Settling In

Mr. Albert died a week later, surrounded by family. Linda officiated his death. She rested her fingers on his wrist while she watched his heart rate grow smaller… and smaller… on the monitor until the digital line became still, the break cruising across with the tell-tale hum of his passing. Tears were shed all around. Linda sighed compassionately as she released his pulse-oximetry from his forefinger and turned the monitor off.

The silence, to Mr. Albert’s family members, was reverent. To Linda, it was unaffecting. Mr. Albert’s widow grabbed her round frame in a delicate collapse of an embrace. Linda inhaled deeply, taking in her scent.

My husband was diabetic. Sometimes when we argued, I poured a half-cup of sugar into his bourbon glass.

Linda smiled politely into her neck and patted her back. The Widow Stewald’s sins would only make her hungrier throughout the day. Quiet, but delicious; like caramel. The rest of Mr. Albert’s family shuffled towards her, either hugging her or shaking her hand.

She was passed out, but I only fingered her. And it was only for a second.

That homeless guy will never know that that beer bottle I gave him was full of my piss.

I actually do know how my pet hamster ended up in the boiling pot of soup.

Linda called down to the office and gave them the go-ahead to call the funeral home to pick up the body, then she quickly slipped out of the room. The head nurse was waiting for her in the hallway.

“Go home, Linda,” she ordered, as she firmly squeezed Linda’s heavy arm. “I’ll take it from here.”

I’ve been hinting to the staff that you’ve been snatching up the patients’ meals when, in actuality, I’ve been sneaking some out to give to one of the janitors to help feed her children.

Linda nodded and swallowed the saliva pooling inside of her mouth.

Linda moved to the side to let the head nurse pass and watched her slip into Mr. Albert’s room. Afterward, she shuffled on to the breakroom, collected her things, clocked out, made the mundane trip across the stretch of parking lot and climbed into her 96’ Toyota Altima, a gift from the cumulative monetary inheritances she had built up from the number of lonely prior patients charged in her care. She drove back to her modest home of which she had rented for the foreseeable future, of which the door she had painted red. Once she had changed clothes and settled, the flat-screen TV put on Jeopardy and rusted tea kettle whistling (she didn’t drink; not in the anatomical sense) steam of chamomile and lavender, she prepared an egg sandwich, poured a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and took a tray upstairs.

She crossed the dark, barren hallway, stopped at the second to last door on the left and gave a succession of sharp knocks on the door.

“Kristian, baby, I’m home. I got ya lunch here.”

With a heave, she crouched down and placed the tray on the floor in front of it. She reached forward and pushed at the middle-bottom of the door which suddenly sprung open, like a doggie-door. The room inside was bright; the afternoon sun shone against the fluffy carpet and antique wooden furniture. She pushed the tray through the mini-door and, from the space between the rim of the orange juice glass and the right corner of the mini-door, she saw something scuttle from a tattered sunbed towards the tray. She climbed back up, slapping her meaty hands on her knees as leverage, and walked back downstairs to do chores. The mini-door slowly closed shut behind her.

“Love that boy,” Linda muttered.

She stepped to the front door. She had forgotten to check the mailbox. She turned the knob and swung it open. A Jehovah’s Witness, knuckles raised as he was ready to knock on her door, jumped back, startled, and bumped into his partner who was standing behind him.

Linda let out a surprised guffaw as she stepped forward and grabbed the boy’s arm.

“I’m sorry, baby! Oh, you scared me jus’ as much as I scared you nah.”

The Witness in front modestly put a hand to his huffing chest, an entertained grin stretched across his face.

“No, no. I’m sorry. You aren’t about to leave are you?” He stepped aside to give her room to pass. Linda stood where she was.

“Naw, naw, baby. I was just about to get the mail.” she stepped back aside and ushered them in. “Come on, nah. Whatchu want he’a?”

The Jehovah’s Witnesses graciously stepped inside and pressed against each other compact in the flat square of doorway tile.

“Do you want us to take our shoes off, ma’am?”

Linda nodded. “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

The Jehovah’s Witnesses bent over and unlaced their shoestrings as Linda moved to the three-set couch and tossed aside the unread newspapers and junk mail that lay on the cushions. The Jehovah’s Witnesses walked over and gingerly sat down, backs straight so that they hardly pressed against the frame cushions. Linda walked towards the kitchen and turned back towards them.

“Y’all want some tea? I got some just finished boilin’ on the stove.”

The first Jehovah’s Witness tapped his partner on the arm.

“Yeah?”

The other boy nodded. His blonde hair flopped around his ears. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Linda wobbled into the kitchen and prepared a tray. She came back in, tray in hand, and set it down on the small coffee table in front of the couch. She slumped down beside the boys and motioned lazily with her hand.

“Help yourselves. I got shuga, cream, whateva you need, baby.”

The Jehovah’s Witnesses bent forward to collect their cups and prepared their tea.

“Thank you, ma’am. Ahh…” The second boy gulped as he stirred some cream into his cup. “So  you’re probably wondering what we’re doing here,” he began, obviously rehearsed.

“Jehovah’s Witnesses?” Linda grunted. She leaned over and pulled open the drawer in the lampstand beside her.

“Yes,” the second one continued, amused. “Well, my name’s Brother Michael and this is Brother Thomas.”

Brother Thomas nodded. He was fairly handsome; slim, with slicked back dirty-brown hair, pouted lips and muddy-green eyes.

Linda leaned forward and placed a small square of flat rice paper, a ball of weed and a small grinder in front of her.

“Linda,” she nodded back.

Brother Michael paused.

“I’m listening,” Linda intoned as she prepared her joint.

“Well, ah…”

Brother Thomas turned towards Brother Michael and gave him an encouraging wink. Linda smiled as she inhaled her lit joint.

“Don’t worry, baby. You ain’t gon’ get no contact high, oh no, honey. Not with this he’a,” Linda assured him. The smoke she blew in their direction was heavy and curled in strings, similar to marijuana smoke, but it smelled different - like dry basil and sweet fruit. It made Brother Michael imagine that he was sitting in an orchard tree in the middle of Fall.

Brother Thomas spoke. “Brother Michael’s in training.” he laughed. “He’s already doing a great job, though.” Brother Michael smiled modestly as he raised his cup to his lips. “First thing’s first,” he continued, and pivoted towards Linda, hands folded in front of him. “What do you know about God, Linda?”

Linda reclined beside him and took another drag of her joint. “Jehovah specifically, or your kind?”

All three chuckled. Brother Thomas rolled his eyes, which were now sunken and glinting inside of his skull like two rolled balls of aluminum foil. He turned towards Brother Michael and stabbed him in the right eye with the beak that immediately erupted from the middle of his face.