As snow drifted from the dreary morning sky, Stephen folded his newspaper and placed it on the kitchen table next to Susan, his wife of twenty-seven years. He petted his retriever, Roscoe, before making his way up the creaking staircase. He showered and shaved, cursing the disease that had robbed Susan and him of a future. He put on corduroys, a sweatshirt, and thick gray athletic socks. Roscoe plopped down on the throw rug at the foot of the bed, panting as though the journey up the stairs was becoming much too strenuous.
Susan was fifty-four. She was once a vibrant, good-humored soul who loved life. She and Stephen had hosted monthly wine-tastings at their home until she had become too weak. She was an avid tennis player who had won the singles championship four years in a row at their local club. Now she had been reduced to a mixture of ash and bone, residing in a silver urn on the kitchen table.
The thumping of Roscoe’s tail against the throw rug, mixed with the sound of sleet now pounding against the bedroom window, replaced the peace and quiet of the earlier snow. Stephen dreaded the journey that lay before him, but he knew it was something he had to do.
On their wedding day, Stephen had overheard a conversation between Susan and her sister, Grace, which he had kept to himself. He knew Susan loved him and was confident that their marriage would be a success, but he also learned on that day of Susan’s secret wish. And Stephen was determined to fulfill that wish.
With Roscoe in the care of friends, Stephen boarded the train for the three-day journey from Seattle to St. Louis, with Susan’s remains resting comfortably inside his duffle bag. She had been raised in the Midwest and Stephen was bringing her home.
During those light-hearted moments when partners discuss the what-ifs and what-nots of the future, Stephen and Susan had bantered about what to do with each other’s ashes when the time came. Susan had stated she wanted to be cremated and that Stephen could do whatever the hell he wanted to do with her since she was neither a person of faith nor a believer in the afterlife. Stephen had requested that his ashes be spread over his favorite vineyard. He amused himself with the thought that his ashes would add an extra dimension to someone’s wine – a more full-bodied wine, he would joke.
These discussions, however, had taken place long before the onset of Susan’s illness. There were none of these talks after the diagnosis.
After a twenty-hour trek, the train arrived in Sacramento. It then began the fifty-hour journey to Chicago, followed by a four-hour layover, before a six-hour trip brought Stephen and Susan to St. Louis. Stephen was well aware that a plane ride from Seattle to St. Louis would have taken only four hours, but then he would have lost the opportunity to spend these last precious hours with his love. Stephen wished the train ride to never end.
Stephen was met at the station by members of Susan’s family and driven to her childhood home, twenty miles outside the city limits. Stephen caressed the duffle bag in his arms as if he were holding a newborn.
Once at the house, Stephen laid out his plan. Grace recalled the conversation she had had with Susan on the day of the wedding, but wasn’t sure if Susan would still feel the same way after all the years with Stephen. After hours of discussions and debates, it was agreed that Stephen’s opinion was the one that mattered most. That evening, Stephen couldn’t sleep. He spent the night talking to Susan, apologizing, wishing he could have been a hero. He knew he was holding her for the very last time.
In the morning, Stephen drove to the cemetery. There was a chill in the air and a light mist falling when he arrived at his destination – a gravestone. After gathering his senses and clearing his throat, Stephen spoke in his usual quiet manner.
“Hello, Mister Malone. My name is Stephen Walker and I’ve been caring for Susan for the past twenty-seven years. She is the love of my life and I want you to know that I’ve done everything I could to make her happy. And I believe she was happy…until she became sick. Then there was nothing I could do but to love her. And, I assure you, I loved her till the end.
“Susan spoke of you with great admiration. I know she loved and missed you throughout her life. I can only hope I was a worthy substitute. If not for your misfortune, I never would have had the opportunity to share my life with her. I’m returning Susan to you because I feel this is where she belongs and where she would want to be. I trust you will keep her safe.”
With that, Stephen removed the garden spade from his duffle bag and dug a hole into the moistened earth next to where Susan’s late husband lay. Stephen removed the urn from the duffle bag, kissed it, and placed it in the ground. He replaced the dirt, got to his feet, and wiped the mud from the knees of his trousers. Stephen dreaded the journey that lay before him, but he knew it was something he had to do.
Fred Vogel writes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. His words have seen the light of day in Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon.
–Art by Thomas H