When the doorbell rang, she was cleaning up yet another mess Little Johnny made in the kitchen. With a huff and a stay where you are, Katharine grabbed a fresh towel and answered the door wiping her hands, out of breath.
“Mrs. Anderson,” a well-groomed man in a cheap but respectable suit asked. Behind him was a younger female in similar, yet decidedly more feminine, attire.
“Yes. Who’s asking?” Katharine had not yet skipped a beat, nor caught her breath. She spoke as if their presence didn’t matter.
“I spoke with you the other day, Mrs. Anderson. I’m with the Department.”
“I,” Katharine sighed, “I’m busy at the moment. Can’t this wait?”
“Not unless you wish to also wait on any assistance from the Department?”
Had Katharine thought or made time to realize, she would have sniped back at his rhetorical question. As it was, she was in no mood, she had no energy to fight him.
“Fine. Fine. Come in.” She waved them in with a fist full of soggy towel. “I would have cleaned up if I had the time to. As you can see, I’m too busy to do anything but take care of Little Johnny here.”
Something that sounded like a plastic thud before glass breaking sent Katharine bolting for the refrigerator hidden behind the partition between the living room and her kitchen. She stopped, hands on her hips, “For crying out loud, Johnny. What are you doing?” Little Johnny searched for a response but could not remember what he was doing, or why. He just hoped it was not really his fault and only looked that way.
“Mrs. Anderson, if we could…”
“Oh, Hell,” Katharine stuttered as she crouched down to pick up Johnny’s mess. “One thing at a time. One thing at a time. Please. Johnny, what were you doing?” His lips trembled as he sought an answer, or the words for an apology, or remember who he was looking at. Whoever she was, she was not happy. “I told you I would get your milk. Why didn’t you wait like I told you to?”
“Mrs. Anderson,” the man from the Department reiterated.
“What,” she hollered. Little Johnny startled, cringed. The man from the Department cocked an eyebrow as he caught Johnny’s reaction. The man’s presence, however, remained unemotional. “Oh, right. Yes. Okay. Just let me finish cleaning up this mess.” She tried hard to swallow the twinge of resentment bubbling up inside her esophagus. After all, she did love him.
“Susan,” the man from the Department’s demeanor remaining stoic, “Why don’t you take Johnny here and entertain him in the other room while Mrs. Anderson and I talk.” Susan did not speak. She did take Johnny by the hand, refocused his attention, and led him into the living room from which she just came. Johnny dragged feeble milk footprints along with him like a security blanket in tow.
Soaking up the last of the only milk she had money for this week, she stood, her knees popping in the process.
“I’m much too old for this. Especially by myself.”
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Anderson. Please,” the man from the Department pointed to her kitchen table invitingly, “Sit.”
Katharine started toward the table but remembered another mess in the bedroom, a third in the back room, and that unlocked shed door now that Little Johnny found where she hid the keys. She paced in a circle lost as where to start. So much to do.
“Mrs. Anderson. Sit down.”
Still in thought, mumbling under her breath about where she was going to start as soon as these people left, she sat.
The man from the Department leaned in hoping to appear affectionate. It was clear to him that Mrs. Anderson needed it. He also realized what was about to happen, and it needed to happen. “Breathe, Mrs. Anderson. Susan is taking good care of Johnny at the moment. It’s just you and me.” Mrs. Anderson still hyperventilated, speaking under her breath. The man from the Department changed his tone, became stern, louder, “Mrs. Anderson? Look at me.” He placed his hand on hers, to grab her attention and also stop it from shaking feverishly. Mrs. Anderson’s entire head, frizzy gray hair and all, whipped in the direction of the soft touch of her hand. Then she looked up and saw the man, who was staring back at her, but not blankly. So acclimated to empty eyes, a moment of calm came over her.
She began to weep uncontrollably.
This was the part the man from the Department hated the most. All these years, one learns the ins and outs of managing emotions, of building walls with which to brace one self against. For the aging woman, who obviously needed a strong person, a strong anything, to lean on, he quickly re-built that wall as tears threatened to wash it away like the tide to a sandcastle.
More than anything, he hated these moments. Moments of extreme vulnerability for complete strangers, strangers he was there to assist, usually. Vulnerability whisked together with soul piercing silence. Years of experience and just as many years of education informed the man from the Department that this silence was a necessary moment of collecting one’s thoughts. Not his of course, his clients’.
