Every Day

EVERY DAY

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he doesn't.

So, as the moon shakes its head in disapproval each night, he thinks tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. Really.

Tomorrow becomes today at 6:37 a.m., when the alarm wakes him. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then he lumbers to the toilet. After he pees, he washes his hands and tries to avoid looking in the mirror. Most mornings, though, he catches a glimpse of himself, and he winces. He is uglier every day. His head is watermelon-odd, his hair is scarce, and the bags under his eyes are moving toward suitcasehood.

After the bathroom trip, he goes back to his bed and sits.

He thinks about Vicky, his wife, his childhood sweetheart. How he misses her. How he can’t bear to pull the plug on her. The guilt would destroy him. So he’ll kill himself first. With no one left to make decisions on Vicky’s behalf, the hospital will be forced to pull the plug.

At 7:25 a.m., he finishes thinking and nods in satisfaction, having reassured himself that everything is in order and that he isn’t merely passing Vicky on to another helpless oaf. He does not even have a loud, indignant, overbearing mother-in-law.

He dresses and eats breakfast, always four Krispy Kreme donuts, because it’s his last meal. He deserves a good last meal, doesn’t he?

At 9:00, he is in the hospital and at his wife’s side to say goodbye. To, in raspy little whispers, beg her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, Vicky,” he says. “I’m sorry I can’t let you go. I’m a coward. But we’ll meet again soon. Yes ...”

He takes her brittle, dusty hand and kisses it gingerly so it doesn’t crumble in his fat, clumsy grasp. “Goodbye.”

By 11 a.m., he is at his apartment again. He has no job to go to; he quit two days before he decided to kill himself. Of course, he still lives.

But today is the day. It always is.

He gets the gun from a drawer and sits at the kitchen table. He stares at the gun. Nothing to it, really. Disengage the safety. Bring the gun to his head and fire. Die.

It’s child’s play. Easy ducky.

He likes easy ducky. Such a cute little phrase. It always makes him think of the bathtub ducks from his childhood. And then he gets to remembering. Splashing in the tub, in the pool, his mother’s mouth-watering cookies, throwing baseball with his father, meeting the little girl down the street and falling for her instantly. Vicky. He always knew he’d marry her. How could anyone resist the auburn curls and devilish green eyes?

Now Vicky is faded wallpaper, and so is he.

At this point in the day, he pays less attention to the time, but usually about 6 p.m., he prods himself to get a move on. Some days, he even brings the gun to his temple.

And then he tells himself to go on, go on, go on, finish the job. What is he dawdling for? Thanks to quitting his job, he has no insurance and little money. Every day, his stockpile dwindles, and Vicky’s bills mount.

His stomach gurgles. He’s hungry. So he fixes himself a nice big sandwich-—usually roast beef. Why not? It’s his last meal. He deserves a nice last meal, doesn’t he?

After dinner, he gets the gun, goes to his bedroom and curls up on his bed. He does not crawl under the sheets, nor does he change into pajamas. No sir. He won’t have people finding his body in pajamas. He has more class than that. No, they’ll find him in this nice suit he’s worn all day, even if it is a bit wrinkled ...

He sighs. He really ought to iron the suit. And why is he in bed, anyway? When people find his body, he ought to be on the couch. More dignified. So he pulls himself out of bed and changes into housework clothes. He irons his suit and surveys the apartment. The place is spic and span from the previous day’s cleaning, but still ... is that dust he sees? A speck of dirt? He won’t stand for people finding his body in a dirty apartment. So he mops the floors and scrubs the bathroom and dusts and vacuums.

After this exertion, he is filthy, and he stinks. So he showers. Afterward, he smells like raspberries and cream. He dries himself off and struggles into his freshly ironed suit.

He gets the gun and sits on the couch. Another staring match ensues. Going to do it, he thinks. Right now. But sleep threatens to overwhelm him. He thinks tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. Really. So he goes to bed.

He usually sleeps well, and most of his dreams are happy movies, in which Vicky is laughing and singing and twirling again.

#

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he doesn't.

But on the 366^th day, at 9:03 a.m., the hospital woman, pale, blond and without personality, tells him Vicky’s time is just about up. He’s behind on her bills. He needs to pay up or ... wellyouknow.

He manages a stoic nod for the hospital woman. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.”

She smiles and goes away.

He grasps Vicky’s dusty skeleton hand again and whispers his traditional goodbye. He goes home. He cries. He gets his gun. He brings it to his head.

He swallows. Easy ducky.

