Pamela Morsi (28 page)

783.2 Music for Single Voice

V
iv had enjoyed herself the last few days. It had been fun helping out at the store, doing things she hadn’t done in years. And the work at the library brought out an optimism and community enthusiasm that she’d almost forgotten. It was even better to have Mr. Dewey accompanying her. The little dog made friends wherever he went and his cheerfulness goaded smiles from the tired faces of the workers as easily as the senior citizens on their short respite from the nursing home.

But it was her friend, Edna, who really brought it all home to her.

“I like the looks of that,” she said, indicating D.J. on Scott’s arm.

Viv nodded.

“I’ve never seen a more smitten couple. They both look like they can hardly wait to rip their clothes off.”

“Let’s hope they wait until they get home,” Viv teased.

“Ah...I remember those days.”

Viv did, too.

“So no more time spent worrying about Scott,” Edna told her. “Now you’ve got to see what you can learn to enjoy about freedom and independence.”

Was that what she was supposed to do?

No. That was definitely not it. She had already decided. She wanted to be with John. There was nothing, nothing left for her here. That had been the entire plan. Once Scott was settled, she was free to...to do what John undoubtedly intended for her to do. There were no more tasks to be completed, no more lessons to be learned. She was free to go to him. And that
was
what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Her certainty on the subject was wavering. There had been no more dreams. No more messages from the other side. He had not come to her again. That image of him, the young, strong image had become the one to linger in her memory, blotting out the persistent recall of his emaciated body lying cold against white sheets.

The youthful visage was like a gift, one that was so much easier to live with. But she’d decided that she didn’t want to live. That’s what she’d decided. Once Scott was settled, she was free to go.

She arrived back home questioning her own resolve. Was she losing her nerve? In the last few busy weeks had she inexplicably begun to think long-term? She had no long-term plan. Her plan was to be gone.

Edna was right. Scott and D.J. were far enough along that they were bound to find happiness together. If she waited longer, it was an artificial delay. Certainly today was not the best time, but there would never be a best time. If she put it off...

Viv refused to allow herself to finish the thought. She would not put it off. In fact, she would do it now.

She took Mr. Dewey off his leash, set her purse down on the kitchen counter and walked straight through to her husband’s office. She pulled out the secreted cooler filled with bad cans and carried it to the kitchen. The dog followed close at her heels.

Carefully she unloaded the bulging canned goods into the sink. Several had already broken open.

“I was thinking,” she told Mr. Dewey. “To fix a pot of stew. I have so many varied ingredients, a stew might work. But now I’m leaning toward a potpie. I used to make potpie for John and he loved it.”

The dog continued to eye her curiously.

“Look at this cream of chicken,” she said, and held up the misshapen can. Something brown was growing on the side of it. “Is that the scariest, nastiest-looking thing you have ever seen. Eww, totally disgusting.”

She set it on the side.

“The good news about botulism,” she said, “is that you can’t taste a thing. I’m sure it’s not the most pleasant way to die. But it’s hardly the worst. Most people assume it’s like food poisoning. That you get sick to your stomach and vomit yourself to death. That is absolutely wrong. It doesn’t work that fast and if you’re throwing up, you get rid of it and it doesn’t sicken you at all.”

A tin of carrots was so rounded on the bottom it wouldn’t stand. She laid it next to the cream of chicken.

“Botulism bacteria attacks the nervous system and paralyses you,” she explained. “They say the first thing you lose is the ability to speak. That seems like a plus. Even if I were to change my mind, I won’t be able to call for help.”

Viv moved to the counter across the kitchen. She dug through her utensil drawer until she found her pastry blender. Then she measured out the flour and expertly cut the shortening into it. Mr. Dewey stayed close beside her.

She began humming happily to herself. It had been a long time since she’d made a piecrust.
I should do this more often
, she thought to herself. And then laughed aloud at her own inability to hold a grasp of her actions.

