‘Mr. O’Brien’

Mr. O’Brien 

Doctor Hazel felt obligated to attend Mr. O’Brien’s funeral. He rose early on a windy Saturday morning, kissed Marie goodbye, and hurried crosstown to Saint Michael’s. This time of the year, the days were brief and severe. Doctor Hazel wore rabbit-fur mittens and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and head. He stood with a clean-shaven heavyset priest and the priest performed the memorial service. There were a few gravediggers waiting to lower the casket but nobody else was in attendance. This was a bit odd, Doctor Hazel thought.

Because for twenty-five years, Mr. O’Brien had been the most famous dramatist in America. He’d achieved every literary award, including the Nobel Prize. He’d been so famous, that Doctor Hazel couldn’t help but to feel uncertain and timid around him. His work with Mr. O’Brien was kept private. Marie was an admirer from her romantic college days and his daughter, Essie, had played a prostitute in a performance of a play that had once won Mr. O’Brien the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. O’Brien was only being fifty-five. There was little to say about Mr. O’Brien that wasn’t personal and mean-spirited. Because of an uncontrollable tremor, he hadn’t written a word in ten years. He was often drunk and his wife had left him.

When Mr. O’Brien died, of cerebellar cortical atrophy, a form of brain deterioration commonly found in horses, the news went around the world. Marie had been troubled because she’d read every play of him when she’d been in college. Then she said funnily that she’d forgotten if Mr. O’Brien was dead or alive. That’s how long it’d been since she’d thought of him. The excitement of Mr. O’Brien quickly dispersed as time went and other worldly events took place. His plays were a bit out of fashion and he hadn’t been so public a celebrity.

The service was restricted to a brief speech by the priest. Mr. O’Brien had been trying very hard to be a Catholic. The priest spoke well of this struggle, and of Mr. O’Brien’s final absolution upon facing death. While listening to this, Doctor Hazel considered that Mr. O’Brien had refused a priest from seeing him at the very end of his life, that last rites hadn’t been given.

After the service, they descended the hill together. Doctor Hazel rewrapped the scarf tighter, for the wind had picked up, and noted that the priest’s flabby face was splotched an ugly purplish maroon. At the bottom of the hill a decorative gate secured the cemetery from the street. The priest made sure the gate-door was securely tight and they continued strolling together as if they were ordinary friends. Saint Michael’s was in a quiet neighborhood of shops and restaurants and there was a thin, but bustling crowd on the streets. It was only eleven in the morning, but Doctor Hazel badly desired a glass of beer and a cigarette.

“Well, that’s over with,” Doctor Hazel said as they stopped at a corner. He’d said it to say something. “That was a good memorial given the circumstances. You spoke very well.”

“Did you say something?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel coughed. “I thought a few people would’ve shown.”

“Why would you think there would be more people? He was an older man.”

“He has children and other family somewhere.”

“Is that right?” the priest asked. “Yes, you’re right.”

Once everyone had wanted to know what he’d thought about this or that, but Mr. O’Brien withered from depression and was prejudiced towards most people. Everyone had been vanquished from his life. One of his children had committed suicide by jumping out a window. His other son was addicted to opiates, like Mr. O’Brien’s mother had been. His daughter was estranged because she’d married an older man – they had several children and lived well in Los Angeles. He hadn’t known his daughter well because he’d been separated from her mother upon her birth. He’d left her for another woman, had made this woman his wife, and had driven this wife out. This wife was living in New Jersey. These were facts Doctor Hazel head learned.

“I liked what you said up there,” Doctor Hazel tried with the priest. He realized he didn’t know the priest’s name. “I don’t know your prayers or anything, but I liked what you said.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, not very well,” the priest said. “His wife wrote me, saying how he would’ve wanted a Catholic service. I said that was fine.”

Doctor Hazel nodded and felt the cigarettes in his pocket. “He would’ve liked that you did the service because he tried very hard to be a Catholic and was always resentful that –”

“It’s not so hard to be a Catholic. He didn’t want to be one.”

Doctor Hazel took out the cigarettes, looked at them, and put them back into his pocket. “It was hard for him to stick to it. His mother was a Catholic, of course.”

“That’s what she told me, that it was a struggle.”

“Yes, one play would be about God and the next wouldn’t.”

“Did you read them?”

“My wife knows all his plays.”

The priest nodded and asked for a cigarette. Doctor Hazel lit it for him and they smoked together as they went on. It didn’t feel very odd to walk with a priest, and Doctor Hazel even allowed himself to feel a little epiphanic and holy himself.

“It’s a bit unfortunate, this whole thing,” the priest said. “Stop for a beer?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Doctor Hazel looked up at him. “They let you in bars?”

“Nobody will care,” the priest said with a little laugh. He looked up at the grey sky and shook his head. “It looks like it might rain and there won’t be anything to do on a day like today except go back and sit for a while inside.”

“It’s a day for a funeral and a day for getting a beer with a priest,” Doctor Hazel said.

The priest coughed. “Yes, that’s right. Down here.”

The priest led them down a coiled staircase to a basement bar where a few old men drank calmly. The bartender had long white sideburns. He poured them beer in old-fashioned pitcher-glasses with handles. Partway through pouring Doctor Hazel’s beer, he left to turn on a radio. The radio played a news bulletin.

“I felt that someone would’ve come, even someone who had a little interest,” Doctor Hazel said when they’d sat in the back. He brushed his thinning hair aside.

“I don’t watch plays, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Neither do I. But if you told my wife I was his doctor she would’ve been excited. She knows plays. My daughter acts too. She’s a good actress.”

“You should’ve told them. They would’ve liked to hear about him.”

“I can’t because she would’ve wanted to know too much.” Doctor Hazel sighed. He felt good sitting here in this warm barroom with this priest. He would need to go home soon, but that would happen when it did. “She would’ve asked questions and wouldn’t have liked the answers. My wife is very romantic.”

“What sort of romantic?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel considered and decided not to answer the question. He waited a little long, and then changed the subject. “Mr. O’Brien was trying hard to believe in God and all that at the end.” This wasn’t true. “He tried so hard, but he didn’t believe in it at all.”

“He must’ve not tried so hard.”

“I believe he did.” Doctor Hazel paused for a long moment. He stared out the little window that showed the staircase and part of the street. Sometimes a porter would walk down the stairs or one of the old men drinking would stand on the top, looking dully about. “He told me how his mother was one, and that she would’ve liked it if he was too.”

“He should’ve tried harder. Anybody can believe. It’s a choice.”

“Yes, but he had a difficult life, from what he told me.”

“A lot of people do, and they try all the harder. Not that it matters to me. If a person doesn’t try, they only have themselves to blame. It’s no skin off my knuckles.”

Mr. O’Brien would’ve wanted him to say something bold and mean in his defense, but Doctor Hazel couldn’t bear to lie to a priest. “I’ve never sat in a bar with a priest before,” he said and tried to chuckle. “I’ve always assumed priests couldn’t drink, but I guess I don’t know why you wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know much about priests.”

“I don’t drink very much. Sometimes on Saturdays I’ll get one in.” The priest chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong in it.”

“I’ve never drank a beer at eleven in the morning. Frankly, I drink very little.”

“If God invented beer, it was for a good reason.”

“They say that about a lot of things.”

“Beer is alright.”

“Don’t tell some of my patients that,” Doctor Hazel tried to joke.

“A beer here or there hits the spot.” The priest sat with excellent posture. His eyes were closed though they opened a little when he brought the glass to his mouth. Sometimes he seemed to be swaying to a slow ballad. “There are worse things.”

Doctor Hazel nodded. “Do you like being a priest?” He didn’t know he was asking the question and he didn’t know what he would’ve said if anyone asked him if he liked being a doctor. “I’m sorry for asking, but I don’t know.”

The priest said, “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

“It must be interesting to be a priest. A priest and a doctor are alike in ways.”

“We probably are,” the priest said. “However, I still don’t know what you mean.”

Mr. O’Brien had been a wealthy man but much of that money belonged to other people. Doctor Hazel wasn’t sure but he imagined that a great many favors had been asked by Mr. O’Brien’s wife to secure the casket and the priest. She must’ve thought she’d done everything of which God would’ve requested her to do, and that was why she’d stayed behind in New Jersey.

“What should a man like this expect?” Doctor Hazel mumbled to himself as he sat. “What was the prayer you said?”

“Excuse me?”

“The prayer that you said at the service?” Doctor Hazel swallowed, feeling that his head light. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. “I’m only talking aloud.”

“What?” The priest asked and then he stood with a funny shake. He stared down at his hands and then jerked awake. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m getting myself one.”

The priest went to the bar wearing his coat and his hat. He drank a whiskey given to him by the bartender and then departed the bar. The priest stopped on the staircase to readjust his jacket then went on. His collar shielded his face from the windblow.

Doctor Hazel didn’t think the priest was going to come back, but he watched the window. He didn’t watch the window waiting on the priest, but there was little else to look because of how dim and murky the barroom was and how poor his eyes were from the many years of reading and studying required for him to become a doctor.

He stayed in the bar for far too long after he’d drunk the glass of beer, and it was the afternoon by the time he’d left. He hurried and his face felt frostbitten by the time he was back near his home. Coming up on it, his house looked no different than the others on the block. He’d worked very hard to become a doctor and it didn’t annoy him that the house was small because he supposed being a doctor was no different than any other job. There’d been many plans to do this or that, but everything had been settled in this way a long time ago.

“You smell of cigarettes,” Marie said as she came in. She was busying around the kitchen but she wasn’t doing anything.

“I had a cigarette,” he admitted. “Oh well.”

“Don’t be so loud,” she whispered. “Jonathan is studying upstairs.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“He’s writing a term paper.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“We can’t bother him until he’s finished. I went up to ask what he wished for lunch and he stormed at me, telling me not to bother him.” She stared at him. “The next time you smoke a cigarette, wash yourself before you come home.”

“It’s Saturday,” Doctor Hazel whispered and sat at the kitchen table.

“I’m going out later,” Essie said from the doorway. “Could I have some money?”

“No,” Doctor Hazel said and covered the folds of his eyes with his palms.

“I did all my homework already. I made sure to get it done.”

“Ask me in a little bit. I’m not in the mood to give out money.” He tried to smile at her. He would give her some money. He only didn’t want to yet.

“Your father is tired, so don’t ask him for anything,” Marie said.

His daughter stared at him for a little while, a dazed expression on her face, before she shrugged and left. She stomped down the hall and her door slammed.

“Essie tried very hard this morning to get everything done,” Marie said with a sigh. “The next time you have a cigarette, clean yourself up before you come home. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?”

“For the moment.” She laughed a little suddenly, so she covered her mouth. “What am I supposed to do in a house that smells like smoke? I’m not Mrs. Clean?”

“Cigarettes are alright occasionally. I should know, I’m a doctor after all.”

“Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but don’t smell like them.”

“They reduce stress.”

“Do they?”

“Probably.” Doctor Hazel winked at her. “What am I supposed to do after a funeral?”

“Don’t pretend like I’m asking you something unbelievable.”

Doctor Hazel propped his head. “I was the only one there, me and the priest.”

Marie was busying and not listening so closely. “You should’ve given Essie the money. She’s been working hard all week.”

“I’m still not sure why I went,” Doctor Hazel said. “I thought people would’ve gone.”

“You should’ve given Essie the money. It doesn’t matter what happened at the funeral, you don’t mean to your children.” She sighed. “Don’t go to funerals anymore.”

“I need to go to the funerals. It’s part of my job.”

“Not anymore, if it puts you in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a thinking mood.”

“One more thing that you must work on.” She grinned. “No more thinking.”

Doctor Hazel shrugged. He’d only seen Mr. O’Brien a handful of time and they hadn’t gotten along. The nurses watched and aided Mr. O’Brien, for there were more consequential patients for him to worry on. Mr. O’Brien hadn’t wanted to be alive at the end.

“You shouldn’t go to funerals if they’re going to depress you,” Marie said. “I mean so.”

“No, I shouldn’t go to funerals. But I must.”

“You can’t go to funerals if you smoke cigarettes afterwards.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, don’t you think so? I’m not taking crazy pills, am I?”

Doctor Hazel put the cigarettes on the table and nudged them across until they were out of reach. Marie looked at them with a funny smile, a youthful smile he’d always liked. He held a cigarette up at her and kicked the chair out. Marie sat after a moment and took the cigarette. He was feeling so good, he crossed himself. She laughed and they heard a door slam from the other part of the house. He liked smoking more than anything, and there wasn’t anything better than when Marie had one with him. She always made him promise on Sunday evenings to quit tobacco and he would make the same old promise again, like always.

“I wonder what you’re thinking on,” she told him. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m not thinking on anything.”

“You know that you shouldn’t keep anything from me.” She blew a cool stream of smoke. “Now, you’re miserable and I can’t help.” She smiled. “I don’t have pennies anyways.”

“I don’t keep anything from you,” Doctor Hazel said carefully. “There are only things I don’t like to say. Anyways,” he said, and stood suddenly. “Jonathan shouldn’t be upstairs writing a paper on a Saturday – he should be out with friends, like Essie.

“Essie is going with friends. But she doesn’t like to go if she doesn’t have money.”

“You interrupted me. You never let me finish. What I was going to say was that she was going to the movies. I was kidding – I’ll give her money. But Jonathan should be going out too.”

“Then go tell him.” She waited. “He’s writing the term paper.”

Doctor Hazel went out of the house to the back. He stood outside Jonathan’s window, looking up at the grey sky. Jonathan came out and stood nearby. His hair was stuck up and there were purple splotches around his eyes. That he was the best student in the school meant he was respected but not much liked. He said that his mother wanted him to stop working.

“Go get Essie and your mother and we’ll go to the movies,” Doctor Hazel said. “It’s a movie day. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Essie was looking for money. She was almost crying.”

“Go get her and we’ll go to the movies.”

“I have some more of my paper to write,” Jonathan said. “I’m only taking a break because Mom wanted me to see you.”

“You can work on your paper later.” Doctor Hazel turned to go back in.

“I wanted to finish it today. Movies are stupid.”

“Movies might be stupid, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch them.”

“Dad, my paper …”

Doctor Hazel took his son by the shoulder and walked him back in. “It can wait. I’ve decided we’re going to the movies. As a family. Get your coat.”

Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, Maine. Follow him on Twitter at @huntermprichard.

Death Bed

Photographer - Tobi Brun

At the opening, there is a small crowd in the bedroom. They observe the deceased ROSE with their hands crossed over their fronts, their heads bowed. Eventually, the people begin to stir and they walk quietly out of the bedroom. Some of them will touch or hug or whisper words of
encouragement to LARRY. The crowd walks through the kitchen and slowly, one by one, they exit the stage byway of the “house’s” front door. When they’re all gone, the lights over the kitchen fade out.

In the bedroom, faintly lit, is LARRY, sitting on a wooden chair besides a bed. Laid upon the bed is ROSE, with a white sheet over her body and face. She is still.

LARRY
I didn’t deserve you ... I was a terrible husband, a horrible man. I still am. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything – not why I’m living, not why you were the one who –

ROSE
[Quietly] I wish I weren’t dead.

LARRY
[Stirring] Rose? Rose – what did you say?

ROSE
I wish I wasn’t dead, Larry, so I could tell you how much I loved you. I loved you more than you know. And I know you love me too. We love each other and now we can’t say it to each other – I will say it now, at least one final time.

LARRY
Rose? ... Rose – is that really you speaking to me!

ROSE
It’s me, Larry. Do you know? Do you know how much I love you, and how lovely I feel, up here in heaven, that you love me too. We didn’t get a chance to say it so much, didn’t we?

LARRY
We did, Rose, we did all the time. Don’t you know it?

ROSE
No, we didn’t. [ROSE pulls away part of her blanket and looks at him] I want to tell you how sorry I am. I never got the chance to tell you how much you mean to me. I never told you when I was alive ... now I must do it when I’m dead ... one final time.

LARRY
What do you mean, Rose? ... To apologize? Rose, what do you mean?

ROSE

My coldness, Larry – I was a harsh, timid woman my whole life. [Sitting up] If people didn’t
think of me as being a little beautiful, I would never have gotten anywhere.

LARRY
That’s not true, Rose, don’t say that.

ROSE
I was scared my whole life and I ... I hated people, for how I thought they treated me – and I never treated people myself well. That’s what makes me so sick, Larry – I’m glad I’m dead.

LARRY
Don’t say that. Don’t believe such a thing!

ROSE
Thankfully people have thought I was beautiful –

LARRY
You are! You are!

ROSE
They cut me some slack. But I was a rotten person, intelligent and still too smart for my own
good, unfriendly, unloving – you hadn’t any reason to marry me or –

LARRY
Rose! That’s not true.

ROSE
What is the point of lying to me now?

LARRY
Rose! [Taking her hand] I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. The children loved you so much and –

ROSE
The children. [Becoming weepy] Are they well? Where are they?

LARRY
I took them to my parents, Rose. They will stay with my parents until the funeral, maybe longer as we – [Loses words]

ROSE
To push on ... You’re a good father to them, Larry. My parents are terrible cold, and I’m glad that they didn’t intrude.

LARRY

Everyone has been gentle and lovely during this period. You don’t have anything to worry over, Rose. I swear so.

ROSE
I know you swear. [Hiccoughing, crying] My parents aren’t kind, good people, and I’m glad the kids aren’t with them. [Her sobs relieve] They were raised wrong by their parents and I was raised wrong my them and I – [Sobs again] – if I stayed alive –

LARRY
Your parents have been wonderful during this time.

ROSE
My children would’ve turned out like me and –

LARRY
[Desperately] Rose!

ROSE
[Faintly smiling] You don’t have to make up a story for me.

LARRY
No, I’m serious. It’s only that the kids need somewhere to rest.

ROSE
Hopefully they won’t remember any of this.

LARRY
They’ll remember you!

ROSE
They’re too young ... They won’t remember me at all.

LARRY
They’ll remember everything about you. They’ll have pictures and stories – I’ll tell them all our
old romantic stories, Rose – I mean so!

ROSE
That’s sweet of you, Larry ... You’ll tell them nice things about me too, I guess. You were always kindly like that –

LARRY
You were my best friend ever since the day I met you, Rose, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better ... Don’t you remember when we met? [Sighing, he sits back] It’s nice to talk with you like this, Rose. I know you’re dead and this is all in my head. But it feels good to say a little something to you ... [Pause, as he rests. Suddenly, he slaps his knee and laughs] We had eight wonderful years together, Rose ... Don’t you remember the night we met at Jenn’s house and how were so embarrassed because you spilled the glass of wine down your front and you –

ROSE
[Finishing for him, laughing] I sure was embarrassed. I guess now it’s a funny story.

LARRY
Of course, it’s funny. It’s a hilarious meet cute.

ROSE
I was too serious my whole life – I could never loosen up.

LARRY
I love listening to your laugh, Rose.

ROSE
I wished I laughed more.

LARRY
You laughed plenty. You laughed more than anyone I’ve known!

ROSE
[Grimacing] I could barely laugh my whole life and you know it good as I. [Shaking her head] That was a funny night, I guess. I didn’t think so at the time – too uptight!

LARRY
Don’t worry on that now. Just remember the good times.

ROSE
Good times? I didn’t have those ... I was a heartless, meanspirited girl my whole life and everyone knew so. You’re a nice man for making up stories to me. You’ll be a good father – I guess the kids will even think of me as an alright person –

LARRY
Because you were – you were more than that, Rose!

ROSE
No, everyone hated me. All my friends, even poor little Jenn who didn’t ever hurt a hair on anyone’s head, who didn’t even whine when I told her that you’d asked me out and –

LARRY
[Solemnly] Yes, I understand ... It must’ve been tough on her.

ROSE
She loved you very much ... was a good sport about it.

LARRY
Jenn is a nice alright, but –

ROSE
Jenn loved you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.

LARRY
[Quietly] She was a good sport about it. I mean, I had my eye on her until I met you and then – what was I supposed to do? [They both sigh and laugh a little] I hope she doesn’t resent me much. Nobody can control who they fall in love with and –

ROSE
That’s what I told her ... We had to talk about it once, so we did. There was too much gunk between us.

LARRY
I imagine so. I can’t believe you stayed friends.

ROSE
Jenn isn’t resentful. I just had to go and tell her ... that was hard. She probably thought you liked her –

LARRY
I did ... I mean, Jenn is an alright woman.

ROSE
Very beautiful.

LARRY
[Nodding] She was. Beautiful – not like you, but –

ROSE
She’s too pleasant for her own good. And too forgiving. I sat with her for over an hour in some bar I don’t even remember the name of. I was a little too conceited that night ... so proud that I had you and nobody else and – she was terribly sad, poor Jenn.

LARRY
Poor Jenn.

ROSE
She was crying like it was her last day on earth ... No, I again am being nasty. She was only crying a little – and not at all, for I didn’t really notice – it was only that her eyes were a little damp, and she sniffled.

LARRY
It’s a difficult thing to experience.

ROSE
I tried my best ... I’m not a warm person, Larry, and you know so.

LARRY
You were warm, Rose, I swear you were.

ROSE
[Pause. She sucks in her breath] I remember now how cruel I was. I tried to be there as a friend – but did I care?

LARRY
You cared so much for Jenn – and Jenn for you!

ROSE
Maybe ... I tried the best I could. I don’t have a warm bone in my body – my blood is colder than a milkshake. [Tries to laugh. Inhales] I remember that we sat there at some bar and ... I didn’t even remember to go gentle with her. I just started in talking and suddenly she was ... you know, crying a little. [Cries herself] I held her hand, I tried to make her feel better –

LARRY
I’m sure you did all you can do ... When it comes to emotions –

ROSE
She loved you very much, Larry. She told me that she imagined that you two were to be together– she told me that she hadn’t any idea that I was interested in you, and you in me and –

LARRY
It must’ve been horrible, Rose. I know how hard that can be. But there wasn’t anything that you– [Smiling, straightening] Jenn is a nice and pretty girl who can take care of herself ... I don’t like hearing you speak so poorly about yourself, Rose ... I don’t know if I was a very good
husband to you. I have been thinking of such things, the times when I took you for granted, when I didn’t say, ‘I love you,’ when I should.

ROSE
[Nodding] It was hard towards the end, wasn’t it?

LARRY
[Nodding] We didn’t say we loved each other.

ROSE
Not until I got sick.

LARRY
Then I started to say it ... It felt like too little too late.

ROSE
It wasn’t, Larry! I know so. This whole time the last few months, me lying here, barely being able to move or talk, I felt you with me – not you physically – your soul!

LARRY
My soul?

ROSE
I felt your soul with me, your heart in my hand.

LARRY
[With wonder] That’s rather beautiful, Rose ... That’s poetic! I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a thing before.

ROSE
It’s true. I felt your heart in my hand and I felt that my heart was in yours. And we were each holding each other’s hearts.

LARRY
We did, Rose. We held each other’s hearts. Not too tightly, not too gently. It was a beautiful thing, Rose, when the days were very long and there wasn’t even anything to hope for and all I had was you lying here so desperate and –

ROSE
I wasn’t in pain, Larry. I was only sitting here, remembering my life, and wanting – If I could’ve spoken, I would’ve told you every moment of the day how much I loved you. I wanted to bellow it in your ears. I couldn’t.

