annoyed though because, up until then (she had been twenty-two) everyone had made such a big deal about it. As if the world would spin off its axis if she had sex before she was married, and in the end, it had turned out to be such a simple thing.

  “What was the big deal?”

  Then she had gone to summer stock in Vermont and had slept (well, not actually slept) with two different guys. What were their names? One of them was Ron Somebody. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember the other one’s name. Well, it didn’t matter. They had all been older than she and were almost certainly dead now. The stark eyed woman in the mirror shuddered. All dead. She had never thought of that before.

  She had never loved any of them. What she had loved was having them chase after her. She loved their sweet talking lies. She had been hungry, hungry, hungry for people to say nice things to her. To just pretend to love her. She hadn't wanted real love because love involved emotions. Love involved--.

  She made her way slowly into the kitchen and got out a glass. She filled it with equal parts orange juice and gin, then dropped a couple of ice cubes in and stirred it with her finger. Breakfast.

  So the truth of the matter was, that as long as the man was not absolutely repulsive, and as long as he talked, and talked, and promised her the world, she would go to bed with him. She needed to be desired and admired. She wanted flesh on flesh, not heart upon heart. Above all, she did not want to be loved, or to love.

  She sipped her drink. In the end she’d fucked maybe fifteen guys. She married one of them. Jesus, that turned out to be a mistake, a premature ejaculator who got her pregnant.

  Another swallow of her drink. She shuddered, the gin was strong. She’d always liked gin. It wasn’t fashionable but there was something about it, a flowery smell. Anyway it was her favorite drink. She sipped at it as she carried it back to the bathroom, where she carefully applied her makeup. Trying to make her eyebrows look more like eyebrows and less like unraveling strings, was a lost cause. She smudged a little eye-shadow on her eyelids. It didn’t help. Her eyes still looked sunken and desperate.

  “So what do you think, pal?” She looked around for—oh, right. He was dead.

  “Probably being burned to a crisp right this minute,” she told the woman in the mirror, then added, “Here comes the pain.” And the pain did come. Waves of agony tearing into her body, grasping her around the throat, squeezing her heart, doubling her over, as thick, salty tears poured out of her eyes.

  “And there goes the make-up,” she muttered to herself.

  The drink was finally hitting her. About time.

  Her husband was dead too, of course. Had been dead a long time. She had divorced him years before he died.

  “Did you divorce him for cruelty? No. Did you divorce him for adultery? No, but I could have. So tell me, lady, why did you divorce him? He bored the shit out of me. He was lousy in bed. He couldn’t handle money. He got me pregnant.”

  She went back to the kitchen, staggering slightly, and poured herself another drink. Her son, Brent was dead, too. Buried long ago in a military cemetery. Pain dulled. She had vowed that that was the last pain she would ever feel for anyone.

  But, oh, God, Riley was dead! A pain like a slicing knife thrust though her chest. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Maybe she would die right here, right now. She waited, bathed in pain, breathless…

  “Nope, going to live.”

  She opened the bottom drawer, the deepest one, reached way in back, and pulled out a large, clear plastic bag. It was filled with brown bottles with white caps. She brought them back to the kitchen, hitched up one of the tall chairs next to the counter and settled herself, wrapping her feet around the legs of the tall chair. Like a child, her feet didn't touch the ground.

  She took a sip of her drink. Reached into the plastic bag, removing the medicine bottles one by one, lining them up on the counter. Damn, she’s forgotten something. She took another sip of her drink, got down from the chair, and walked to the cabinets where she kept her dishes. As she pulled out a small bowl, she glanced out the window. Naturally it was a beautiful day, God had a nasty sense of humor. She climbed back up on the chair, put the bowl in front of her, and began opening all the medicine bottles. Some of the damn things had childproof caps. True, she wasn’t arthritic, but that didn't mean her hands were strong. She used to be very strong for woman, all that hiking, and sailing, and horseback riding, and fucking built a girl up. But now she seemed to get weaker every day. She was breathing easier now. As long as she didn't think about him.

  She opened the first bottle, Compazine. Anti-nausea medication. She swallowed three pills quickly. That should keep it all down. A delicate swirl of dog hair dust-bunnies floated in the air near her face, stirred up by breeze from the open window. With an impatient gesture she pushed it away than watched as it landed gently on the floor and wrapped itself around one of the legs of her chair.

  Maybe she should vacuum?

  “Fuck that.”

  One by one she opened the other bottles and poured the contents into the bowl, stirring them with her finger. Pretty. Different colors, different shapes. Pretty.

  “Now what else do I need?”

