The Tragedy

The following short stories are fictional in all aspects. Any similarities to people, places or events are strictly coincidental.

This is an account of Bill as I knew him.

When I say tragic deaths one might assume that this couple was murdered by some intruder into their home in the middle of the night. That Bill and his wife were sleeping peacefully when a burglary gone wrong claimed their lives too soon. If that were the case, I still don’t know if it would make this story any more tragic than it already is. Unfortunately, though Shirley was murdered, it was not by an intruder. It was by her husband of many years, Bill, who then took his own life.

Bill was a strange man. He was an immigrant to Ontario from Quebec. He started his life in Thunder Bay with his wife of many years. His English was good, but he spoke it with a French accent which sometimes made his words incomprehensible.

For those who knew Bill, they knew he was opinionated, but it was often his opinionated nature that made him funny, and a joy to have around.

I first met Bill when I was waitressing at a restaurant in the small town of Kakabeka Falls, just five minutes from Bill’s home outside of Murillo. The restaurant was, when I started, Italian. It was a relatively popular place, known for their panzarottis and pizza. Bill often ordered pizza and sometimes panzarottis. I remember he liked black olives, because I don’t.

When he ordered a pizza, he would save half, and say “I am going to package this up, bring it home for my wife.”

Same with the panzarotti. Bill insisted on packaging it in a little Styrofoam container to bring home to his wife. But, he insisted, his wife did not like black olives.

What I remember most about Bill was his vulgar, and often times inappropriate sexual comments that I took with a smile and a good-natured response. The one that resonates in my mind the most is when Bill said “You shouldn’t waste your time becoming a teacher. You become a secretary. I’d hire you to be my sexy secretary.”

Bill made comments like this frequently. I grew accustomed to them very fast, and endured this type of behaviour for the four years that I knew Bill. I partly attributed his behaviour to the fact that he was an immigrant, and that was just the way things were done. I am very Americanized as the term goes, and I believe in humility, while other cultures do not necessarily believe the same thing. Cubans, for example, are very straightforward; if you gain weight, they will tell you. This isn’t a bad thing. And this is what I associated with Bill, that this was just the way things were done in his culture, and he never became Americanized. Some people didn’t understand this. Like my mother, for example, who was never fond of Bill. She often got annoyed at his behaviour, as did many other people who had a low tolerance for him. What irritated my mother the most was that Bill spoke French with some of his French companions. I don’t know why it bothered my mother; perhaps she was angry that she couldn’t understand what he was saying, or angry at the sound of another language being spoken that she found annoying.

For the most part, Bill was well known in Kakabeka Falls, and even in the city, in Thunder Bay. It was difficult to live in the area and not know Bill by name, or at least by face. Even in the city he was known around town at fast-food restaurants and a local bar.

When visiting my work for a meal, rather than for work, Bill would often come and sit with me and my husband. This irritated my husband, but didn’t irritate me. I liked Bill’s company. He was friendly, funny, intellectual, and many other things.

Bill wasn’t always about vulgar comments, but he was also very political. Bill knew everything going on in the world and always had something to say about it. And I was always listening attentively.

When my husband and I started looking for houses, Bill was there to help us along the way. We met him at the restaurant one day, and he insisted on taking us to a house he knew about for sale. He explained what kind of deal we would be getting and how much property. He was sincerely trying to help us, in a selfless act.

When we found a house and moved in, Bill surprised me one day by coming by to see it. He checked out the outside, asked about the well, gave me advice. He was helping, and was being a good friend. I appreciated his concern for our well-being.

One thing that bothered me was that Bill was unanimously shunned by women in the area. Not many women liked Bill. My own perception of that is that the women took offense to Bill’s harmless – but lewd – comments. I know that Bill was harmless and that his comments were always light-hearted, playful, and without malice; Bill would never act upon his comments. He was just a lonely man who wanted to get a few laughs. Perhaps women were taking his comments the wrong way; Bill was honest, although complimentary. He always had a compliment, although it may have been disguised as a vulgar one.