A few pats of his hand on her kitchen-tanned forearm reigned in Mrs. Anderson’s tears enough for her to catch her runaway breath. The man from the Department pulled a tissue from his suit coat pocket, handed it to the sobbing old woman. What he assumed was some form of gratitude leaking from her lips and nose. He cleared his throat, “You’re welcome.”
Several awkwardly loud and unbecoming horn blows into the tissue later, she collected herself enough to realize what she had done. “Oh my, I’m so sorry about that. That’s not like me at all.”
“You needed it, Mrs. Anderson.” Silence.
“It’s just so tough. It never seems to stop. Seven years since my husband left me.” This sparked a retrickling of waterworks. “Seven years I’ve had to deal with this. Alone. Alone! I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried. I’m a God fearin’ woman. Make no mistake about that, young man. ‘That don’t make me perfect.”
“No one’s perfect, Mrs. Anderson.” A quick glance from Mrs. Anderson to her hand with realization that the man from the Department was patting it, he pulled away slowly. She was a strong from-the-Depression woman. He respected that glance. She retook control of herself, but her over exaggerated crow’s feet told him she was still grateful.
“No. No. No body’s perfect. But the good Lord only provides you with what you can handle. He knows I’m tryin’. Lord. Oh, Lord, He knows. I’m comin’ apart at the seams. Look at me. Look at me. I’m an absolute wreck.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Anderson. That’s why we’re here.”
“That’s just it. This is me givin’ up. Oh, if only my husband were here with me. Everything would be just fine.”
“Everything is going to be just fine.”
“Everything would be like it was. I could look into his eyes, see his love for me. What I wouldn’t give to fall asleep in his arms again. Him brushing my hair with hands. Whisperin’ in my ear how much he loved me and how much he hoped I slept well.”
The man from the Department handed her his last tissue.
“Well, those days are gone. Right? Take what we are given. Right? I still have my memories. And, God willing, I’ll take those memories to my grave.”
She stood, brushed off the last shards of her lack of control from her blouse.
“It’s time, Mrs. Anderson. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” her voice cracked briefly before she gave a hearty clearing of her throat. “I wanna say G’bye to my sweet Johnny though.”
“I expect nothing less.”
The two of them walked to the living room, the same living room where they shared so many memories. Those memories would be no more. Her stomach tightened as part of her realized this was her weakness causing her to lose Johnny. The rest of her felt relief. Relief from the last seven years of turmoil, relief for Johnny as he will have the proper care he deserves and needs. The care she so desperately tried to provide, and thought she succeeded in providing for a time.
She leaned in and pecked Johnny on the cheek. She brushed off Johnny’s shoulders, stepped back to see if he was in order. He was in as much order as he could be. It was hard, but she looked into Johnny’s blank eyes, “Oh, sweetie. Oh, my Little Johnny. I love you so much. I tried. I really did.”
The man from the Department chocked back those same wall weathering tears.
“It ain’t fair to you, Johnny. I’ve been a wreck lately. It ain’t fair I take it out on you like that. Ain’t your fault after all. You’ll be happy at least.” She backed away.
“Okay, then.”
“Susan,” was all the man from the Department said. Susan acted accordingly helping Johnny out the door and to the waiting car.
“You can still see him whenever you wish, you realize. This isn’t really Good Bye.” Too chocked to verbalize anything, she nodded a shaky nod. He hurried out the door to soften the blow for Mrs. Anderson but also for his own benefit.
Later that night, Katharine lay in bed alone, just like the last seven years. But tonight was different, there was a quiet in the air around her bed. She felt relief. Still she couldn’t help but wonder if she had made the right choice, if this was best for her Johnny. She spun her wedding band in place on her finger praying, wherever he may be, that her husband was happy. A pang in her chest told her he was, that he was thinking of her at that very moment, as hard as that was to believe.
Across town, at that same moment, Susan helps Johnny into his night attire. She brushes his teeth, helps him into bed. And, as Susan tucks him in, his blank yet friendly stare peers straight through her, “What are you thinking about, Johnny?” With no response, she finishes tucking Johnny in. Her finger catches something hard, metallic. Unraveling the sheets around his left hand, she pulls off a wedding band, placing it on the nightstand. She wishes Johnny sweet dreams as she turns out the light.