Free The Queen of Sleepy Eye by Patti Hill Page B

Masterson?” he asked.
    â€œYes, come on in. He’s still in bed.”
    H pulled back the many blankets covering Mr. Masterson one by one as if peeling an onion. When he lifted the sheet, I swallowed down a gasp.
    H said, “Ma’am, you can call Willie and George. I can handle this myself.” H sent me to the hearse for a sheet and told me to leave the gurney by the tailgate. “I can carry him down.”
    By the time I returned to the couple’s bedroom, H had buttoned Dr. Masterson’s pajamas and run a comb through his hair. Theoxygen mask had left a red mark that cut deep into Dr. Masterson’s nose and circled his chin. “Would you like some time with him before I carry him downstairs?” H asked.
    Mrs. Masterson studied her husband’s face. “That would be lovely.”
    H and I stepped into the hall. Photographs of babies and wedding couples and graduates hung all along the wall. In a sepia photograph, a stoic couple stood like mannequins before a painted backdrop, the groom sitting in a carved wooden chair, the bride standing slightly behind him with her hand on his shoulder. His head was blurred as if he couldn’t resist taking a peek at his bride. Although the bride’s face was solemn, the corners of her eyes smiled in response. I motioned for H to look at the photograph. He raised his eyebrows to indicate he had no idea why I would draw his attention to such a thing. To be fair, not many males would connect the photograph to the Mastersons. The apple-faced couple in the photograph sat erect. Now Mrs. Masterson’s skin hung from her bent frame, and Dr. Masterson, well, his disheveled pajamas had revealed legs as narrow as my wrist. But if I were Mrs. Masterson, I would have hung my wedding photo in the very same place, just outside the bedroom where I could look at it and remember what I’d once been and to remember my husband in better days.
    From the bedroom, Mrs. Masterson expelled a sob. “Oh, Arthur, what am I to do?”
    H raised his hand to stop me from returning to the bedroom. He whispered, “Give her a minute. She’ll be okay.”
    I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, my way of giving the Mastersons the privacy they deserved. When Mrs. Masterson spoke again, her voice was breathy with wonderment. I can’t explain what happened next. I never asked her about what I heard. It was a one-sidedconversation, like I was listening to someone talk on the phone. What Mrs. Masterson heard, I couldn’t say.
    â€œOh my,” she said. “Oh my, you’re here.
    â€œWhy not?
    â€œYou’ve seen the Master?
    â€œArthur, how about our Abigail? Have you seen her?
    â€œShe did? That’s wonderful, just wonderful.
    â€œWhat kinds of things are you learning, dear?”
    H and I exchanged looks. I felt awkward listening in on such an intimate conversation. To busy my mind, I imagined the groom in the photograph carrying his bride over the threshold, the walls freshly painted, the floors polished to a sheen, and the smell of lilacs rather than mildew welcoming the newlyweds. And I imagined cherub-fat babies fingering dandelions in the grass while Mrs. Masterson hung the laundry. Those babies would now be in their sixties. Had they heard about their father’s death? I squeezed my eyes tight to hold the tears, but that proved futile. Before wiping them away, I looked at H. Tears streamed down his cheeks too. He dug in his pocket for a hankie for me and wiped his own tears on his sleeve.
    â€œArthur,” Mrs. Masterson said, sounding alarmed yet pleased, “have you come for me?
    â€œWhy not, darling? Why not? You look wonderful, and here I am still in my nightgown.
    â€œBut I’m so old, dear. Oh, please, take me with you.
    â€œDon’t tease me, Arthur.
    â€œYes, yes, I know. You’re right. I will serve Him. I promise. Yes.” The bedsprings complained under her weight.