The Trip

"My skin hasn’t gotten old. It’s still milk-white, and there aren’t too many wrinkles for a sixty-three year old. I lost a lot of my hair on top, that’s about all. I still have my looks and physique after all these years and the women still go for me."

He cleaned the hairs that fell on the sink with a washcloth and made sure that none was missed. He was meticulous in what he did. They labeled him "Mr. Clean" when he was working and he always tried to live up to the name.

They were wed forty years and had never been west of the Rockies. He decided it was time to see the Pacific Ocean.

He packed most of his clothes and toiletries then picked up his well-pressed pants from the secretary and put them on. His starched shirt was hanging nearby and standing in front of the mirror tucked his shirt in and tied his tie making sure he was presentable. When he was satisfied his appearance was suitable, he went downstairs to the garage, put on an apron and gloves not to soil his clothes and hands, went to the trunk where he kept his favorite and private collections that Mary never knew he had and with delight took out the first layer of covered items, then went to the bottom lifting out a rectangular box. Opening the box, he took out the contents wrapped in an oil cloth, examined it making sure all the parts worked and were clean and hid it under the driver’s seat. He saw some grease on his new Lincoln and took a towel and wiped it clean. He left.

Mary, who was in bed on the second floor of their home, woke and called out, "Clarence--Clarence, where are you?" She thought, "This man is incorrigible. He’s never around when he’s needed." She was an invalid and when she spoke she slurred her words. The stroke hit her hard and the left side of her body was paralyzed. She had been in this condition for three months and she usually has therapy, but because of the trip she had to postpone it. They made arrangements to continue her therapy sessions on the west coast. The door opened slowly and Clarence walked in asking her,

"Did you call for me, my dear?"

"Yes. Where are you when I need you?"

He looked at her in disgust and hatred, thinking thoughts impulsively that he would do her in now, but had to restrain himself, because he had a better plan and had to follow it through to the last letter.

"I am here my dear. I am always here to help you. What is it you need?" He said gently.

"I can’t dress myself. You know that," She said annoyingly. " I can hardly move my left arm and leg Clarence. Ever since I had that stroke, it’s hard for me to move like I used to."

"Yes dear. I know well what you are going through."

He picked her matronly frame up and took her to the bathroom. Undressed her and couldn’t help but notice, as he always did, the flab that leaned over her stomach as if to peer beyond her body to see what was between her legs. He began to wash her. She sat on the chair watching him as he passed his hand over her body. She said,

"Don’t get any ideas, young man. I am not in the mood."

"I know my dear, you haven’t been in the mood since your stroke. I can’t help myself my dear if I show you how I feel."

"Oh, I know, I know you can’t restrain yourself. If you must have your way you can take me back to bed and have your way if you want, I won’t fight you."

"No my dear, I couldn’t do that. It would be an imposition on my part and very callous. No I couldn’t do it my dear," he said as he continued to wash her body.

"You always were virile in our marriage weren’t you Clarence?"

"You were always slow to warm my dear, but I eventually got you there didn’t I?"

He finished washing her, gave her a towel to wipe herself. He left the room to pack other bits and pieces for the trip. She did the best she could with the right arm. She looked in the mirror and saw her drooped face on the left side. She saw the eyelid sagging toward her cheek. Her mouth curled downward in distortion and her muscles drooping in an ugly contortion of muscle atrophy. Her auburn hair was unkempt and her flaccid body weak. Her breasts were no longer the firmness they were before the stroke. They were worn and weary looking and brutally unappetizing.

She was 59 years young and her visage was that of one who appeared to be in the late 60’s. She looked at this once beautiful form and cried. She remembered the day they got married how they loved each other and made love two and three times a night and adored each other and how she anxiously waited for him to come home from his engineering job and rushing him to bed. With all their love and desire Mary could not give birth. She had half developed fallopian tubes. It was a blind alley. They didn’t adopt. There was no desire.

Clarence meanwhile brought the suitcases to the car. Went back to the house picked her up and placed her naked body in the chair by her bed. With the towel he had given her to wipe herself he dried the parts that she couldn’t reach. He helped her with her underwear and then her dress and finally her shoes. He picked her up and put her in the wheelchair taking her down the stairs carefully. With each step he took, he thought of dropping her down the stairs, that with good luck she could break her neck and die. He could tell the authorities that the chair slipped from his hands. But how would he explain the broken neck if she fell and didn’t die? He thought he’d have to crack her neck, but the authorities would know that the broken neck wasn’t from the fall, but from a deliberate act. He didn’t want to take the chance. He succeeded in getting her to the bottom and took her to the garage and seated her in the car. He went back to the house, and set the timer to go off in 15 minutes. He was an engineer and designed a timer to turn on the gas jets to flame and a pole fan that was placed a few feet away, would blow out the flames. With the pilot lights on, the house