A Short Story by Jefferson Wright (nom de plume)
Note: This story is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
She looked at him, as always, lovingly, while the technicians went about their business. Finding a vein was hard for the person working on her, but easier on the technician completing the task on his arm.
Her mind drifted…. drifted…. drifted… she was, as always, somewhat amazed at the arithmetic.
Here they were, as late as they could be into their seventh decade, and they had been together all but 13 of those years. Of course, a few years of that was as “together” as a couple could be in their early teens, but, to them, it was always together. By the time he was old enough to drive (she wouldn’t be of age until a year later than him) it was done. They were together, and they would be from then on.
They could tell you when they first heard of the Barbie doll, and when the citizens of Hawaii voted to accept becoming part of the United States of America because they would be together and talk about those events the next day before classes started at 8:30 a.m. One day, not long after those events, they would talk about John F. Kennedy and his inauguration.
And, of course, they both knew exactly where the other was on Nov. 22, 1963.
He was in the art class that he, unfortunately, absolutely needed to pass in order to have enough credits to graduate (academics would never be his strong suit), and she was in a history class. When the news came over the PA system and a principal said what had happened, and said that the President was dead, they were, like everyone else in the room, shocked. But only for a moment before they started looking at the clock every other minute, waiting until they could meet up and be together to get through the news.
And even though the bell for seventh period had rung, it still felt like a long time before they could hold each other that day. It was a 20-minute drive from his school to hers by that time in their journey together. He skipped out early, stepped harder on the gas pedal than usual, and shifted through the gears faster, with more purpose than normal.
He waited, perched on the front fender of his convertible even though it was damn cold that afternoon; until he could pick her out of the crowd walking out of the main entrance. As he moved with an unstoppable purpose toward her along the walkway, the crowd flowed smoothly around him like a gentle stream around a protruding rock, then around them both as they stood still, facing each other, holding hands.
Together.
The technicians spoke in hushed tones, but she knew they were talking about him, the fact that he wasn’t there; that he could no longer carry on a conversation or have control over his movements.
When it began, she refused to believe it. He had been the one with the incredible memory. He could remember every one of his elementary school teachers as little as five years ago.
“Her name was Mrs. Coates,” he would begin with his kindergarten teacher.
“She was really tall for a woman, with very white hair, on the heavy side, and her husband was the county sheriff. I remember that she had a lot of blue dresses, some dark, some in a little lighter color, but it always seemed to me that she wore blue dresses.
“And in first grade, there was Mrs. Eyres,” he would continue. “She was a skinny blonde, and she was a real mean bitch.”
“In second grade, when we started the school year, the teacher’s name was Miss Dagget. But then, when we got back from Christmas vacation, we found out she got married, and she wrote her new name on the chalkboard, Mrs. Dermanual.”
And he would go on through Mrs. Anderson in third grade, of whom he said he wondered if her family was in the window business, Miss Davis in fourth who was really short and skinny with bright red hair, and Mr. Selleny in fifth grade, always dressed in a suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket, who he noted that, in addition to teaching, moonlighted doing sports on the 11 O’clock news at the local NBC affiliate WICU.
He was also able to say that in the case of Mr. Selleny, he didn’t even have to see him on camera. He remembered the beer commercials where someone would set down a glass and pour it from the bottle. He noted that it had to be his teacher doing those commercials because he recognized a ring that Selleny wore.
When it came to his sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Cuthbert, he noted, “I didn’t like her, and she hated my guts!”
He remembered that in the comment section of his report card, she once wrote, “GLARES AT THE TEACHER” in all caps.
But that was all gone. All of it. Along with the memories of their visits to six of the seven continents, their more than a million miles on the road together through every state in the Union several times each, including a dozen trips to Hawaii, traveling for their work together.
That medium, rich baritone voice that made some people wonder as early as his mid-teens if he would pursue a career in radio was silent now, save an occasional grunt or low-pitched squeal, depending on how agitated or frightened he was at the moment.
Remembering the times she did what she could to calm him at the start of his slide into the black hole that was once his sharp mind, she thought of the day she had to accept the truth. He had misplaced his car keys, and she was shocked and surprised at how upset and frightened he was that he couldn’t remember where they were. Somehow, she managed to convince him to sit down, promising him a bottle of his favorite, Henry Weinhard Root Beer.
When she opened the refrigerator, she found the keys.
Lying on her gurney, reaching for his free hand while he lay still on his, she searched his eyes one last time for some recognition, remembering the opening line of one of their favorite songs. She could hear Ray Charles’ bluesy cool, achingly gospel, brassy-jazz voice…
‘She looked down into her brown eyes, and said say a prayer for me… she put her arms around him, whispered God will keep us free…’
The technician’s work was done, and the procedure began.
It took only a few months after the 2025 inauguration for agents to show up at the door of the small, comfortable home they had downsized into at their retirement more than two decades past. Well, not actually total retirement. Getting him to stop doing something was impossible until the slide had begun in earnest.
The bills that Medicare covered for his seemingly endless doctor visits, tests, procedures, “treatments”, medications, etc…. confirmed that he was a burden, non-contributory, and expensive. And they informed her that he was going to be immediately transported to a medical facility.
She got past her shock and fear in an instant, informing them that she would be going with him.
The agents shared a brief look, then shrugged.
That’s just the way things are in Donlandia, was her final thought, as her eyes, and his, closed, together, for the last time.
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