Not only was I working at the Italian restaurant at the time, but I had also started working at a little country restaurant down the road. I had never seen Bill come in there.

One day, with my employers, Bill came up in discussion.

“I don’t like him,” my employer told me.

When I asked her why, she insisted that he had made a rude comment and had been banned from the restaurant. The first reaction I had was pity; I felt sorry for poor Bill. I imagined that this rude comment would have been to a waitress – or a woman – about her appearance, and it had been taken to heart. One thing I knew about Bill was that his seemingly rude comments were never intended to be rude, but should have been taken light-heartedly. My second reaction was anger; how dare they ban an innocent old man from the restaurant for making a “rude” comment? I knew of another man, twice as vulgar as Bill, twice as outspoken as Bill, and just an all-around awful person. Yet they welcomed him with open arms. This man swore at me, called me an idiot, and is probably the most unpleasant person I have ever met in my life. Bill never came even close to acting like this man, so why did they ban Bill and not the other man? I could never understand this.

I have only met Bill’s wife on a few occasions. From what I knew of her, she had some form of physical disability in which walking was, at times, impossible, and at other times, very difficult. One time I saw her she was in a wheel chair – another, she was using a walker. I was led to believe by Bill that she underwent a surgery to correct her impairment.

Shirley was friendly, but reserved. She was not as outspoken as Bill, but she seemed pleasant.

Whenever Bill and Shirley came into the restaurant together, Bill appeared to be a typical husband. He held the door for his wife, and I never heard him speak a word against her while she was present. When Bill was on his own he often took words against her – but I can say that about all of the men who came into that restaurant. Some joked about their wives being obsessed with their weight, others about their exes, and so forth. Bill was not out of the ordinary in that sense.

Shirley often sat silently at her husband’s side, stirring her tea, sipping, looking off into the distance. Bill did the same. The pair was quiet when with each other. Again, not out of the ordinary from what I experienced as a waitress at that restaurant; many other elderly couples sat silently, stirring their drinks and staring off into the distance with the occasional conversation.

When I stopped working at these restaurants, I saw Bill less and less. I would see him occasionally when we went out to the restaurant for something to eat. This meant I probably saw him once every week or two weeks. He was still the same, happy to see us, happy to talk. I expected nothing different in his life, that nothing had changed.

Then, I stopped running into Bill altogether. For months I hadn’t seen him. We had been frequenting the restaurant all the while, but we never saw Bill there, nor his blue Ford Windstar that we looked for to identify if he was in the restaurant or not. For a while, I thought nothing of it.

I had never assumed Bill to be a violent man. He may have been slightly different than Ontario natives, different than what some people were used to, but violent? It never crossed my mind.

My mother called my house late in the evening, probably around nine o’clock at night. She said, “You know that murder suicide you were telling me about? It’s on the news. The house they are showing is Bill’s house.”

I gasped. I said no. I said no way, it couldn’t be. Not having satellite at the time to watch the news, I hurried to my laptop in my office to go to the website of the local newspaper. Sure enough, front page, was a picture of Bill’s house with the title Murder-Suicide right below it.

My heart sunk to the pits of my stomach and I felt about to cry. I couldn’t believe it. Like the suicide of a childhood friend several years before, the reality just refused to sink in.

I reluctantly, anxiously, unbelievingly, read the article. It specified that there had been a murder-suicide and it appeared as though Bill had shot Shirley, and then shot himself. The article went on to discuss a motive for this crime: Bill had apparently been charged with assault causing bodily harm earlier in 2010, in which five firearms he used for hunting were removed from his home. This assault, which I found out much later, was him pushing his wife down a flight of stairs. Again, this is all alleged, as even the newspapers stated that its veracity was in question. The police began an investigation when someone reported the incident, but Shirley never went to the police directly. Shirley apparently had many broken bones, although she did not call the police. It was her family that called the police, and had Bill taken into custody. Whether Bill did it or not is not for me to decide, nor should it matter. Many husbands and wives get into small physical altercations as well as big ones, and they don’t all go on to become murderers. So why characterize Bill as one because of this action that could have been, and likely was, completely unrelated?

