Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (89 page)

Once
ingested, this unpronounceable drug set off a series of chemical reactions that
slowly paralyzed the diaphragm. The: victim becomes drowsy, falls asleep and
suddenly ceases breathing. Death follows in two to three hours.

Investigators
said that since the pellet had no taste, it gave no warning of its lethal
properties. As it was later metabolized into a number of harmless by-products,
even after death, it was virtually untraceable, unless one knew what to look
for.

Naturally,
consumer advocates were outraged, and the FDA was ordering Mullen’s African
Violet Vitamins off the market. An agency spokesman refused to speculate about
other deaths, saying only that he found it hard to believe any responsible
adult would take plant vitamins.

I put
the paper down and took a long sip of coffee. After ten years of disappointing
books and toiletry items, Mother was finally going to get the kind of Christmas
present she’d always dreamed of — the biggest funeral this town had ever seen.

About
two, I made my run to the flower shop across town. The entrance to the shopping
mall was backed up for two blocks, and hordes of last minute shoppers were
everywhere. Everywhere, that is, but Eldon Stillwell’s forgotten white frame
shop across the street.

There
everything was predictably quiet. Only a splattering of red poinsettias
awaiting purchase gave any sense of time.

I
looked around casually and finally selected an unexceptional specimen from the
shelf of African violets.

“How’s
the old lady?” Eldon wanted to know as I set the plant on the chipped linoleum
counter.

“Good
as can be expected,” I answered safely.

The
long, porous face nodded as the purchase was rung up.

“You
know,” I began innocently, “we’ve had such rotten luck lately with African
violets. I wonder if there isn’t some sort of plant food or fertilizer you
might recommend.”

“Look
over there,” he said, indicating a dusty shelf in the back of the room.

I went
over and picked up the yellowed carton of Mullen’s Vitamins I had spotted
earlier.

And
that was that.

It had
hardly been much of a calculated risk. Eldon Stillwell, of uncertain health and
less certain store hours, lived in the backwater of human events. It was common
knowledge that he had not so much as glanced at a paper since that unfortunate
Mr. Nixon was hounded out of office by lackeys of the Left Wing Press.

The
chances of his seeing the article were nonexistent. And who would tell him? I’ll
bet I was the only other person in the store all day.

The
next challenge was getting the stuff into Mother’s evening milk. I’d have to
distract Mrs. Fletcher, who always prepared it. Maybe I could get her out of
the room by pretending to hear Mother call. Maybe somebody at the door.

Then a
stroke of genius. I’d tell her I’d read there was a Lawrence Welk special on
the TV. She wouldn’t be able to get at the set fast enough. And I’d have the
milk all to myself.

The
African violet, box, receipt and bag went into the trash barrel in the garage,
stuffed down on the bottom beneath the garbage. The tube of pellets went into
my pocket.

So
far, so good.

“Oh,
am I glad to see you,” Molly began, as I came in the back door to the kitchen. “Dr.
Snavely called. He won’t be able to come over until early evening. Morris
Murchison’s had another heart attack. He’s gone over to the hospital with him.”

“That’s
too bad,” I answered vaguely.

“You
better believe it,” she huffed, waving a spatula in the air. “Your mother had a
fit when I told her. One thing she’s never been able to understand is other
people getting sick when she’s not feeling well.”

She
was waving the spatula all over the place. “Why, when she found out Morris
Murcheson was taking Dr. Snavely away from her, I thought she’d go over there
and finish him off herself.”

“Now,
Mother’s not like that,” I said in my best Jimmy Stewart voice.

“You
go up and talk to her. I got better things to do than go up and down stairs all
day. Why, if I had any sense left in me, I’d leave right now!”

The
spatula came down with a wallop against the wooden table.

Ten
years ago Mary Margaret Livesey made the mistake of taking herself seriously.
She quit and went to work for a relentlessly bland couple named Cerillo who’d
come to town to manage the local RCA plant. That lasted two months. When she
discovered this distressingly sensible couple would give her nothing to
complain about, she came back claiming “mother needed her.”

Mother
never needed anyone. Except, perhaps, for an occasional odd job.

Morris
Murchison’s heart provided a minor delay, but it just meant more time for
careful planning. Another hour or two wouldn’t matter.

By six
o’clock, the minor delay had become a major inconvenience. I was nervous,
excited and impatient to act. Anticipation had overwhelmed me.

I
tried several things to distract my thinking. None of them worked.

The
wait was driving me crazy. Dr. Snavely should have come and gone long ago.

By
seven o’clock my nerves were shot. I needed a couple of drinks to settle
myself. Still no doctor.

I
thought of trying to get him on the phone. But, no, that was not good. No need
to seem impatient or overwrought on the phone. Someone might notice, and wonder
later on.

“I’m
going now,” Molly announced, appearing in the doorway dressed like Sir Edmund
Hilary. The metal clips on her boots had rattled noisily as she clomped across
the floor. “Hope he gets here soon. That Fletcher woman’s been here an hour and
your mother’s already made a meal out of her.”

She
finished tying her scarf and stomped to the front door.

“Well,
good night. See you, Monday,” she called.

