The Gray Widow

The following account was related to me during a visit to the Shady Glen Retirement Home & Assisted Living facility. Then again, there's a good possibility that I made the whole thing up.

It started as a joke. Really. It did.

Busby and I were talking one day outside the cafeteria shortly after a bland, tasteless lunch and yet another "desert of Jell-O origin" had been picked over by the residents. The orderlies had just rolled old Mr. Zellman out with his oxygen tank and decorative array of tubes, and many of the other residents were milling about, teetering and hobbling with no apparent direction when Busby told me he was using Viagra.

At first, I thought the little troll was coming onto me, but then I remembered Busby has a penchant for ladies that are a bit more rotund than I, not to mention decades younger. And in the years we'd been neighbors, he'd come to consider me a friend - of all things. So he was informing me of his latest pharmaceutical adventure not with any sexual overtone, but merely as he would his other cronies were any of them still alive.

"That's a lovely thought," I said with obvious distraction, not wanting to think about the wrinkly widower in an "amorous" state. Then, for no good reason, I asked Busby what he thought Viagra would do to a decrepit old coot like Mr. Zellman.

Busby scratched his silver stubble for a moment, rand a hand over the his pink bald head, and then said, "I suppose it would have the same effect on him as anyone else." He chuckled a bit, and then added, "But the sex would no doubt kill him."

"It probably would," I agreed.

But then another darkly humorous thought occurred to me. "Of course, that would free up his room for someone else," I said.

"That's right," Busby said. "He's got that big bay window overlooking the courtyard and the Alzheimer's Ward. Half the people in this place have been waiting for him to die off, so they could put in for that room."

And that's when I said it.

Now, I've had a few moments in my life that one might consider epiphanies, turning points, catharses, etc.; you know, those defining moments that ultimately change the fabric of one's existence. But up until that point, those moments had generally altered my existence for the better. This defining moment, however, must have been granted to me by the powers that be just to balance out the others, for it would almost dismantle me completely in what should be my quiet, twilight years.

And it started with these words:

"Give me a couple of your pills, Busby, and I'll have that room as my own in no time."

I said it started as a joke, and I truly felt the humor behind that statement when I said it, and I think Busby did, too. But intermingled with that humor was a profound curiosity, as well as a deep-rooted certainty that I could not only pull it off, but that I could get away with it.

Busby must have picked up on that as well. He was an aging scoundrel, a rogue with a checkered past, and he must have seen the glint of malice in my eyes. (The glaucoma had not yet robbed them of every glint.)

But Busby didn't say anything. He only smiled, and when he did, his upper plate slipped, making him look like a withered Great White shark, extending teeth that were only suited for mashing oatmeal or a nice banana. The plate clattered as he thumbed it back into place before it could fall out of his mouth.

Reaching into the pockets of his gray Dickies coveralls, he extracted several pill bottles, and began examining the labels through lenses that could have been used to view the surface of Mars. With his specs resting on the end of his nose, and his eyes about twenty times their normal size, he finally found the correct bottle, and shook a couple pills into my hand.

I looked at them, and I felt like a mobster looking at a shiny, new pistol. It struck me that I indeed held in my hand a weapon of sorts. The pills would work in conjunction with my body, but there was no denying that in my hands they were lethal.

"So this is what I'm going to . . ." Busby held up a hand. "But I have to . . ." I began, but he shook his head, cutting me off. "But I just . . ." He cut me off again.

Busby didn't want to know any of the particulars. The sly bastard knew the gist of the plan. He was an accomplice already, but he didn't want to know anything else. I can't say I blame him.

"This prescription is not on any record, and you and I have never had a conversation about enhancement pills, sex, or even Mr. Zellman," Busby said. "Understood?"

"Yes," I said, and watched Busby wander off down the hall toward his room without looking back.

A couple hours later, in my own room, I went over my plan: I'd wait until 4:30. Dinner would be over by then, and the orderlies always left the more severe residents in their rooms for some "alone time" after dinner. "Alone time" was just an opportunity for the staff to have a smoke, or to at least get away from the smell of old people approaching death for a little while. From there, I would sashay down to Mr. Zellman's room, let myself quietly in without being seen, and send the old guy off into the ever after with a bang.

A simple plan for a simple reward.

