The Intervention
By Marjorie Drake
The little garden fences now protect weeds. The wires, twisted and rusty, collapse in places, and lie on the ground. Inside, the faded red linoleum in the kitchen is lifting up at the seams. Toothpaste is smeared on the sink, dust motes float in shafts of light and settle on the coffee table and bookshelves.
He forgets to turn on the lights sometimes. Dusk darkens the living room while he sits in front of the television, in the worn leather chair that’s always been his chair. Almost a year has passed, and their bedroom remains unchanged: Her clothes on the left side of the closet, his on the right; the small jewelry chest on the bureau next to a yellow box of Jean Nate powder. He still sleeps on the left side of the bed; making the bed would be easy in the morning, the right side still unrumpled. Just pull the blanket and sheet up over the left side, straighten the white bedspread, maybe place the pillows she embroidered with flowers in a pleasing arrangement on top. He doesn’t make the bed.
Nor will he pack up her clothes and jewelry, or change anything at all. Not yet. The only change is incidental, the addition of dirt, the subtraction of order. The flowers die behind the wire fences, and in dry pots around the house.
Everyone agrees. Something must be done. Plans have been made, postponed, re-scheduled. He doesn’t want to move anything. He doesn’t want to move himself. The adult children just want to look away.
The day comes when the guilt outweighs the feeble excuses. The adult children arrive, to empty the closet and bureau drawers, and mark her belongings for disposal. A silver bracelet to a favored granddaughter, a new wool coat to Goodwill, moth-eaten sweaters to the dump...
He sits on the left edge of the bed, looking down at his shoes.
One son removes the little wire fences and mows the grass and weeds. You can almost see the flowers that were there, if you squint and don’t exhale.
THE END