What bothers me the most is the media coverage of this event. Every second day after the incident I picked up a newspaper and the story was plastered all over it. Once just wasn’t enough. The newspaper continuously printed practically the exact same story. What irritates me, and irritates Bill’s close friends, is how the newspaper portrays Bill. They discussed the alleged domestic dispute as a history of violence. That automatically makes it sound as though Bill was a well-known aggressor, even though this isn’t true. After their deaths, battered women groups began outcries of dismay, that Bill should not have been allowed out of custody as it goes against provincial domestic violence protocols. That is absurd. Don’t blame the police; if the police released him, there was just cause. Their “just cause” was likely that there was so little evidence by the time the investigation was underway, and furthermore, it wasn’t Shirley who phoned the police, it was her children! Had Shirley called the police, I am sure it would have been a different story.

The authorities eventually let Bill out of jail, with a restraining order from his wife. Not much more is expressed about this. All the article said was that Bill and his wife were both living in the marital home at the time of the restraining order. First, everyone jumped to the conclusion that Bill broke the restraining order and moved back into the house. But I think that it is also plausible that if Shirley asked Bill to come home, or if Shirley had left the home and come back, the restraining order was null and void.

What struck me as odd, is that Bill called the cops on that fateful December morning, at 10:00am. What was said during the phone call has not been released, but the newspaper did say that the content of the phone call led the police to go to Bill’s house for a possible firearms call.

After Bill’s death I spoke to a close, personal friend of his. I also knew this man personally through the restaurant as well. He was from Germany, and was just as interesting as Bill was. He was sometimes quiet, but also very opinionated on political topics. Both this man and I were shocked at Bill’s death, though this man knew a little more than I did about Bill’s last days.

This man, who shall remain nameless, expressed that Bill was clinically depressed. Bill had expressed to the police upon his arrest months before that he was depressed and needed help. The police ignored Bill’s pleas for assistance. Not only was Bill depressed and severely lonely but he also suffered from cancer. The veracity of Bill’s cancer is undetermined, as he was a reserved man and was probably even more depressed at the fact that he had cancer. He confided in this other man to take him to his doctor’s appointments. More so, this man went on to explain to me how upset Bill was that his children were, to quote him, “draining his bank account”. Now, I had known Bill was upset with his children, as they were ungrateful, as he called them, but I did not know that they were using their father for his money. This man also told me that his children were responsible for Shirley’s restraining order against Bill, but that Shirley had returned to the marital home and thus, voided the restraining order. Bill’s closest friend expressed to me that only three days prior to his death, Bill had called him. He told him, “I’m not going to be going for coffee today.” His friend thought nothing of it. Three days later, Bill killed himself and his wife. This man was deeply affected by Bill’s death, and told me that he missed him dearly. I, I must admit, miss him more than I expected I would. He was like a grandfather to me, or a father for that matter. However, one thing that struck me as peculiar that this man confided in me, is that Bill had expressed his disappointment with his children trying to separate him and his wife. Bill felt as though his children were undermining him and attempting to get Shirley to leave him. Bill said to his close friend, “Nobody is going to take my wife from me.”

There are many reasons that this murder-suicide could have occurred. The most plausible solution for the media and the police as well as many battered-women groups is that Bill was resentful about this restraining order on his wife, and out of hatred, killed his wife, feared jail, and then killed himself. I am not saying that this is not possible, but I am also stressing the fact that it is unknown why this happened, and many other scenarios are possible. Only Bill knows. Who are we to judge Bill for his actions when we’re not even positive why he did it? Well, I knew Bill. And I like to remember Bill as the selfless person that I knew, not the deranged psychopath the media has made him out to be.