His apartment is clean. His suit is fresh and wrinkle-free. Nothing to worry about now.

Easy ducky, easy ducky. Boy, those were the days, huh, playing in the tub with his ducks and boats and frogs. The good old days, a child’s life.

His hands shake, but he presses the gun to his temple. He isn’t dropping the gun, no way. He has a job to do, and maybe it’s taken him a while longer than planned, but damn it, he is going to finish what he started.

If only he weren’t such a coward! If only he had the strength to let Vicky go ... but how can he? She is his wife, his best friend, the love of his life. He can’t pull the plug on her. No way.

He will die first.

Maybe one more donut? No.

He is about to pull the trigger, but then he realizes he has never celebrated Vicky’s life. Sure, after the accident, he always remembered her birthday by bringing two cupcakes, one for him and one for her ... and eating both. And he recalled their wedding anniversaries by bringing her roses and lilies and reminiscing with her still body about her walking down the aisle in her long, flowing white gown and then ... and then tripping, and laughing ... her rich, golden, honeyed tones erupting ... but ... Why? Why has he never celebrated his wife’s life? If any life ought to be celebrated, it is hers.

He nods in determination. This he shall do first.

He places the gun on the end table and drives to the grocery store for a cake. Vicky loved chocolate cake; to him, chocolate cake is eh. Vanilla is better. But he’ll get chocolate.

He spends a couple of minutes scrutinizing the assorted cakes before a pimply, plump girl waddles from a back room to the counter. She asks if she can be of any help. MARY says her name tag.

“Ah,” he says to Mary, and he indicates a rather tiny, round cake with white frosting. “I like that one. Could you write a message on it? In blue. Dark blue. Vicky’s favorite.”

“Of course.” Mary smiles-—her teeth are yellow, and he tells himself to ignore it, that it doesn’t matter how often she brushes her teeth. She is just a cake girl. “What do you want me to write?” she asks.

He considers for a long moment. “In honor of a wonderful woman and a wonderful life.”

Mary sighs regretfully. “That’s too long. But if you want a bigger cake, it’s only $4 more.”

"What do I need a big cake for? OK. In honor of a wonderful life?”

“How about great? Means the same as wonderful, but it'll fit better.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Fine, fine. Great it is.”

Mary goes in the back to work on the cake. Five minutes later, she proudly presents her work to him.

IN HONOR OF A GRATE LIFE.

He stares. And stares.

Grate? Grate? What the hell? Vicky deserves better than this. He sure isn’t going to celebrate his wife's life with a misspelled word.

But he looks into Mary’s brimming pimply-pizza face, into her eager-to-please eyes. Puppydog.

He can’t do it. He can’t scold her. He knows instinctively that she has few bright spots in her days as it is.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “It’s lovely.” And it is--other than GRATE.

She exhales a nervous breath. “Really? It’s my first cake. Oh, I’ve done lots at home and for friends’ parties-—that’s how come the lettering’s so fancy, but, see, this is my second day here, and ... you like it? You really like it?”

His stomach clenches. “It’s great, Mary. Just great. Thank you.” He forks over a wad of $1 bills and turns to leave.

"Was Vicky your wife?"

He freezes at the sudden question and slowly faces Mary again. "Vicky is my wife. Not was. Thank you."

Mary blinks stupidly. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought that, well ..."

He holds up a hand. "It's fine."

"Did you used to work at the McDonald's near the civic center?"

"Huh?"

"Feel like I've seen you before. What's your name?"

He grins wryly. "Mary, my name doesn't matter. I'm Vicky's husband. That’s who I am. That's all that matters."

He leaves the store, tosses the cake into the trash, and drives to another grocery. This time, he makes sure to write in clear, neat handwriting the message he wants.

He ends up with a great cake. Then he goes to pick out candles. How many to buy? He isn’t sure. He’s celebrating Vicky’s life-—her life—-the years when she laughed, sang, danced. But should he count the years she lay bedridden in that horrid coma? Those twelve long years still going on?

He finally decides yes. Yes. He will. Vicky is his wife, not was. So her cake gets 60 candles.

#

He goes home and lights the candles. He blows them out one by one. It doesn't take long. He eats the cake for both him and Vicky.

When he is done, he is very full.

He recites a quick prayer and gets the gun. He brings it to his temple.

His heart is hammering, and he is sweaty and numb all over.

He takes a deep breath. This is it, really it.

Now it is time for his last thought. What should it be?

Vicky, I love you. I'm so sorry. See you soon.

He fires.

Easy ducky.

THE END