Suicide was her positive step forward. She had considered it early on. She understood about those women throwing themselves upon a funeral pyre. Without John, her life was over. She wanted it to be over. And the wonderful thing about her plan was that no one would ever suspect what she had done. An old lady found dead in her bed would be a shock. But it was not as if she were taking a pistol out of the bedside table.

She rolled out the dough until it was thin enough to be flaky and large enough to be double the dish. She gently eased the bottom crust into place. Then let it rest as she put together the filling.

Peas and potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, white beans and sauerkraut. She laughed at the combination. Never in the history of potpies had such been brought together. She pulled her electric can opener out of its cubby and put it to work.

The first can spewed its contents halfway across the room.

Mr. Dewey barked at it.

“Let the fireworks begin!” Viv joked.

With several spews, a few fizzles and a share of drama-free openings, she managed to get all of her interesting potpie ingredients mixed together. She stirred it, but didn’t cook it. She assumed that the less heat on the bacteria, the better.

“I feel like a witch,” she told Mr. Dewey. “All it needs is an eye of newt and I could probably turn my Mini Cooper into a purple cabbage.”

She poured the filling into the shell and then covered it with the top crust. She sealed the edges together and crimped them prettily, the way her mother had taught her a half century earlier. A few slits cut in the top would allow steam to escape. She looked at her work and smiled. It looked as nice as any she’d ever made.

“Who could imagine that? I’ve never even heard of a potpie with sauerkraut. It’s too bad there’s no time to leave the recipe in my will.”

She laughed aloud at that small excuse for a joke.

“I suppose there really is time,” she admitted. “It’s six to twelve hours before the symptoms take effect. I could just write sauerkraut potpie on a slip of paper and stick it in my recipe box. Eventually D.J. or Leanne or somebody would find it. Right?”

Somehow that didn’t seem like enough. It was a good hint, but she should probably scribble out the entire recipe. Of course, without her to recommend it, no one might ever even give it a shot.

“That’s probably why I’ve never heard of it before,” she told the dog. “All of the past consumers of it were probably busy committing suicide, as well.”

She put her potpie in the hot oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.

“Now we have to clean up. Can’t leave a shred of evidence.”

She poured out and rinsed out all of the leftover “bad cans” and washed out the cooler for good measure. She cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down all the surfaces with anti-bacterial soap. She wanted botulism, but she certainly didn’t want anyone else to get it. She flattened all the misshapen cans to disguise their issues and distributed them thoughout the recycling bin, so they would appear unsuspicious.

A flash of headlights let her know Scott and D.J. were home.

“Yes,” she told Mr. Dewey. “This will be their home. Oh, I know that Scott likes his new place, but once I’m gone it will make more sense to move in here. They can reopen the upper floor and make this the family house again.” She glanced down at the little dog. “It will be perfect for you, I promise,” she told him. “And wait until they fill it with little children for you to play with.”

She liked the thought of that. The image of Scott and D.J. setting up their life here, recreating the happiness that she had shared with John.

There was a momentary pang of regret that neither of them would see it, but she pushed it away.

The oven timer rang like the toll of a bell. Viv looked around her kitchen with confidence that all her tracks had been adequately covered.

Her creation came out golden brown and smelling like heaven itself. She left it on the counter to cool as she set the table.

For this special occasion, she set a place for herself in the dining room, using her grandmother’s revered and fragile bone china.

“Thanksgiving, Christmas and suicide,” she quipped to the dog. She was amusing and enjoying herself.

The beautiful pie looked even better atop the white tablecloth, with a sterling silver serving spoon at the ready. She’d chilled a bottle of Chenin Blanc and poured herself a generous portion in a champagne flute for a bit more pizzazz. Lit candles, cloth napkin, it was all quite lovely. And quite lonely.

She went to the stairs pantry and found the dog treats. She put two on a dinner plate.

She smiled at her lovely dinner table. It was truly fit for the occasion. Unfortunately she was not at all hungry.

She’d eaten barbecue with everyone else when she was still at the library. That had probably been a bad idea.