This is not an account of the actual events of Bill and Shirley’s death, but a series of possible reenactments solely to shed light on such a terrible event in hopes that people will not judge Bill without knowing him.

One

Bill pulled off the highway, turning into his driveway, past the rickety gates that were seldom ever closed. Sometimes he closed them just because, mostly to fill his time with useless gestures. He parked along the front of the house, turning his van off and sitting in his seat for a minute.

Bill stared at the steering wheel and his aged fingers, pale. His nails, uncut. Bill sighed quietly and stepped out of the van, locking it over his shoulder with the remote. Slowly, in no hurry, Bill made his way up the handicap ramp built along the front and side of his beautiful home.

The door was unlocked, as he had left it. His wife, no doubt, was moseying around the house with her walker, struggling with every step. Bill closed the door quietly behind him and slid his shoes off of his heels with the tips of his feet, pushing them to the side.

“Bill?” His wife’s voice came from somewhere in the house.

“It’s me,” he called. He didn’t seek out his wife to say a proper hello or to express his love. Instead, Bill sought solace in his office at the back of the house. Bill closed the large oak door behind him with a deep, exasperated sigh. His head hung limp on his neck as his hand held his leaning body against the door.

Bill slowly made his way to his recliner in the corner of his office, set back from all of the filing cabinets and files. He propped up his feet and placed his hands behind his head, his fingers intertwined.

Bill thought about the news he had just received. His worst fears were confirmed. If only he had gone to the doctor sooner, maybe things would be different, maybe he wouldn’t have the horrible feeling in his stomach that he had then.

What had he left to live for? His bank account was empty. His life savings, gone. Where had it gone? He felt like every day he kept losing money. Bill was so modest, spending very little in a day. Perhaps a dollar and a half for a coffee, but his retirement savings had dwindled away before his eyes.

Bill wasn’t stupid, though. He knew exactly whose hands that money had gone into, and it wasn’t his own. Bill had generously set up an account accessible to his children and his wife, so that if they needed money they would never be in peril.

His friend had always advised him to change the account so that only he had access to the money, and if anyone needed it, they had to go through him. But Bill didn’t want to deny his family the money they needed. He hadn’t expected that they would take it all.

And now, what had he? He had nothing. He had a house, yes, a wife, yes. But this news from the doctor meant he had nothing. Would he see another day? He wasn’t sure. The doctor wasn’t specific, but had only told him they hadn’t caught it in time to think positively. Nonetheless, the doctor expected Bill to start chemotherapy, but Bill desisted.

“What’s the point?” Bill asked his doctor before getting up from his office and leaving in near-tears.

Now, Bill was faced with a decision. What to do next? There were options, no doubt, but some of his options required hope and faith. And Bill just couldn’t muster up even the slightest bit of hope in light of the doctor’s news.

Bill reminisced about the months prior, how they had been so very depressing and hectic. Bill and his wife had a tussle, as sometimes marriages do when faced with immense pressure. Shirley was OK, Bill had asked. He felt terrible for what he had done to her, and swore up and down he would never hurt her again.

“I love you,” Bill whispered to himself, his eyes closed, imagining his wife in her early years, before her wheelchair, before her walker, before her illness and his own. She had been the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, and it killed him to watch his wife’s health deteriorate, her ability to leave the house fall to pieces. He had always been the rock, the strong one, full of life and capability.

But now Bill was just as vulnerable as his wife.

When Shirley expressed to their children that she and Bill had an argument, and that things became physical, the children phoned the police and had a restraining order, separating him and his wife.

Shirley left their home reluctantly. Shirley knew Bill hadn’t meant her any harm. He had lost his temper in the heat of the moment, and she forgave him. After all, it was the only time anything like that had ever happened in all the years they were married.

