Without Tears
By Wayne Scheer
It was Valentine’s Day, two years ago, when my life came crushing down on me. Actually, not really on me, but on my husband. And it wasn't life that crushed him either; it was a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix. He was under it when the jack slipped, killing him instantly.
There wasn't much of a crash. At least I didn't hear anything more than a kind of muffled crunch. I suppose Tom's body cushioned the blow keeping most of the car's metal underbelly from hitting the concrete driveway.
I know these words sound cruel. But my therapist says the ability to laugh shows that I'm healing. He wants me to write about my husband's death without tears. Big fucking chance.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something. I think what caught my attention was the oddness of the sound, kind of like dropping a block of cement on a carpet.
Come to think of it, I felt it more than I heard it. I suppose the same could be said for Tom.
When I looked out the window, I didn't see anything unusual at first. I mean what would Sunday afternoon in Southern California be without seeing birds flapping at the birdbath, the sun reflecting off the Hacker's bright yellow house and Ton's legs sticking out from under one of the cars?
But something was different. I didn't know what so I went out to investigate.
"Tom?" I called.
"Tom?" I shouted louder. Then I saw the jack on its side and the car on all four of its wheels and the blood running from under the car forming a small pool. My first thought was that Tom dropped the oil pan, but I knew.
This is where everything gets foggy for me. I think I called Tom's name again. I know I screamed. But I'll never forget the horrible silence that followed. Even the wind stopped blowing.
I think the Brandon's, Richard and Jenna, from across the street, came out first. I know I saw Rita Cohen pulling her little girl away and soon there were police and my mother and the ambulance and…
I tried not to look when they jacked up the car and pulled Tom our, but I couldn't help myself. The strange thing is, he didn't look too bad. I thought he'd look like one of those cartoon pancake men, as flat as a tortilla. Then I saw his head.
The medics on the scene told me he died instantly. "There couldn't have been much pain, Ma'am," the young blond one said, trying to be helpful.
Not much pain? What do you mean not much pain? I wanted to scream. But then I looked at his baby face. I remember thinking, Shit! I shave more often than he does. His upper lip and nostrils were twitching and his nose was turning red.
"Thank you," I said, wanting to comfort the poor kid. I almost put my arm around him to show it was going to be all right.
That's when it hit me: Tom and I would never have children of our own. And I broke down. They tell me I passed out and I was brought to the hospital. I remember my mother sitting at my bed crying. I said some horrible things to her, somehow blaming her because Tom was fixing the car for her. We were planning on buying a new Prius and Tom was going to give her the Pontiac.
Then I started cursing Tom, calling him a selfish son-of-bitch, caring more for his damn cars than for me. "How could that bastard die on Valentine's Day?" I don't remember ever cursing in front of my mother, but it felt good.
Then the nurse sedated me and I drifted off into a world where cars don't fall on people. .
When I got home, there was food. Do people keep a supply of vegetable soup, chicken cacciatore and banana bread in their freezers waiting for a catastrophe in the neighborhood? When Emil and Nancy lost their son, I brought a tray of deli meats from Publix. I wonder now if I committed some kind of suburban sin?
It's been rough getting back to my life, rougher than I ever imagined it would be. Tom and I were only married for six years, but I grew so dependent upon him. I knew I loved him, but I never knew how much.
I suppose I'm healing because friends are asking me when I'll start dating. Even Mom has started to hint. They all seem to know someone. But it's still hard for me to imagine dating. What would I say? "Hi, my name is Chris. My husband was crushed by a car. Seen any good movies lately?"
Huh. I smiled as I wrote that. Maybe I am getting better.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
--Wayne Scheer's Revealing Moments,
available as a free download at http://pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm
By Wayne Scheer
It was Valentine’s Day, two years ago, when my life came crushing down on me. Actually, not really on me, but on my husband. And it wasn't life that crushed him either; it was a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix. He was under it when the jack slipped, killing him instantly.
There wasn't much of a crash. At least I didn't hear anything more than a kind of muffled crunch. I suppose Tom's body cushioned the blow keeping most of the car's metal underbelly from hitting the concrete driveway.
I know these words sound cruel. But my therapist says the ability to laugh shows that I'm healing. He wants me to write about my husband's death without tears. Big fucking chance.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something. I think what caught my attention was the oddness of the sound, kind of like dropping a block of cement on a carpet.
Come to think of it, I felt it more than I heard it. I suppose the same could be said for Tom.
When I looked out the window, I didn't see anything unusual at first. I mean what would Sunday afternoon in Southern California be without seeing birds flapping at the birdbath, the sun reflecting off the Hacker's bright yellow house and Ton's legs sticking out from under one of the cars?
But something was different. I didn't know what so I went out to investigate.
"Tom?" I called.
"Tom?" I shouted louder. Then I saw the jack on its side and the car on all four of its wheels and the blood running from under the car forming a small pool. My first thought was that Tom dropped the oil pan, but I knew.
This is where everything gets foggy for me. I think I called Tom's name again. I know I screamed. But I'll never forget the horrible silence that followed. Even the wind stopped blowing.
I think the Brandon's, Richard and Jenna, from across the street, came out first. I know I saw Rita Cohen pulling her little girl away and soon there were police and my mother and the ambulance and…
I tried not to look when they jacked up the car and pulled Tom our, but I couldn't help myself. The strange thing is, he didn't look too bad. I thought he'd look like one of those cartoon pancake men, as flat as a tortilla. Then I saw his head.
The medics on the scene told me he died instantly. "There couldn't have been much pain, Ma'am," the young blond one said, trying to be helpful.
Not much pain? What do you mean not much pain? I wanted to scream. But then I looked at his baby face. I remember thinking, Shit! I shave more often than he does. His upper lip and nostrils were twitching and his nose was turning red.
"Thank you," I said, wanting to comfort the poor kid. I almost put my arm around him to show it was going to be all right.
That's when it hit me: Tom and I would never have children of our own. And I broke down. They tell me I passed out and I was brought to the hospital. I remember my mother sitting at my bed crying. I said some horrible things to her, somehow blaming her because Tom was fixing the car for her. We were planning on buying a new Prius and Tom was going to give her the Pontiac.
Then I started cursing Tom, calling him a selfish son-of-bitch, caring more for his damn cars than for me. "How could that bastard die on Valentine's Day?" I don't remember ever cursing in front of my mother, but it felt good.
Then the nurse sedated me and I drifted off into a world where cars don't fall on people. .
When I got home, there was food. Do people keep a supply of vegetable soup, chicken cacciatore and banana bread in their freezers waiting for a catastrophe in the neighborhood? When Emil and Nancy lost their son, I brought a tray of deli meats from Publix. I wonder now if I committed some kind of suburban sin?
It's been rough getting back to my life, rougher than I ever imagined it would be. Tom and I were only married for six years, but I grew so dependent upon him. I knew I loved him, but I never knew how much.
I suppose I'm healing because friends are asking me when I'll start dating. Even Mom has started to hint. They all seem to know someone. But it's still hard for me to imagine dating. What would I say? "Hi, my name is Chris. My husband was crushed by a car. Seen any good movies lately?"
Huh. I smiled as I wrote that. Maybe I am getting better.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
--Wayne Scheer's Revealing Moments,
available as a free download at http://pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm
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