The Empty Bed

THE EMPTY BED was published in the book, When Falls the Coliseum. I'll be posting additional stories of mine as time allows.

This particular story holds a special place in my memory.


THE EMPTY BED

I was driving through the neighborhood when I spotted a cardboard sign propped on the hood of a car. The front door of the house was ajar and people were already milling about. It was an estate sale.

I parked across the street and grabbed my purse. Adrenaline already pumped through my veins. The house was a modest white bungalow in a bad need of repair. The yard itself was barren of flowers and attention. By the time I stepped through the foyer, I had already guessed that the resident had been an elderly male. Estate sales can tell a lot about a person.

The gentleman had apparently passed on. Everything was price tagged and personal effects were up for sale – even the paintings adorning the wall. Haste hung over the room like a boiling cloud. Someone wanted the house cleaned out and quickly.

I stopped to browse at the bookcase. There were ancient leather-bound books and dainty figurines. Either he or his wife had loved to read. I wondered, as I pulled each dusty book from its spot, how long his wife had been dead. He must have missed her. She obviously was gifted with the needle. Embroidered doilies were draped over the furniture. An old worn photo of a young sailor hugging his sweetheart slipped out of one of the books. She was radiant in her bouncy curls and sweater. Was it them? I slipped the photo back into its place and headed for the hallway. The linen closet was open wide and I made a mental note to come back and browse.

The kitchen was a mess. I was surprised to find dirty dishes stacked in the sink. “If you need any help, I’ll be in the other room.”

I glanced up at the smiling man. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and looked familiar. It dawned on me—he was related somehow to the sailor in the photograph. I mumbled a thank you and continued to dig and sort. I was making quite a racket as I dug through the cabinets.

It looked as if someone were still living in the home. There were hard boiled eggs soaking in a pan of water. The butter had been left out. I snuck a quick peek in the refrigerator: milk, half a cantaloupe, and not-quite-wilted lettuce. Maybe he died suddenly. I spotted a roasting pan and held it under my arms.

In a bedroom I was greeted by huge smiles and warmth from a photo of the sailor and his sweetheart. It was a vision of matrimony and love contained in a beautifully carved frame. Children and grandchildren were scattered about, each contained in their own special frames. On the table beside the bed was a cup with a teabag string dangling from its side. There were crumbs. Someone had eaten a cracker.

The bed’s blankets were pulled back. Someone had recently slept there. There were even brown slippers at the side of the bed. I stood there momentarily eyeing the teacup. I was starting to feel strangely uncomfortable.

The relative appeared in the doorway and was accompanied by another man. They were discussing the closets contents and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“Yes, we need to clear this all out by the end of the day.” The other man kneeled at some boxes and began attaching price tags.

The relative kept glancing at his watch. He wore a crisp polo shirt and white cotton shorts. He probably had a golf game. “Now, that box right there is for dad. He only needs a few undershirts. We can take it to the nursing home later tonight.”

The man checked his watch again. I glanced back at the bed. I pictured the elderly man being yanked from his sleep. I wondered if his sheets were still warm. What was he thinking right now? Did he know that strangers were walking through his house? I was still clutching the roasting pan under my arms. It grew heavy. I placed it on the dresser.

I hastily exited the house. Never had my hands felt so dirty.