  She walked back into the bathroom, opened her medicine cabinet and took out two small clear bottles filled with a clear fluid. She carried them back to the kitchen and placed them next to the bowl of pills. Anything else? Oh, of course. She went to the silverware drawer reached in the back and pulled out a large syringe. Her hand encountered a folded piece of paper which she pulled out and unfolded. It was a photocopied page of instructions, complete with illustrations. She took both the syringe and the paper back to her seat. Took another sip of her drink. Anything else? Oh, yes.


  Damn, you’d think that today of all days she would be organized. Although come to think of it, why should she change now?

  As she climbed down from the chair her head spun and she grabbed the counter. She spread her legs so that she had steadier base, and waited for the dizziness to pass. Shouldn't of gotten up so fast. She moved slowly into the kitchen one hand trailing along the wall, along the refrigerator, along the stove, until she reached the drawer where she kept her plastic bags. None of those Ziploc things for her, she pulled out a white kitchen garbage bag with an orange strip around the edge to make it easier to close, then staggered back to her chair. Now. Now she had everything.

  No wait, there was something else. This suicide crap wasn't as easy as everyone said it was. With another sigh she got to her feet staggered back into her bedroom and picked up his photograph that was sitting on her chest of drawers. Then she staggered back to the kitchen. She carefully put the photograph in front of her, leaning it against a vase of dying daffodils. It was just a snapshot. Taken, God how long ago? At least five years ago. It showed him standing knee-deep in a pond surrounded by leafy trees, a slash of sunlight illuminating his happy grin. Just one of several snapshots she had taken that day. This one had come out perfectly. How had she let him get under her defenses? One minute she was happily heart-free and alone, and the next he was there, crowding in, taking over her heart. Well, that’s what she got. Served her right.

  She grabbed up three or four pills, popped them in her mouth, and took a swallow of her drink. She poured a little more gin into her glass, and stirred it with her finger. She was dizzy now. But her stomach was holding.

  She raised her glass. "Here's to Compazine," she said, and drank some more. When she put her drink down her fingers brushed against the folded pamphlet that had been stuck in her door. Unfolding it, she tried to focus her bleary gaze on the words. It was one of those tracts that religious busybodies were always forcing on you. But this was not some expensive religious publication, it was a home grown piece of work, probably done on someone’s computer.

  GOD IS LOVE

  Whoever does not love, does not know God, because God is love.

  JOHN 4:8

  She snorted and took another drink. “I don’t believe in God,” she told the paper and crumpled it up before tossing it on the floor. “And I don’t believe in love,” she added for good measure. But that was a lie, because she had loved him and he had loved her.

  “Crap.”

  She picked up the folded page of suicide instructions and tried to make out the words.

  Apparently she had a choice, she could inject 60 mEq or more of potassium into her veins, or she could finish taking the pills, lie down and put the plastic bag over her head. Proactive or contemplative, which should it be?

  While she thought it over she popped a few more pills. The potassium, she knew, would give her a massive heart attack and she would die within minutes. On the other hand, it would hurt like hell. Just injecting it into her veins would feel like someone was dissecting her arm without anesthesia. If her hand wasn’t steady when she was injecting the stuff, the needle might pull out of the vein. She looked down at her hand holding the glass of booze.

  “Not so steady.”

  If the needle slipped it would burn up the skin and tissue and by the time it finally got into her heart there might not be enough to do a quick job.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  She looked at his photo. “Does it sound good to you, Riley?”

  Dogs had it easy. The vet just injected Riley with something that made him sigh, close his eyes, and peacefully go to sleep. No more pain, no more sickness.

  “No more love,” she said to the photo.

  Yep, the booze and the pills were definitely getting to her. She could tell because in the photo, really only an enlarged snapshot, Riley’s lovely bushy tail waved gently at her.

  If only she could pet him one last time.

  If she took the pills she would go to sleep, and putting the plastic bag over her head pretty much guaranteed she wouldn’t wake up. Unless God was in his usual trickster mode.

  “But you don't believe in God." Of course with her luck he probably did exist, which meant she was going to hell. “What’s one more sin? I mean if you go to hell for all eternity He can’t add years to your sentence can He?” She started giggling and popped a couple of more pills.

  Served her right. "That's what I get for loving you," she yelled at his photograph. He looked so happy, so beautiful. Oh God she missed him.

  Funny, well not really funny, considering all the people she’d lost over the years, all the things she'd walked away from, his death— God, his death. A Goddamned dog, for crying out loud. She started crying. Drunken crying.

  Stop that, that's the one thing you never really did, well two things, you were never a drunk, and you always faced forward never looking back. So stop it!