I
watched her go down the front walk to her car. Powdery flakes were falling into
gusts of wind that danced them across the frozen ground and slammed them into
trees and houses. Another cold night. I wouldn’t miss it in New York.

I
looked at the clock again and then at my hands. Nothing much I could do but fix
myself another drink.

After
three and a half hours of television I couldn’t begin to remember as I was
seeing it, I got up from the chair and looked out the window again. Snow was
coming down in truckloads.

The
old buzzard was not coming. His devotion to my mother’s frequent calls was one
of the beautiful things in life. But beauty must fade, and this was the night
to do it.

Finally,
I could not wait any longer. I put my hand in my pocket, gripped the bottle and
headed for the stairs.

Mrs.
Fletcher met me at the top, flitting round like a bird whose worm has been
stolen.

“Oh,
she’s terrible, just terrible tonight.”

I
pushed past her and went into the room.

“Where’s
Dr. Snavely,” Mother wanted to know, as though I had somehow hidden him.

“Still
at the hospital with Morris Murcheson.”

“Oh,
come now, no one really expects me to believe that. That old faker doesn’t have
a heart to attack. They’re probably both over at the Chesterton Club playing
cards right now.”

“Would
you like to call over there and find out?” I asked boldly, fingering the bottle
in my pocket.

“Absolutely
not! I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m calling all over the
county for him.”

She
looked at me indignantly, and pouted, “Doesn’t he realize how serious my
condition could be?”

“Mother,
for God’s sakes. I’m sure he’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

She
impaled me with a glance.

“I
could be dead by morning. I could be dead now for all he knows. Or cares.”

I
could see this was getting nowhere.

I
signaled to Mrs. Fletcher that it was time for Mother’s milk. I was un-remarkably
calm and controlled. And Mother sensed it.

Tears
appeared in her eyes. Her body relaxed. There was no fight now.

“It’s
so terrible to get old,” she whined pathetically. “So terrible. And you’ve been
such a comfort to me. So unselfish.”

She
reached out and took me in her arms, kissing and caressing my face, holding me
close to her body. I felt sorry for her. Genuinely sorry. But it was only the
knowledge that she would never inflict this on me again that made it bearable.

“Here
we are,” chirped Mrs. Fletcher brightly, coming into the room. I thought she
was referring to the glass of milk in her hand, until I saw the desiccated
Ghost of Medicine Past file in behind her.

“About
time,” Mother snapped at him. “Hope we didn’t interrupt a winning streak.”

Snavely
smiled cheerily and set his bag on a chair.

I
grabbed the milk and nudged Mrs. Fletcher from the room.

Dr.
Snavely’s arrival had caught me off guard. I realized how reckless I had been.
In the end, it would probably work to my advantage. He could say at the funeral
he had thought it was another minor illness. Another false alarm. Maybe he hadn’t
taken her complaints seriously enough.

I took
the milk back to the kitchen on the pretext of keeping it hot. Mrs. Fletcher
returned to the safety of the sitting room and her copy of
Locked Doors.

I
watched carefully as I dropped each pellet into the glass. If one had killed a
child, all twelve should do nicely for Mother.

I
watched as they sank slowly below the white surface, dissolving slowly until
the spoon detected nothing at the bottom.

I
checked again. No telltale sediment. Nothing on the sides. No taste. No smell.
And soon, no Mother.

A door
banged loudly upstairs. Mother had made short work of Dr. Snavely.

“Well,”
he said, arching his scrawny white eyebrows as I met him on the stairs, “she’s
having a few extra beats. Nothing serious, mind you. Probably just excitement,
but I’ll leave instructions with Mrs. Fletcher just in case.”

“Thanks,
that will make me feel a lot better. She just didn’t seem like herself today.”

He
looked back at me in momentary disbelief, and then scrambled down the wooden
stairs with the nurse in full retreat.

I
looked at the glass again. It looked perfectly harmless. There was a stillness
in the house, now, broken only by the whispered voices in the foyer.

Mother
was still fuming in her bed. “In the morning, I want you to call over to the
hospital and see if Dr. Snavely was there or not. I will not be made a fool of.”

“Yes,
mother,” I murmured, setting the glass beside the bed.

I
started straightening out the blankets and fluffing up the pillows. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw her take the glass in hand and bring it closer.

“I
might have died,” she said, resting it in her hands for a moment.

I was
trying not to look directly at the glass.

“I
might have died waiting for that man,” she repeated incredulously. The glass
inched closer to her mouth.

“Now
don’t think about it. Just try and get a good night’s sleep,” I said, nervously
trying to soothe her.

She
put the glass down without drinking. “How can I get a good night’s sleep knowing
that a man I have trusted for years could care so little for my well-being.”

I
thought I was going to start screaming at her. She couldn’t do this to me now.

She
brought the glass back up to her lips and stopped short, looking into it.

My
heart stopped beating.

“It’s
not warm enough. Cold milk promotes indigestion.”

But
she put the glass to her lips and drained the contents. As the white liquid
disappeared I felt only relief. Total relief.

I took
the empty glass and watched her lie back and close her eyes. This is how I
would find her in the morning. Sleeping peacefully. Forever.