his yawn. "I'm not feeling so hot myself--maybe I should head home early too. Can't get much accomplished here anyway." I commiserate with him briefly, insincerely, and once I replace the receiver put him out of my mind.
Since my wife is still sleeping and I am feeling somewhat refreshed, I decide to take this opportunity to pick up a few groceries at a nearby convenience store. But when I pull up in front of the building I am surprised to find it closed. I thump the wheel in frustration, cursing its Korean proprietors for choosing this particular day to shirk their responsibilities. Shutting up shop without advance notice to customers hardly constitutes sound business practice and I make a mental note to mention this to them upon their reopening.
Gritting my teeth, I set off once again, knowing full well what my next destination has to be.
I loathe supermarkets. Cavernous, overlit and antiseptic, they possess all the aesthetic characteristics and charm of a barn. Always crowded, always noisy, their aisles clogged by preternatural morons who reduce the checkout lines to behavioral sink-holes as they browse through the tabloids and gossip shamelessly, oblivious to the howling of their distempered brats.
So I am understandably elated to find the parking lot adjacent the nearest mall practically deserted and when its automatic doors whisk me inside doubly pleased to note only a scattering of shoppers as I make my way to the grocery store.
I take full advantage of my good fortune, quickly acquiring all the items on my list and then rolling my cart up to the front where it appears there is only one cashier on duty.
The girl stationed at the check-out--identified as "Kate O." by the nametag pinned to her blouse--takes no notice of me as she rings in my purchases. Her eyes are red-rimmed and downcast and she performs her duties with the smooth, practiced economy of an automaton. She never speaks, accepting my bank card without so much as a word of thanks. I find it all somewhat unsettling and after collecting my goods, hurry toward the exit. I cast one last look back when I reach the door and watch her, standing at her post, frozen and unblinking, a tableau vivant that sends me scurrying outside.
I feel another "spell" coming on as I load the groceries into the trunk and it takes an enormous act of willpower to resist the urge to crawl into the backseat for a restorative nap.
Later that night, while my wife picks and dithers over a dish that I took special pains to prepare, I give her my account of what happened at the supermarket, my narrative liberally sprinkled with adjectives like "bizarre" and
"surreal". Her reaction is one of indifference; she is practically falling asleep between nibbles. I gather up her tray and leave her to her rest.
In the days that follow my energy and stamina completely desert me...to the point that my wife, now totally bedridden, comments on my appearance, telling me--not unkindly, I think--that I look "haggard".
I find myself in the grips of a lassitude so acute that it is all I can do to see to her basic needs and then grope my way over to the sofa, often falling asleep so quickly that I am barely cognizant of having done so. Upon awakening I have absolutely no conception of how much time has passed. Were it not for having to minister to my wife, I doubt that I could find it within me to rouse myself from my makeshift bed and accomplish what little I can on her behalf.
Normal household duties have become a thing of the past. I confess, to my chagrin, that I have taken to eating from cans--out of necessity. The very notion of remaining on my feet long enough to wait for food to warm on the stove--well, it is too much. To her credit, my wife does not complain when I offer her this poor fare. Like me, she does not have much of an appetite; a few teaspoons of cold, watery soup is enough to satisfy her.
It has become obvious to me that in my present state I am no longer capable of providing her with the level of care she requires...and may soon lack the wherewithal to look after myself.
I am unable, however, to reach Galbraith to inform him of this latest development; his answering service is apparently out of order and his home
phone number is unlisted. I am similarly frustrated in my efforts to contact my office in order to secure an indefinite leave of absence.
And then, to my considerable distress, my wife lapses into a deep and seemingly untroubled sleep. Despite all the methods I employ in my attempts to revive her--some, by necessity, quite painful--she does not respond and I cannot help but fear the worst.
My own condition deteriorates daily. Perhaps by the hour.
A trip to the bathroom becomes an ordeal, to be embarked upon only as a last, desperate resort. More than once I wake to discover that I have soiled myself and despite my deep and ingrained stoicism, I have to weep at the indignity of it all.
At some point--again, any attempt at imposing a chronology would be useless--I realize that the phone has not rung, the door chimes not sounded in...how long has it been? Days? Weeks?
One night regular television programming is interrupted for a special news bulletin but the newsreader dozes off in mid-sentence. Soon afterward all the stations, local and network, go off the air.
But none of that matters anymore. It’s all quite irrelevant now. Because what has happened is that my overweening pride has finally been stripped away and I am ready to accept whatever is going to happen next, ready, even, to embrace obsolescence.
For it has become apparent that a new paradigm has presented itself; the old world has been superseded, and whether its destruction was brought about by man-made devices or an act of a sullen God or infernal machinations, the results are the same.
The human race, as they say, is run.
It is done.
Fait accompli.
Yes. My wife is dead, expiring in her sleep, slipping away while I dozed, insensate, in the next room. I stand at the foot of the bed, trying to take it all in: the utter stillness, her stark and bloodless face turned slightly toward the wall, eyes closed, her skin already taking on a waxy, pallid patina.
I should go around to the side of the bed and cover her face. I should
call someone and let them know.
But I am just...so...tired. Too tired to do anything more than turn away and make my way back to the living room, my feet shuffling along, apparently of their own accord. I feel no grief, only emptiness, a swelling, depthless immensity inside me that, I sense, will be denied no longer.
Consciousness flickers and fades and, finally, is extinguished. At the last possible moment it occurs to me that I am afraid but by then it is too late, much too late--
I fall.
And have been falling, it seems to me, for a long, long time.
© Copyright, 1997 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
from the collection The Reality Machine
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends