Aux Grands Maux, Les Grands Remedes

One of my favorites, written on one of my more darker days.

 A perfect day to die thought Remedios inhaling with a rasp. He sat quietly at his small reddish cherry table in the living room corner with a few tattered pictures propped up against the wall facing him. A small brown bottle sat on the corner. During uncounted minutes, the sun blossomed from red to orange to yellow. Remedios scanned the eastward horizon, his tired staring eyes welling from the sun’s glare. His wrinkled and red-brown spotted flesh, thin white hair, and clouded eyes had witnessed many beautiful sunrises in his protracted and prolific life. He had also witnessed death several times firsthand, but today he thought of his own, not those of others, for today he was ready. It is another perfect day to die.

A duo of vultures soared into his vision riding on the morning’s first up-drafting breath in a glide celebrating the new day. In the old days, Remedios surmised, the airborne bone-pickers would hover over him and patiently wait until he ripened, seasoned properly for their primordial-acquired taste, but these days, the only meals they get are road kill.

The buttery aroma of fried eggs intruded on his dying contemplation as his wife Ursula pattered about with breakfast in the kitchen. Just then, he decidedly put off dying until later that morning, reinforced by a grumble from his saggy belly. The metallic clink of spatula against fry pan’s bottom convinced him that a satiated stomach was essential for a proper death.

            “Rem. Breakfast is almost ready. Take out the garbage before the truck comes, then wash your hands and come sit down.”

Today, he did not perceive her normal cheerful tone and customary mutter that he always assumed she thought he did not hear.

            After the chore, he sat down to breakfast, and with damp fingers, he tucked the fringe-edged napkin into his shirt collar. Ursula carefully slid two fried eggs, sunny side up of course, onto his shiny white porcelain plate between the butterfly of perfectly cut and positioned toast. His Ursula proved a perfectionist in many ways.

            “Perfect, my dear. Like you, like always, like today.”

Remedios glanced across the small plastic sheet-covered table as she sat down. Ursula didn’t smile and had just one slice of toast on her plate.

“Not hungry?”

“No,” Ursula replied. “And please don’t bring up your business about dying again. I’m not up for it today.”

Remedios watched as she gripped and twisted her shoulder and leaned back into her chair. She appeared uncomfortable, but he averted his eyes when he saw she noticed his scrutiny. Twenty-three years his junior, she usually had that middle-aged vigor that Remedios had lost long ago. She was still a looker, but today, she was obviously under pain.

“Can I get you anything? You seem ah, unhappy, uncomfortable,” he said pointing out her actions with his fork.

“No, I’m not unhappy just a little heartburn or something. I’m fine.” 

She took a noiseless bite of her toast. He noticed she chewed on the bite a long time before swallowing. Ursula suddenly wavered in her chair, slowly one way and then the other. Remedios saw her eyes roll up into her head before she clamped them shut in intense pain. Her body listed to the side, her chair squawked as it tipped over, and on the way down her chin struck the table edge with a resounding crack that rattled Remedios’ silverware. She slumped to the floor out of sight. He saw his runny egg yolks, just the way he liked them, wiggle on his plate.

“Ursula.” Remedios managed as he fell out of his own chair to his knees in reaction.

 He rolled clumsily to his hands and knees and clambered under the table to Ursula. He sat down on the cool, rose-blossomed linoleum floor and turned her ashen face upwards. She seems awfully heavy, he thought.

“Ursula,” he repeated, squeezed her jaw and shook her. He felt for a pulse and found none. “Come on, Ursula. I’m the one going today, not you; you are too young for this nonsense.”

Awkwardly, he kissed her and tried blowing into her mouth, but the breath just blew out of her nose with a snort. With the palm of one hand, he pushed on her chest seven, eight, nine times, and checked her pulse but felt nothing.

“Ursula, no please.” He pleaded. “Come on, Ursula.” He patted each cheek.

Remedios positioned one foot carefully into place under his body and with a struggle pushed himself up. Ursula’s head fell from his lap and thumped on the floor, hard and heavy not unlike when moving furniture, he thought looking down into her expressionless, dead face. He brought his other leg under his weight and locked his legs up into place. His knees creaked in protest while stepping over the prostrate body.

He reached for the telephone and dialed 9-1-1. The operator was professional and direct. He promised that the ambulance would arrive in minutes.

 “Did you perform CPR?” The operator asked.

“I tried.”

“Any pulse?”

“No.”    

“Keep trying CPR.”

“I tried. She’s dead. I was supposed to die today.”

Remedios looked out the window and a third vulture had joined the other two to climb and soar on the wind. He remembered that he did not enjoy witnessing the deaths of his wives.  

“Keep trying CPR until the ambulance comes,” the operator said, but Remedios had already set the phone down.

Slowly, he got down on his hands and knees again and kissed Ursula on the cheek.

“Goodbye, my dear. Ride the breeze of life extinguished with the others and meet your maker.”       

            Soon, the ambulance arrived with siren whining down and lights flashing in the window. Remedios sat quietly at his small table by the window when the EMT’s came rushing into his old house. Silently, he pointed to the kitchen. As they attended Ursula’s abandoned body, Remedios laid his favorite pictures before him that reflected his memories, faded, torn"fragmented. A framed picture of his parents’ wedding in Mexico, the picture of him at his christening, pictures of his three weddings, and the newest, a group photo of his twenty-seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren. He turned over the black and white christening picture.

             “Aux grands maux, les grands remedes,” his long dead mother had written in her own hand, “Extraordinary evils, extraordinary remedies,” he translated. He never had the chance to ask mother her intention of the phrase, for she had died much too young. He pondered the phrase as they carried the empty body out, and Remedios supposed there is no evil like death, and tomorrow, perhaps, is always the better day to die.

From the brown bottle, Remedios took a sip of the vile potion his father had concocted a very long time ago. He grimaced as he shook the bottle. It was getting low, and about time to see his father and brew up some more.    

 

 

 

Reviews

[wondering]

I can put myself in the rooma nd be there, picturing them in my mind is so easy, is it a good day to die? hmmmm

[mjmccabe]

This is an awesome tale and there is enough left in the air for reader to decipher. Love the style and the dark, mysterious path it follows. Good read, thanks!