Author's note - This is a work of fiction. The characters are of my own invention and I created them all above the legal age of consent. Also, no animals were harmed during the writing of this story.
***
Allen squinted at the labels on the plastic prescription bottles. Pathetic, he thought. Not a lethal dose of anything in the stubby amber containers. There were a half-dozen Percodans left over from the time he'd caught his finger in the bench grinder. Might be enough to get a buzz. It surely wouldn't kill him.
There were medications for his high blood pressure and equally high cholesterol count. Lots of those left. He hadn't taken any since Donna passed...No! Donna hadn't passed. What a ridiculous phrase. Donna Barnes had died.
He looked up and locked eyes with the haggard face in the mirror.. "Your wife is dead, you sorry fuck," he said aloud.
He opened Donna's side of the medicine cabinet. Some Midol, ibuprofen, the stuff she took for her thyroid condition...Combined with all the others Allen figured he'd have nearly two hundred capsules and tablets. Would they mix in his stomach to produce a poisonous chemical compound? Maybe if he washed them down with a lot of vodka. Was there any liquor in the house?
He emptied all the prescription vials onto a hand towel and dropped the containers into the wicker basket next to the toilet, then gathered the towel into a makeshift pouch. He left the bathroom with more purpose in his stride than he'd felt in weeks.
A thorough search of the kitchen produced a half-empty bottle of sweet Vermouth and a six-pack of beer inexplicably cached in the bread drawer. Allen stared blankly at the aluminum pop-tops for a long moment before he pried a warm can from the plastic ring and shuffled into the dining room. Dropping into a chair, he sipped at the tepid beer and wished he owned a gun.
"And one bullet," he mumbled.
The phone rang and deliberately he turned away from it and looked out through the glass doors that opened onto the patio. He counted a half-dozen rings, and then the phone was silent. Must be Bernie, Allen decided, calling to remind him he was about to lose his job.
Allen's sister always let the phone ring ten times, never nine and never eleven before she gave up, and his mother, a most insistent woman, would subject him to three or four minutes of electronic jangling before she finally hung up and got on with her life. Allen hadn't spoken to either woman since the funeral but he sent daily emails assuring them he was just fine, thank you and so darn busy, but he would call soon, bla, bla, bla...
Should I leave a note?
He supposed he should feel guilty but in fact, he felt nothing beyond a dim sense of curiosity. He tried to recall the gut-wrenching pain of loss and the impotent rage that left fist-sized craters in his walls, but the memory was vague and detached as though it belonged to some one else. He was static in a hollow world. He existed in a vacuum.
He pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the sliding glass door. The woods that marked the north line of his property were green and lush. A lone blue jay squawked from a high limb. There used to be flocks of birds, and squirrels too, but no one tended the backyard feeders anymore and the creatures had moved on to better pickings. Weeds ran riot in Donna's flower beds and the grass was high and ragged and dotted with the bright yellow heads of dandelions.
The backyard had become an eyesore and he couldn't care less. The Wilsons, whose property adjoined on the east side hadn't complained but their place would never make Better Homes and Gardens either. They were Pentecostals who spent all their free time in church or recruiting lost souls or whatever it was that such people do. Beating God's drum must be more fun than mowing grass, Allen figured. More profitable, too. Fucking Jesus freaks.
The girl appeared so suddenly, Allen started and lurched back a step. He was naked beneath his ragged old bathrobe and he hurriedly clutched it around his body and tied the cloth belt. Had he inadvertently exposed himself? The last thing he needed now was a visit from the police. Shit!
The girl didn't seem to be upset. At any rate she wasn't screaming or running away, but was watching him with an earnest, quizzical look. She was young and blonde and very pretty. She flashed a sunny smile and waggled her fingers in a child-like wave.
Christ, now what? he wondered as she came closer. She stopped at the edge of the patio blocks and said, "Hello."
She was more than pretty, Allen saw, she was really quite beautiful. Her hair was a pale gold and curled by nature. The bright ringlets framed a heart-shaped face with blue-grey eyes, an up turned nose and soft, full lips. Where had she come from?
"Hello," she said again. "You must be Mr. Barnes."
He didn't answer but continued to study the girl. Her skin was flawless, practically glowing with the vivaciousness of youth. Delicious curves sculpted her white tee shirt and shorts to show the body of a woman. College kid, Allen thought. Probably selling something.
She raised her voice and took another step in his direction. "Can you hear me?"
"Sorry." Allen unlocked the patio door and slid it open. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Er...what do you want?"
"I don't want anything. I'm just being neighborly."
Neighborly? Allen shot a dark glance at the Wilson home. It would be just like them to send around a gorgeous girl to recruit fools or solicit donations. Sneaky fucking holy-rollers.
"So you're with them?" he asked, pointing at his neighbor's house.
"Yes. Well, just temporarily," she said. "I'm keeping an eye on the place while they're gone."
"Really?" Allen scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. "I've never known them to hire a house-sitter before."
"Oh, I'm not getting paid to do it. We're family." She shrugged and smiled her pretty smile again. "Georgia and Dennis are my aunt and uncle."
"I see. So where are they? Off battling the devil again?"
"You're not a believer." She stated this flatly, neither questioning or accusing.
"No," he said.
"Well, that's all right I guess. Takes all kinds doesn't it?" She stuck out her hand. "My name is Ruth."
Allen nervously shuffled his feet but didn't take her hand. "You don't look like a Ruth."
"It's from the Old Testament. Do you know the story of Ruth?"
He didn't, but he nodded to keep her from reciting it. "Listen, if there's nothing I can do for you I really should be..."
His voice trailed off as he tried to think of something he should be doing besides talking with her. He couldn't very well say she was interrupting his suicide. Then again, maybe that would be just the thing to chase her off.
"I'm very sorry about your wife," she said.
"What? How do you..."
She tilted her pretty head toward the house next door.
"Oh. Right." Christ, couldn't anybody mind their own fucking business anymore?
"You and she were very close."
Allen scowled. "Did my nosy fucking neighbors tell you that, too?"
"You've no reason to be angry with them," she said. "No one told me anything. I can see it in your eyes."
His throat constricted, he looked away.
"Tell me about it," Ruth said.
"No."
"Please. You shouldn't keep so much pain bottled up inside."
He backed away from her. "What the hell do you know about it?"
"I know you're in agony. I know you can't go on like..."
