tool into the soft
dirt, she thought of poor Monte Grant, dead and lying in the morgue
in Kingman, Arizona. Soon, if it hadn’t already happened, some
medical examiner would take a scalpel and cut Monte’s chest open.
It was undignified and useless. Luisa, Monte’s sister, had called
in tears. She had heard a crash and ran outside to see her brother
slumped over the steering wheel of his lawn tractor. Luisa had
called her because Monte had left instructions to do so. Over the
years, she and Monte had remained friends. Perhaps, had they not
each been married when they met, they might have been more. They
never spoke of it. After her husband died of heart disease five
years ago and Monte’s wife of a stroke last year, Cynthia held out
a slight hope of exploring what might have been, but it didn’t
happen. Monte was entrenched in Arizona and she in San Diego.
She would go to the funeral, of course.
Perhaps the others would be there. The others. How many were left
now? How many could say they really knew? It had been over thirty
years ago. Three decades could eradicate a lot of memory. Her
memory, however, was still undimmed by distance. Age had touched
her hearing, corroded her joints, dimmed her sight, and bollixed up
her biological plumbing, but it had left her mind alone. She was
thankful for that and thankful that she could still live on her
own.
Granted, she lived in a “retirement village,”
where neighbors were more than neighbors. They were also guardians
of one another’s well-being. Several times a day she received calls
from others to see how she was doing. Translated, that meant, “Are
you still alive?” She laughed to herself. She had starting making
the same kinds of calls.
Cynthia stopped weeding and closed her eyes.
Her vision wasn’t what it used to be, and now she was having
trouble seeing. Perhaps she needed a nap. She rubbed her eyes, then
leaned forward, resting her hands on the dirt. She was on all
fours. Her lungs joined the chorus of complaints. She opened her
eyes and wondered when the world had turned milky.
A loud ringing startled her and pulled her
attention to the cordless phone she had brought outside with her.
She had called Henry Sachs to let him know of Monte’s death. Maybe
he was calling back. She reached for the phone but stopped. A
dagger of pain ran up her spine. She was familiar with all her
pains, and this one was a stranger.
The phone rang again. This time it sounded
muted. She shifted her position and grabbed the phone. There was a
new pain in her stomach. Cynthia sucked in air, and it burned her
lungs. She couldn’t get a full breath. As she exhaled, she heard a
gurgling and realized there was fluid in her lungs, fluid that had
not been there fifteen minutes earlier.
The phone rang a third time, and Cynthia
raised it to her ear. She tried to speak. Nothing came out.
“Hello? Hello? This is Perry Sachs. I’m
calling for Cynthia Wagner. Hello?”
The normal, autonomic breathing had become
labor. Cynthia had to think about every inhalation. Her skin began
to burn, as if it were ready to combust.
“Ms. Wagner.”
Perry Sachs, Henry’s boy. She remembered him
talking about his son over thirty years ago. Perry . . . She
doubled over and retched. Blood poured from her mouth.
So this was it, she thought between spasms of
pain. This was the place of her death, on her knees amidst the
gold, blue, and yellow of her flowers. It was a good place, a
pretty place to die.
She forced her hand to rise and place the
phone by her ear. Her lungs were no longer drawing breath. She was
suffocating, but she had to say something. Help? She was beyond
help, and she accepted that. Perhaps she could get one word out,
one word that could make a difference.
“To-no-pah,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” the voice on the phone said.
“Tonopah.”
Cynthia Wagner fell to her side, and the
phone dropped beside her.
“Ms. Wagner? Ms. Wagner, are you all
right?”
Cynthia’s vision
dirt, she thought of poor Monte Grant, dead and lying in the morgue
in Kingman, Arizona. Soon, if it hadn’t already happened, some
medical examiner would take a scalpel and cut Monte’s chest open.
It was undignified and useless. Luisa, Monte’s sister, had called
in tears. She had heard a crash and ran outside to see her brother
slumped over the steering wheel of his lawn tractor. Luisa had
called her because Monte had left instructions to do so. Over the
years, she and Monte had remained friends. Perhaps, had they not
each been married when they met, they might have been more. They
never spoke of it. After her husband died of heart disease five
years ago and Monte’s wife of a stroke last year, Cynthia held out
a slight hope of exploring what might have been, but it didn’t
happen. Monte was entrenched in Arizona and she in San Diego.
She would go to the funeral, of course.
Perhaps the others would be there. The others. How many were left
now? How many could say they really knew? It had been over thirty
years ago. Three decades could eradicate a lot of memory. Her
memory, however, was still undimmed by distance. Age had touched
her hearing, corroded her joints, dimmed her sight, and bollixed up
her biological plumbing, but it had left her mind alone. She was
thankful for that and thankful that she could still live on her
own.
Granted, she lived in a “retirement village,”
where neighbors were more than neighbors. They were also guardians
of one another’s well-being. Several times a day she received calls
from others to see how she was doing. Translated, that meant, “Are
you still alive?” She laughed to herself. She had starting making
the same kinds of calls.
Cynthia stopped weeding and closed her eyes.
Her vision wasn’t what it used to be, and now she was having
trouble seeing. Perhaps she needed a nap. She rubbed her eyes, then
leaned forward, resting her hands on the dirt. She was on all
fours. Her lungs joined the chorus of complaints. She opened her
eyes and wondered when the world had turned milky.
A loud ringing startled her and pulled her
attention to the cordless phone she had brought outside with her.
She had called Henry Sachs to let him know of Monte’s death. Maybe
he was calling back. She reached for the phone but stopped. A
dagger of pain ran up her spine. She was familiar with all her
pains, and this one was a stranger.
The phone rang again. This time it sounded
muted. She shifted her position and grabbed the phone. There was a
new pain in her stomach. Cynthia sucked in air, and it burned her
lungs. She couldn’t get a full breath. As she exhaled, she heard a
gurgling and realized there was fluid in her lungs, fluid that had
not been there fifteen minutes earlier.
The phone rang a third time, and Cynthia
raised it to her ear. She tried to speak. Nothing came out.
“Hello? Hello? This is Perry Sachs. I’m
calling for Cynthia Wagner. Hello?”
The normal, autonomic breathing had become
labor. Cynthia had to think about every inhalation. Her skin began
to burn, as if it were ready to combust.
“Ms. Wagner.”
Perry Sachs, Henry’s boy. She remembered him
talking about his son over thirty years ago. Perry . . . She
doubled over and retched. Blood poured from her mouth.
So this was it, she thought between spasms of
pain. This was the place of her death, on her knees amidst the
gold, blue, and yellow of her flowers. It was a good place, a
pretty place to die.
She forced her hand to rise and place the
phone by her ear. Her lungs were no longer drawing breath. She was
suffocating, but she had to say something. Help? She was beyond
help, and she accepted that. Perhaps she could get one word out,
one word that could make a difference.
“To-no-pah,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” the voice on the phone said.
“Tonopah.”
Cynthia Wagner fell to her side, and the
phone dropped beside her.
“Ms. Wagner? Ms. Wagner, are you all
right?”
Cynthia’s vision