From there, Bill’s depression increased. He felt lonely and defenseless. He had nobody to turn to, nobody to confide in that he felt would understand his immense pain. Bill tried to leave the house more often, to go for coffee with his friend and be social and forget his worries. But instead, Bill found peace only in his home, locked away in the darkness.

Shirley had returned home to him after a few months.

By then, Bill was too far into the darkness to turn back around.

Bill had come to realize that with his wife’s poor health, his own poor health and little money to do anything about it, life had become a haze. Life had somehow become a burden. It was not worth living.

Bill stood from his comfortable chair and left his office.

The radio was playing in the kitchen. He could hear his wife humming along to the songs. As he passed by the kitchen, he saw her with her back to him, knitting at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of tea steaming and the radio at her elbow.

Bill shuffled past the kitchen, careful not to be heard. He opened the big door to his basement and looked down the stairs, as if they were his destined path. He had walked those stairs a million times, but this felt different.

Bill held the railing as he ventured down the stairs, his knees aching, his back hurting.

What had happened to him? When had he gotten old? Bill remembered as a child he thought he was invincible. Bill thought he would never get old. I’ll never get old like my grandfather, he told himself. But there he was, old and falling apart, with cancer killing him from the inside.

That will be the day, Bill told himself, that will be the day that my own body kills me.

In the basement, Bill moved some boxes on his workbench to the side. Dust covered his aged fingers as he reached into the space where bricks were missing from the wall. He had to reach until his shoulder touched the cold brick, but there he felt the double barrel of a shotgun, cold and deadly.

When the police were called for Bill’s assault on his wife, they had taken his guns. Bill sat idly by as the police searched his home. Bill had five guns registered to his name, and the police had coldly taken all of them.

“He’s a threat,” one police officer said to the other, as if Bill could not hear, “they all need to go. Every last one of them,”

Bill studied his slippers.

“Is this all of them?” The police officer turned to Bill now, his eyes serious.

“You’ve taken them all, what more do you want from me? Jesus Christ,” Bill threw his hands above his head in anger as he walked swiftly across the cold basement and up the stairs.

They’re treating me like a criminal, Bill thought to himself, like a petty criminal. And Bill remembered, as he pulled the shotgun from the brick wall, how he had wondered if he was, in fact, a criminal.

This gun he had for many years. He had it as long as he could remember. It was grandfathered into his possession, and had never been registered. So, Bill never bothered to register it. But that gave him some peace, for Bill knew that if someone were to ever take his guns he would be left without protection. With this gun unregistered, Bill would hide it well and never have to worry about it being taken from him against his will. What if someone were to break into his home? He would be left defenseless, unable to protect his wife. Bill couldn’t let that happen.

So when Bill had bought his home, he deliberately knocked bricks from the wall with a sledgehammer to make a custom cubby specifically for that weapon. He put his workbench in front of it so it was unnoticeable.

Now Bill knew that he could protect his wife, and he would. Nothing would take his wife from him, not her disability or their children.

All Bill wanted was to be happy, to feel something besides loneliness and pain. He wanted to be loved and content in his old age, but as he dug deep into his heart with the cold shotgun in his hand, all Bill felt was hatred – hatred for his doctor, for his ungrateful children, and for himself. The only person he felt no hatred for was his beautiful wife, Shirley, who had always been by his side and had loved him unconditionally.

Bill leaned against his workbench and cracked the barrel of his shotgun, blowing the dust away. Two brass heads sat there in the barrels, as clean as the day he put them there.

Bill fingered the wood butt of the gun and the cold metal of the safety on the top. He sighed deeply as he stared at the shotgun. He couldn’t remember the first time he held a gun, but he remembered it was a special moment and that he had cherished it.

Now, Bill cherished nothing. The weapon in his hands was a device, and nothing more. He had no fond memories of his childhood, or of his adult years. All he felt was the pain for the here and now, the pain that kept telling him that the life he led meant nothing to anyone.

I’m all alone on this universe. My wife is being driven from my arms, my children the drivers.

