Free Stash by David Matthew Klein

along the stitch line but the rest of her face felt fine, not even tender to the touch.
    “How do I look?” she asked.
    “You’re a knockout.”
    “You mean I look like I got knocked out?”
    He smiled.
    “You don’t know how sick I was when you called me from the hospital,” Brian said. “I thought you were dying, I thought … how much I love and need you, how you and the kids are everything to me.”
    “I feel the same way.” Gwen wished she could go back to yesterday, a rushed morning with Brian getting ready for work and the kids for camp and Gwen finishing her list of errands, all of them excited about their long weekend getaway. Brian deserved it, even if she didn’t.
    “Daddy, the pan is smoking,” Nora called up the stairs.
    Brian kissed her and went back down to finish making breakfast for the kids. Gwen turned to the newspaper. A story about a murder-suicide rampage at an HMO in White Plains dominated the front section—the gun work performed by an irate employee passed over for a promotion that was given to an attractive woman, who was suspected by coworkers of having a “personal relationship” with the boss. Now the attractive woman, the boss, and the disgruntled employee all were dead.
    The local section was filled with fun ideas to make the most of what’s left of summer, plus safety tips for grilling and two potato salad recipes. She scanned the paper slowly, drinking her coffee, afraid to see a story about the accident. She had gotten through to the last page when she saw a small headline in the far right column, near the bottom of the page, “Niskayuna Man Dies in Accident.”
    James Anderson, 82, of Niskayuna, died from injuries suffered in an automobile accident when his car struck another vehicle on Route 157 near Thacher Park and plunged down a ravine. The driver of the other vehicle, Gwen Raine, 37, of Morrissey, was treated for minor injuries at St. Mary’s Hospital and released. Police are investigating the cause of the accident.
    Gwen held her breath and tried to swallow, but a fist of pain clogged her throat and chest: someone had been killed in the accident. An eighty-two-year-old man was dead after colliding with her car. If she’d been a fraction of a second quicker to react—able to swerve faster or brake or speed up—could she have avoided the collision altogether? Was there something she could have done? She had been looking ahead, steering through the curve, and then the car was right there, across the line, in her face.
    And now a man was dead. James Anderson. Where had he been going? Did he leave behind a wife? Were there grandchildren who had lost their grandpa?
    She hunched over the paper and flipped to the obits section. His was the first name listed.
    Anderson —James R. of Niskayuna, died August 26 at the age of 82. Beloved husband of the late Ruth Walsh Anderson, devoted father of Walter J. Anderson and Sheila R. Anderson Birch, loving grandfather to Tyler, Lily, Connor, and Michael. Brother to the late Richard W. Anderson. U.S. Navy veteran of World War II, retired professor of psychology from Union College, longtime community member, and activist. Also survived by several nieces and nephews. Service and interment on Monday, August 29, 10:00 A.M. , Niskayuna Rural Cemetery. Contributions can be made to the National Alzheimer’s Association.
    She looked up and Nora was at the bedroom door.
    “I didn’t hear you come up, sweetie. Did you have breakfast?”
    “What are you reading, Mommy?”
    “The newspaper.”
    “What about?”
    “A man who died.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Then how come you’re crying?”
    “Well, it’s sad when someone dies.”
    “How did he die?”
    “He was very old.”
    “Can I see?”
    Gwen pointed to the obituary in the paper. Nora read out loud, holding the page a few inches in front of her face. “What does inter … inter … What’s that word?”
    “Interment. It means burial. He’s