What's The Worst... Chapter 04

On the TV the morning news presenters were doing their very best not to get any actual answers out of the politician of the moment; both Ira and Dorothy had agreed that these few minutes of coverage weren’t worth the license fee, and that they should e-mail the show and complain, but the laptop was still upstairs, as usual...

Ira looked out of the window, surveying the arc of the garden that was visible from his seated position. There was a time when he would have expected to see all sorts of birds flitting backward and forward between the trees and the various feeders hanging from them, not to mention the occasional grey squirrel darting around the willow tree, generally annoying the resident feathered folk. These days the visiting community appeared to have dropped to a couple of pigeons and one or two cats. Ira couldn’t remember whether he’d heard anything on the TV about shrinking wildlife populations, but hey, looking out of the window told him everything he needed to know on that front.

He looked back at the table, picked up the nearly empty coffee cup and drained the remaining contents. He and Dorothy had been trying a new blend in the machine, it was drinkable, but they’d be going back to their old brand next time around.

Dorothy had just gone upstairs, probably a quick change ready to face her public on the bus.

He gathered crockery and cutlery and moved them across to the drainer; at the side he noticed the list, ‘Hmm, no ketchup...’ he picked up the pen on the window sill and amended the list.

The kitchen table had a few odds and ends piled neatly on it, each of them representing a reminder or an actual job that needed to be done. There was also the newspaper, neatly folded ready for him, although he knew that the property section would be missing, carefully removed and stowed elsewhere...

Normally the dishes would have gone straight into the dishwasher, but it had been on the previous evening and neither of them had emptied it yet. He looked back at the residue of breakfast, considering which option was the lesser of the two evils, empty the dishwasher, wash the dishes by hand... he thought about his back, mentally winced and started to run hot water into the sink with a squeeze of suds.

Ira was about to start dumping the dishes into the sink when the kitchen door opened,

“Don’t worry about them Ira, I’ll do ‘em...” Dorothy’s chore-related spider-sense had obviously tingled...

Ira decided discretion was the better part of valour and stepped away from the sink, with another big grin on his face, Dorothy clipped him on the shoulder,

“Not a word, you...” as she stepped into the vacated position.

“What time is your bus?”

“It’ll be fine, I’ve plenty of time.”

He considered offering to make another cup of coffee, but knew the answer would be no, so decided not to.

“I’ll get a fresh tea towel, at least to dry the glasses”, Dorothy nodded, “OK”...

By now she’d washed the glasses, they were always first; then the knives and forks; then the cups. By the time Ira returned with the tea towel Dorothy had moved onto the plates.

As he approached the drainer he noticed that Dorothy was actually stood very still; she was stood very still and staring down at the plate in her hand. Her other hand held the brush, which had obviously swept once around the plate and through the large dollop of remaining ketchup, spreading it around the white earthenware surface, but now this too was still.

Ira recognised the condition. He had seen it on only a few occasions in their long time together but that had been enough.

Dorothy was seeing.

He waited, and watched.

Eventually a slight tremor started in her right hand, only perceptible because of the ripples it sent across the surface of the dish water.

Then a tear, first from her left eye, then from her right; they just welled up and fell, one after the other.

There was no sound.

More time passed.

Now her face, which had been blank, started to frown and crease; her left hand began to tremble slightly.

The brush fell from her right hand, the plate slipped in her left.

Ira moved closer, ready, waiting.

And then she released, almost threw, the plate into the water, under the water; she spun around with a single cry and reached out; Ira stepped in and hugged her closely, but gently, to his chest; she clasped his back, leaving damp hand prints on his shirt.

Her voice was thick with tears, “Oh Ira... the screaming... and the blood... so much pain and fear...”

“Here, sit.” He pulled a chair out from the table; Dorothy sagged into the seat. He handed the tea towel, she bunched it in her hands...

Outside a pigeon landed with a flurry on the lawn, settled and then exploded into the sky in startled fear; in the bright, warm sunshine it hadn’t expected the icy dagger of pain that flashed through its body and off into the distance and certainly could not even begin to comprehend what it had felt.