While he was having coffee with his closest friend, he expressed his loneliness, “I’m having some terrible thoughts,” he said quietly.

His friend stirred his coffee thoughtfully, “You know what you need to do?”

Bill looked up, his eyes hopeful.

“Get in your van, and just turn up the radio,”

“Turn up the radio?”

“Turn the radio so loud that you can’t hear your thoughts, Bill, because right now your thoughts are your worst enemy,”

Bill nodded, though he put the suggestion in the back of his mind.

Bill closed the barrel of the gun and pointed it at the floor as he ventured back up the stairs, holding the railing to make sure he didn’t fall.

As he neared the top of the stairs, Shirley’s humming became audible again.

At the top of the stairs, Bill stood, pulling the door shut behind him. To his left was the kitchen where his beloved wife sat quietly. To his right was the living room, a phone in the corner.

Bill stood for a moment, but what felt like forever, contemplating his next move. Bill looked to the shotgun in his hand, and then to the photos on the walls around him. There were wedding photos, photos of his children as toddlers, and photos of grandchildren and family. These photos meant nothing to Bill. Except the wedding photo. That was the only moment in his life he ever looked back upon and felt proud for. He had married the love of his life, the woman that would be by his side through all his hardships. He was right, and he was wrong. She was there, as she had always been, but had been slowly drifting. Bill didn’t know what he could attribute that to – perhaps her depleted health, or maybe it was their children’s doings.

Bill’s aged fingers touched his wife’s face in the photo, making the frame swing back and forth on the wall.

The sound of knitting needles stopped in the kitchen, and the radio shut off.

“Bill?” Shirley called, her voice quiet and modest.

“Yes?” Bill called back, not moving.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to make a phone call,” Bill said, his eyes on the phone in the corner.

“Okay, then,” she said. The radio turned back on and the knitting needles clicked constantly once more.

Bill moved toward the phone, his heart racing, his hands shaking with the gun in his hand. He gripped it tighter for fear of dropping it.

Bill picked up the phone. His shaky fingers dialed 9 and then 1, and then accidentally hit 2. He hung up the phone, and turned it on again. This time, he controlled his fingers and dialed 911.

When the police dispatch picked up Bill said, “I have a gun, and I am going to kill myself. I-I’m going to use this gun to kill my wife, and then myself.”

“Excuse me, sir? What did you say?”

“I have a gun, and I am going to kill my wife and then myself,” he said, and then hung up the phone abruptly. He didn’t want to be too loud, to alert Shirley. He wanted her to remain unknowing, not to be afraid, not to worry about what lay after death. He wanted her to die peacefully, happy, content.

Bill didn’t know exactly how much time he had before the police arrived, but he knew it wouldn’t be long.

Bill walked slowly toward the kitchen, ignoring the pictures on the wall as he passed them.

“Shirley,” Bill mumbled as he came to the corner of the kitchen.

“Hmm?” She mumbled back, not turning around.

Bill stood in the door of the kitchen, looking at the back of his wife’s head. Her short, wavy grey hair sat against her head and neck. Her floral blouse moved on her shoulders as her busy hands knitted hastily.

Bill could distinctly see over her shoulder her chubby fingers moving and a gold wristwatch on her arm.

A tear fell from Bill’s eye as he stepped further into the kitchen, doing his best to be calm and quiet.

Bill wiped his runny nose with the back of his wrist, his eyes watering uncontrollably. He lifted the shotgun with one hand, bringing the barrel to his other hand.

Bill clicked off the safety, and Shirley froze.

Her fingers stopped moving and her neck stiffened. She stopped, but didn’t turn at the sound.

Bill sniffled, steadying the shotgun in his hands.

“Bill?”

Bill looked to his left, and then to his right. He contemplated what to do. Was he doing the right thing, or was it wrong? Was it all just completely wrong?

“Bill, what are you doing?” Shirley asked, still not turning around. Her fingers remained unmoving, tangled around the wool and needles.