Momentarily she thought she should sit down and force herself to eat it. That was the best way to keep second thoughts at bay. Still, she wanted her last meal to be pleasant. There was nothing pleasant about eating when she wasn’t hungry.

“How about we watch a movie,” she suggested to Mr. Dewey. “Then afterward we can enjoy a midnight supper.”

The dog did not reply, but he followed at her heels as she went to the family room.

Viv flipped through the collection of DVDs until she found the aging epic that she wanted. She held up
Titanic
for Mr. Dewey’s inspection.

“Kate Winslet. Leonardo DiCaprio. Everybody’s favorite.”

He seemed agreeable enough.

She put the disc in the player and settled in on the couch, the ball of black fur snuggled up beside her.

Viv had seen the movie a half dozen times. There was a lot to recommend it. Fabulous setting. Incredible costumes. Thrilling drama. Viv liked the scene when Rose jumped out of the lifeboat, more desperate to be with Jack than to be saved. But the young people were still trying to live, trying to survive. They were fighting desperately for a future together.

Viv felt too old for the fight and too tired to try to swim. Her favorite character was Mrs. Straus, the wife of a multimillionaire merchant who chose to stay onboard with her husband. Viv waited anxiously for the brief scene of the two of them, side by side in their stateroom bed, holding each other, facing death warm in each other’s arms as the freezing water engulfed them.

Yes, love to the last, to the very last and together.

Viv retrieved a tissue to wipe the tears from her eyes. Deliberately she tried to ignore the admonitions of Unsinkable Molly Brown. Some lives were not worth living. Sometimes there was no reason to try to carry on.

She absently patted the companion beside her. He was not there. She looked down at the couch, the floor, she scanned the room. Mr. Dewey was not there. Surprising. He seemed to enjoy staying right by her side.

She heard something clatter in the dining room. Getting up, she walked in there.

“Mr. Dewey?”

The dog was inexplicably standing on the dining room table. He never got up on the furniture like that. There was a mess of food in the fur of his muzzle as he stood over the plate of chicken potpie.

For one long moment, Viv took in the scene in disbelief. The middle of her suicide meal was missing. With a little cry of horror, she grabbed the dog in her arms and tried to clean out his mouth.

“Why did you do it? You don’t eat table scraps. You don’t like people food!”

She glanced at the plate she’d set for him across from her own. The two doggie treats, his favorites, were left untouched.

“Why? Why?”

She carried him to kitchen and set him in the sink while she rifled like a crazy person through the cabinet. She finally found what she was looking for, a round box of ordinary table salt.

She quickly poured a handful into her palm. Then holding Mr. Dewey tightly against her body, she forced the white crystals down his throat. He struggled against her, but he was small and she was large.

The poor little dog began hacking and gagging immediately.

“Why did you do it?” she asked him, as tears began coursing down her cheeks. “You don’t like people food. Why would you do it?”

It was hardly a moment before he began vomiting in earnest. His whole body heaved reflexively as the bitter meal was forced out of him.

“Why did you do it?” she asked him again and again. “You don’t like table scraps. You already had your dog food and your treats were right there on the plate. You never eat table food. And you never get on the table. If I’d thought there was any chance of you getting to that pie, I would have put it back in the oven.”

Mr. Dewey was too sick to answer. He vomited again and again.

She was beginning to feel nauseated herself. Shocked and horrified at what might have happened to this small innocent creature who had only tried to be a friend to her.

They both heaved miserably for several minutes. In the aftermath, Viv was too exhausted to stand anymore, she slid down the cabinet door to sit on the kitchen floor.

Mr. Dewey was looking better. Moving around more like himself. He came up beside her, putting his front paws up on her knee and looking at her with love.

Viv looked back.

“You didn’t want to be left, did you? You didn’t want to have to be the one to carry on by yourself. But you see, it wouldn’t make me happy for you to give up your life, just because I gave up mine.”

Tears blinded her, as she rubbed the thick black fur at the little dog’s neck.

“You have to go on. I want you to go on. I wouldn’t want to leave if I thought you weren’t going to have your life.”