There's a strange phenomenon that accompanies something of this nature. One might call it a "self-convincing" phenomenon if you will, or perhaps a "coming on board" dynamic. You see, when I first mentioned the idea to Busby, I was purely joking. When I tried to let him in on the plan, I was still just joking - for the most part. And even as I formulated the details of the plan in my room, I was not entirely serious. But the deeper I got into the planning phase, the more the humor wore off, the more the hypothetical mental exercise became something tangible. And by the time dinner rolled around the next day, I was totally committed to carrying out the outrageous scheme. It no longer had any elements of a joke left in it.

I admit I panicked a little bit when Mr. Zellman wasn't in the dining room. The plan was aborted, and the whole crazy idea surely would have slipped from my mind completely, but Ernie wheeled him in after a few minutes, and my courage quickly returned. I resigned myself once more to the plan.

It was difficult for me to eat, as I watched Ernie spill cream corn down the front of Mr. Zellman's shirt. My nerves were thrumming as wildly as possible for a woman my age, and when the big orderly got up to get an extra towel for the mess, my heart nearly thudded out of my chest.

Without hesitation though, I crossed the room to the old man, thankful that Madge Pinkerton was on a rant. She was always on a rant about something, and her entire gaggle often got boisterous, creating choruses of gravelly, lifetime-smoker voices and waves of gesturing, flabby arm-skin. It wasn't a pretty sight, even to all the seniors in the place, but the ruckus kept everyone's attention on Madge's corner table and off me as I approached my target.

Before Ernie could return, I reached into my sweater pocket, and retrieved a couple of items that I thought were the pills Busby had given me. In my haste, however, I had left my glasses on the dining table, and I couldn't tell if the objects were in fact the Viagra or the Tic Tacs that Lewis Kilgore's annoying grandson had been handing out to all the female residents earlier in the day. He thinks it's cute to hit on the old ladies, and he'd been handing out Tic Tacs under the auspices that there would soon be a lot of smooching going on, as well as the pitching of other types of woo. But the moment Gladys Furlong moved her green polyester-covered butt in for a kiss, the little coward ran off.

Maybe I'll settle his hash after I take care of Mr. Zellman, I thought. I was getting cocky.

At any rate, I didn't have time to go back for my specs, so I shoved what I hoped were the pills between Mr. Zellman's crusty lips and to the back of his throat. I then lifted the sippy cup and got him to swallow some water. A quick check with my finger that the pills had gone down, and I scurried back to my table.

Once there, I put on my glasses and checked the contents of my pocket. There were only two cinnamon Tic Tacs and no pills inside. Mr. Zellman had swallowed the Viagra.

From there, all I had to do was wait, and hope that the pills didn't start to work before Ernie got the old man back to his room. Mr. Zellman could not talk or go to the bathroom by himself anymore. If his little soldier suddenly stood at attention, it might just raise a few eyebrows.

Fortunately, Ernie soon gave up shoveling cream corn into the old man's mouth just to have it fall back out, and unceremoniously wheeled him out of the dining area.

I was alive with anticipation, but I forced myself to act naturally. I even took the time to spout off with Madge and the other nicotine sisters about the water aerobics class, and the cute fifty-three year old instructor with the thick mustache. But before they could swallow me into their cabal, I made an excuse, and left them ranting, and laughing, and coughing.

As I walked down the hall, I saw Ernie leaving Mr. Zellman's room, closing the door behind him, as he scurried away. No doubt he was off to meet Shela McBride - the floor nurse, and the biggest slut in the home - for an afternoon pickle tickle.

I pretended to be simply strolling along, whistling a happy tune, and I even nodded at Ernie as he went by. But the moment he was out of sight, I slipped into Mr. Zellman's room, and made sure the door was locked.

The old man was still in his chair, an indication that someone would be around again soon to bathe him, or change him before bedtime. Also, Ernie had left him sitting at that wonderful big window overlooking the courtyard and the Alzheimer's ward. It was what I was there for. I had to work fast.

Fortunately, Busby's pills seemed to have started working their magic. I lifted the blanket off Mr. Zellman's lap, and immediately saw the evidence. Without hesitation, I unzipped the old man's trousers, and freed his gnarled old twig. He looked at me with a true hint of understanding. It was the first time I'd seen anything resembling lucidity in him since I'd become a resident at the home four years before. Even a man with one foot in the grave will rally for sex if he's at all capable. Don't ever doubt that.