“I love you, Shirley. I’m sorry,” he sobbed, tears covering his cheeks and lips, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you so much,”

Shirley fidgeted in her seat, her back stiffening as she tried her hardest to turn around with lame legs.

Before she turned, Bill pulled the trigger.

Bill fell to his knees in a fit of angry, emotional tears.

The gun remained locked in his arms as he fell on his back.

Tears streamed down his face, and he didn’t dare look to his wife. Instead, with shaky hands, Bill brought the barrel of the gun to his chin, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.

Two

It was a dark morning, darker than usual. Usually the sun was up by eight thirty, but it was now almost nine and the sun was still unfound.

Bill drove around the small village of Kakabeka Falls, taking side roads and back roads to kill time until his favourite coffee shop opened. They didn’t open until nine, and were sometimes late. If that were the case, Bill waited in his van in the parking lot, staring through the big front windows as if to say It’s nine o’clock, let me in.

That morning, they were open on time. Finally as he drove by, he saw them turn the “open” sign on and unlock the doors.

Bill pulled into the small, empty parking lot. He shut off his van and got out, his feet slipping under him just a little bit.

The parking lot had been plowed, but not salted.

Bill could see the owner of the restaurant inside, her thin, blonde hair tied into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her face was aged well beyond her years, her teeth practically rotting out of her mouth.

Though Bill liked to tease, he didn’t like to tease her, because he didn’t like her. Truth be told, he quite disliked her, and preferred to have as little contact with her as possible. Bill wondered where the waitresses were, hoping there would be one, so he would have someone to talk to.

He had come to realize that he didn’t go for coffee to have coffee, but to have a conversation. Sometimes he enjoyed the conversation with the waitresses, but sometimes he got a stubborn waitress who was stuck-up. On days like those, he prayed for other customers, other regulars, who would sit near him, or with him, and talk to him, make a conversation. About the weather, politics, Mexico, anything.

Just someone, anyone.

“Morning,” the owner said as Bill entered the restaurant.

Bill turned to his right, heading for his usual seat at the round table in the corner, surrounded by windows for him to look outside. His back hunched, he raised a hand to greet her, but said nothing.

“Tea today?”

Bill pulled the plastic, orange chair out to sit down. He took his hat off and sat it on the table in front of him, looking to the owner, “Coffee. Half coffee, half hot water.”

The owner turned to tend to his request.

Bill sighed and looked out the window in front of him. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before another customer would join him.

For an hour, Bill sipped his half coffee, quietly thinking.

Mostly, Bill thought about his son. He was a deadbeat. A loser. Mows lawns for a living. What kind of job is that? He’s a grown man and he mows lawns for a living. And he’s happy with that. Just happy with himself.

Bill scoffed under his breath. He looked at the clock. It was now ten thirty.

Bill paid his bill, and got back into his van. His daily routine. Get up early, go to the coffee shop, have a cup or two, and then head home to putter around the yard.

As Bill drove, he reminisced about and missed the days when his wife would get up and go with him. Those days were few and far between. She had been severely handicapped for many years, being confined to a wheelchair. She had corrective surgery, and was then able to use a walker.

But things were different. She was in constant pain and hardly ever left the house. Most days she would plant herself in one spot and not move for hours. Some days she would watch television, other days she would knit, and some days she would read.

It was difficult for his wife to leave the house. Even if she chose to leave the house, it was a tedious journey. Her journey down to the vehicle often took twenty minutes, and her journey into any building and out of the building was also time-consuming and frustrating. Not only for her, but for Bill as well.

Bill’s wife Shirley was unable to take her hands off of the walker as she was walking, as it put far too much pressure on her lower body. Therefore, Bill always had to be in front of her, holding doors open for minutes as she made her way toward him.

Bill left the house every day. It was frustrating for him to be confined to the house all day, day in and day out. But it never seemed to bother Shirley. She had come to terms with her handicap and had grown use to being a home-body.