  His death was so easy. Why couldn’t they do that for people? But no, humans have souls. She picked up the photograph staring at the beautiful golden retriever grinning back at her. Through her drunken haze she could see his tail wag with delight.

  Riley was nothing but soul, a loving soul. There was no God, there was no afterlife, there was no Heaven or Hell. And if there was, she was going to Hell. And that was alright because…because… if dogs weren’t allowed into Heaven, how could it be Heaven?

  For the last week, he'd been so sick. He tried so hard to follow her around. He wanted to be with her so badly. She'd slept next to him, feeding him sips of water through a syringe because she knew how thirsty he was. Could feel his thirst herself. He couldn't hold anything down, just skin and bones, his beautiful coat so thin now. He'd been a huge dog, over 100 pounds and strong. Now he didn't have the strength to stand up. She had to get the handyman to help carry him down to her car so she could take him to the vet’s. They kept him overnight trying to save him, but he was too old, too weak, too sick. Finally the vet had inserted an IV, then taken a syringe and slowly injected its contents. Riley looked at her, sighed deeply, closed his eyes and stopped breathing. All his pain seemed to rush into her. It grabbed her throat, slipped into her chest, clutching at her innards.

  Did it matter that in the end it was a dog that she had truly loved? Wasn’t love, love? Was God really love?

  “I don’t believe in God,” she muttered. She grabbed up a handful of pills, crammed them down, grabbed up the bottle of gin and drank directly from it, shuddered at the taste, grabbed up the plastic bag, stood up, turned, and saw Riley standing there, watching her.

  “Riley?”

  He grinned his doggy grin and bounded over to her. She reached out to him and crashed to the floor. Her head smashed against the counter. Blood poured out to pool around her. She could feel his cold nose nudging her to get up, to come with him because he loved her. She reached out a shaking hand.

  I’m bleeding to death. It’s not suicide.

  Riley, will they let us in?

  THE END

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  Alison Blake is an award winning playwright and novelist. She has written for TV, and has been an Associate Editor for a number of fan magazine. Check out her website at alisonblakewriter.com.

  Sometimes we take for granted those special things that surround us.

  Appreciate them while they are here for one day they will be gone.

  S.A.

  In memoriam “The Senator”, Big Tree Park, Altamonte Springs, Florida

  Chapter 11

  Death of the Senator

  By Stephen Arseneault

  1

  I awoke, showered, dressed, poured my morning coffee and settled in on the couch in front of the TV. Watching the morning news was my standard routine before heading off to another day of work. As I sat listening to the normal stream of world unrest, catastrophes and human follies, a story came on that almost brought tears to my eyes.

  The Senator, believed to be the sixth oldest tree in the world, esti
mated at 3,500 years old, had mysteriously caught fire, burned from the inside out and then collapsed. The city of Altamonte Springs had grown up around the Pond Cypress. The tree's life, much of it lived before the time of Jesus, had been spent towering over the other trees in a small public park just outside of Orlando Florida.

  The monolith was 125 feet tall and had a 17.5 foot diameter trunk at the base. A massive and majestic tree it was. To see The Senator in person was to be in awe of one of the natural wonders of the world.

  Growing up in Orlando I remember having family picnics in the park. My parents cooked hotdogs and hamburgers on the grill while my brother and I climbed over the concrete picnic tables, raced through the woods and around the trees.

  I remember as a teen going to the park after high school football games to sneak in after it was closed. Many a night was spent chasing my girlfriend around with a flashlight and then making out with her on a blanket beneath the towering sentinel.

  In college I enjoyed taking my sweetheart to Big Tree Park for the occasional romantic afternoon picnic. It was on my knee, in front of The Senator, where I pulled a ring from my pocket and proposed to my now wife.

  And for years my wife and I had taken our own children to see The Senator. We enjoyed the peace and tranquility of the forest over which it stood guard. The Senator was a foundation stone in our life, a rock, an ever present sign of stability. It was a sight which brought chill bumps each and every time when standing before it. But now, it was gone forever, removed from the living... never to return.

  After learning of The Senator's demise I woke my wife and gave her a long hug as I told her of the tragedy. I told her how the fire officials were unsure of how the blaze had started and how I hoped it was not from the careless or perverse behavior of some young lost soul. I comforted her as she lightly sobbed; the tears of sadness rolled gently down her face. Our tree... was gone.

  The tragedy cast a pall over the remainder of the day. The smiles and camaraderie that I normally enjoyed in the workplace seemed hollow and meaningless. The food at lunch had no taste. The family was in a somber mood when I arrived home and we sat quietly in front of the TV for most of the evening. It was a day of mourning for The Senator, our foundation stone, our rock, our friend.