Wade (1989)

Wade by R. T. Smith The doctors called it a coma, and they thought they knew what they meant by it. He knew that nobody could know what was behind the word, but it didn't matter. He walked slowly, softly-as if afraid she might hear and stir-into the room, the sweating glass of water in his hand. The curtains of the open window wavered a little, and he saw his garden plot at the extreme end of the yard. 32 What had been rife with vegetables and bordering flowers just six weeks before was skeletal and unsettling. Already the weeds had begun to take over. It was only when he noticed the regular ticking of the mantle clock that he realized that the elaborate machines were not filling the room with their rhythms, and then he saw that the red line on one device was a thin, steady stripe with no curves for the pulse. He saw that she was dead because technology told him she was, but he did not bend to touch her or verify the fact. Her eyes had been closed for weeks. He stood in front of the window and watched a small flock of sparrows settle in the persimmon tree. They seemed to compete for what must have been, in their logic, the best limbs. The leaves were all gone, anyhow, and the birds were too few to lend the impression of new foliage. They were just passing activity and chatter. They didn't mean anything. He walked down the hall to the den and sat in the leather recliner in front of the TV, which was tuned to a soap opera, but with no sound. Ever since his youngest daughter had moved out he preferred the TV this way-on, but mute. AU three of the girls-Dara, Darcy, and Mary Margaret-ioved the volume up high, just as their mother had. For a moment he watched a man and a woman gesture excitedly toward one another. What they felt seemed amplified by their saying nothing. He snapped them off with the remote control and rose, walked back toward the hollow tone of the clock and the barely perceptible whine of the machinery. He ought to call the doctor or the undertaker or somebody. He ought to contact his son Ronnie, who seldom came home before supper, or call one of his daughters so he wouldn't have to be alone with his late wife. The phrase clung in his mind: "late wife." People were supposed to be disturbed by the peace of the dead, but he felt only a slight numbness and light-headedness. He walked to the window and peered at the severe autumn grass, as if it were a new thing to him. "Damn," he thought. "Damn." Then he realized that he still held the glass of water. He stared at the uppermost branches of the persimmon and an opaque cloud that seemed nearly as substantial as the moon. He raised the glass to his lips and drank. A car passed on the damp street, and the whoosn of its tires in a pothole puddle startled him. He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger lightly on the lids. He turned toward the hall, switched on the light, and left the room. When Wade Timberly's wife Marjorie died, no one saw him weep a single tear. He missed a week's work for the preparations and the funeral, then was back on the spraying line at Kincaid Furniture on Friday. He didn't shirk or straggle or appear to grieve, and when Les Wilmot asked him how the funeral went, he answered, "It was about the least'un I've seen. Family and 'leven others, mostly folks from the church. Wasn't many flowers, neither. She wanted people to send money to the church building fund. It was in her will. I don't know how much was give in her name." He wiped the sweat from his neck with a kerchief and pulled the mask back down. A chair came down the line, and Wade turned on the stain and pressure valves and filled...