It was unlikely that anyone could see in, but I didn't want to take any chances, so I wheeled the chair back from the window a bit. I then slid Mr. Zellman down on the chair for better access, removed my unmentionables, and hiked up my skirt. Just to make things easier, I used a dab of KY, and climbed on board.

Both my hips popped loudly at being stretched into that position after so long a hiatus. My thighs and lower back moaned at having to support me in such an awkward position, and when I began to move up and down, the sound of the wheelchair squeaking and my knees and hips popping would have alerted a group of people with keener hearing than those in the rooms around us.

I wasn't sure how long it would take to finish him off, but I soon began to get a little concerned. Mr. Zellman wasn't dying. Not only was he not dying, he almost looked like he was enjoying himself. Somewhere in those glazed over eyes, the old man was a young buck again, and he was all too happy to service this doe.

Well, I was there with a purpose, so with all my strength, I kicked up my rocking motion a couple of notches. My extra exertion caused the chair to roll backward, where it finally came to a stop against the door. We were anchored, but the old bastard wasn't clutching at his chest, or passing out from excitement. The fool was smiling! He was enjoying himself.

This unexpected development made me angry. Who was he to foil my plan? I was outraged.

I rocked even harder, but now, I was slamming him into the door. The noise was too loud to be ignored, but I was in a rage. I grabbed him on either side of his head and rocked his whole withered body back, including his liver-spotted skull. It wasn't part of my scheme, but his head banged into the doorknob once, and the smile left his face. That small victory fueled my anger, and I banged his head over and over and over again into the doorknob. There was no blood, but the blunt force was doing its work marvelously.

Finally he expired.

Quickly, I zipped him up, and collected my things. I turned over his chair and placed him on the floor to make it look as though he had fallen. With caution, I opened the door, and looked both ways down the hall. The residents in the surrounding rooms might have heard something, but there was no one about. The coast was clear.

I slinked away, like a cat burglar, and went to move my application for Mr. Zellman's room to the top of the stack.

It didn't take long to make the room my own. Mr. Zellman had sparse decorations, and I had all of his stuff out the first day. In no time, the room took on my personality, and I quickly came to love reading in front of the big window, or just staring out remembering the trials of my youth. Motherhood, grandmotherhood, marriage - they had all been good to me, and I so enjoyed recalling those times while the sun warmed my face through the glass.

After only three weeks, however, Ernie escorted a couple of men to my room, and after the orderly left, they introduced themselves as homicide detectives. It seems someone had reported noises coming from Mr. Zellman's room the day of his death, and Shela McBride and Ernie had both mentioned that I had been wandering in the area at the time.

Well, the evidence was flimsy, and I played innocent. But then one of the men grabbed me hard by the arm, and with sour breath, told me Busby had squealed.

Busby. Damn that little troll. I knew he had fingered me, because he wanted the room. I was defeated.

I sat down in my chair, wondering if they would send an old woman like me to prison. Wherever they sent me, I was sure I would no longer be in my wonderful room. The courtyard was sunny with cool shadows cast by the elms. Some larger oaks covered the face of the Alzheimer's ward like whiskers, and . . . Wait . . . Of course . . . That was it. The Alzheimer's ward!

It was my only chance.

I stood up, my back to the window, and looked lovingly at the two men. "You boys stop your fighting. And be careful down at that swimming hole," I said, trying to use the same inflections I'd used with my own boys way back when.

"Excuse me?" said one of the detectives.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, affecting the best confused look I could. "Henry should be here soon. He's taking me to the carnival. My sister and I went last night, but I told him I haven't been yet. Don't tell him, okay?"

"What?"

"We've been going steady for almost a month," I said, and sauntered back to the window with an airy playfulness. "He's going to ask me to marry him, and I'm going to say yes."

The detectives looked at each other, but gave no hint that they were buying it.

"Umm . . . I'm sorry," I said after a moment. "I get confused sometimes. Will you take to have my breakfast now?"

"It's five o'clock in the afternoon," one of the detectives said, and shook his head in defeat.

"This is just great," the other one said. "The Gray Widow. She mates, she kills, and then she forgets."

Looking out the window, with my back to them, I smiled. At least I got to enjoy the room for a little while.