LARRY
I know you couldn’t, Rose. The doctors –

ROSE
I would’ve told you so. That I loved you and the children and that I was so sorry for all the hurt I caused you and –

LARRY
It goes both ways, Rose. We both hurt each other – but that’s what people do and it doesn’t really matter now ... There’s no point in thinking on the bad. There are too many good memories of you – there’s so much of you in our children’s faces – their eyes. They have such beautiful
eyes and –

ROSE
[Innocently] They have my eyes, Larry? [Crying]

LARRY
Of course, they do. Your eyes and your ears and your –

ROSE
But they don’t have me, Larry, they don’t have me.

LARRY
They’ll know you better than I will with all the stories I tell them! [Trying to cheer] They’ll know everything – you’ll be like a goddess to them! I swear so, Rose!

ROSE
They won’t have a mother. [Both quiet. Pause] My children will need a mother, Larry. You can’t do it by yourself.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
Children need their mother more than their father.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
It’s just natural that way, Larry – Children need their mothers more than their fathers. For support and – what are you to do, Larry? I can’t have it, you trying alone to –

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do.

ROSE
I want you to move on, Larry, I want you to move on soon as you can, to find a wife, better than me, a mother better than me.

LARRY
I can’t do such a thing, Rose ... Not yet.

ROSE
The children need a mother and you need a wife. You’re too good a man to be alone for one moment. I know so!

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do. I don’t know.

ROSE
You need a woman to take care of you. You need a woman who you can make love to like you did to me and – I must say such a thing, Larry. I must say it. Because that’s what you need. It’s what every man needs, the good and the bad ones. [Kitchen lights turn on, as one of the mourners from prior enters and leads in a doctor and two EMT’s carrying a stretcher. They move courteously, and quickly] Jenn loves you more than anyone, Larry, and you know so better than I. She will be there for you, for the children.

LARRY
I don’t know, Rose, I don’t know.

ROSE
I love you, Larry. I only want what’s best for you and –

[As the doctor and EMT’s enter, ROSE quiets and lies back, dead, as before. LARRY rises and tucks in her blanket. The doctor and others move around her and LARRY stands in the corner watching them with a grimace on his face. LARRY nods and enters the kitchen. He paces about the kitchen, sometimes going back to the door of the bedroom. ROSE is being gently put onto the stretcher. Once ROSE is loaded into the stretcher, and the EMT’s are moving her out of the house, LARRY is less nervy ... When he’s alone, he stands tall and seems rested. He takes out his iPhone and makes a call. As he speaks, he will walk casually about kitchen]

LARRY
Jenn ... It’s good to hear from you ... Yes, yes, she passed peacefully and without pain ... That’s what the doctor said ... Family ... some cousins and – mostly extended family, I guess, I don’t really know them ... No ... No, they’re not here. I brought them to my parents ... They will be there at least through the funeral, probably until they finish school and we can decide what to do... What you and I will do ... That’s right ... My parents understand ... They’re not expecting me back tonight. I told them I was going to stay at the house until the coroners came, and that I
would be away tomorrow morning at the funeral house ... They don’t know anything ... They won’t care. They never much like Rose, I don’t think ... No, they didn’t say anything, but you know ... No, they don’t know anything. But they remember you from – maybe from the wedding – I don’t remember ... Yes, soon.

[LARRY looks himself over in a mirror tacked onto the wall. He smiles, frowns, glares, and smiles again]

... I’m leaving right now, and will be over soon ... It’s alright, I don’t much care ... Do you? ... I know you don’t. It is what it is, as they say. [Laughs] It’ll be good to see you for real tonight … The first real time ... No, the red one ... The red one that I bought you last winter ... Yeah, that
one ... Want me to pick up anything? ... Merlot – Rose always hated Merlot ... No, I think it’s alright ... [Laughing] I’m serious, I’ll be right over and we’ll have a nice night together ... It’s been a long time coming. No more lying. She passed peacefully and it’s over ... I know ... I know ... I love you too.

[LARRY ends the call and checks himself over once more in the mirror. He’s chuckling to himself as he turns off all the lights in the house and exits]

Hunter Prichard is a writer residing in Portland, Maine. Follow him on twitter at @huntermprichard.