So, Bill would venture out daily. Sometimes he would take a trip to town just for the heck of it, and sometimes he would drive miles away from home in order to see what everyone else was up to. Sometimes he even dropped by unexpectedly as a spur of the moment visit to his friends and acquaintances. Most days, though, the coffee shop was as far as he would go.

As Bill pulled up to his house on his right, his heart sunk. He felt fine when he left the house and got his mind on other things for the most part. But, when Bill returned home, he knew he would have to carry his wife’s burden all day long.

He did his best to be with her, but he grew bored and lonely, as Shirley spent a lot of her days sleeping and sitting in one spot doing things that Bill couldn’t share with her.

In the house, Bill met his wife in the hallway. She was on her way from the bathroom to the living room.

“Hello,” she mumbled, her eyes on the floor in front of her.

“Hello,” he said. He took off his jacket and shoes and hung them to his left. He stood in the doorway and watched his wife struggle along.

Shirley’s wide hips vibrated with her short, hasty steps. Her slippers were terribly worn because her feet seldom left the ground when she walked. They just slid across the floor. Her large, white arms were attached to narrow wrists, attached to a chubby hand and fingers. Her hands, covered in small liver spots, clutched to the walker for dear life, so much so that her knuckles were even more white than the rest of her skin.

Bill looked up to her face.

Her eyes were small, hidden behind large glasses. Her face was drained and very pale, the skin below her eyes was loose and aged. At 69 years old, she looked as though she had lived for almost a century.

“How are you feeling? How is your back?” Bill asked, slowly following his wife into the living room.

“It’s really painful,” she said quietly, still quite far from her reclining chair placed in front of the television.

Bill sometimes wished that he could pick her up and carry her to ever destination, as he could when he was young. But she was far too frail, as was he.

Bill continued to watch her shuffle.

Sometimes, Shirley would moan with pain as something in her hips would pinch or ache.

Eventually, Shirley got to her chair. Sitting down was even a chore for her.

Bill had always told her to just fall back into the chair, as it would be quicker.

Shirley had insisted if she did that, she would be a lot worse off, in more pain than necessary from the too-sudden movement. So, Shirley would spend a few minutes turning all the way around so her back was facing the chair.

Shirley held the walker even tighter in her hands as she slowly, very slowly, bent her knees. She did this motion so slowly that she would know the exact moment she came into contact with the chair. And when she did, she would ease into the chair, her walker remaining in front of her.

Bill remained down the hallway, watching his wife from afar.

Spots of tea were spilled down the hallway from the kitchen to the living room. Bill expected she had made herself some tea, and had a difficult time holding the walker with both hands and holding a cup of tea.

Sometimes, to Bill’s dismay, the wheels on the walker got away from Shirley and she would fall. It hurt Bill to see his wife crumble without a formation of metal designed to help her stand, walk, and carry out daily tasks.

Bill remembered a time when he insisted that Shirley attempt the walk down the handicap ramp, holding the railing at her side, but without her walker.

Shirley pled with Bill to give her walker back, her hands clinging to the railing for dear life.

“Just try,” Bill insisted, wanting to see progress, wanting to see a healthy wife who didn’t rely on anything to help her walk.

“Bill, I can’t, give me my walker,” she cried, nearly in tears.

Bill sighed, pushing the walker toward her so that she could reach it.

As Shirley reached out with one hand to grab it, her other hand still on the railing, her feet slipped on the icy wood of the deck beneath her, and she tumbled down the ramp with her walker crashing after her.

Shirley hit the railing of the corner of the ramp, the walker smashing into her head. She had cried out in pain so profusely that Bill had thought the worst. He expected something had been broken. Bill rushed as fast as his aged knees would take him down the ramp, careful not to fall as she had. As he reached her, she began to clutch her arm.

Shirley cried out in pain, clutching near her shoulder.

“Shirley, Shirley,” Bill called, rushing to help her up.

It had turned out that Shirley had broken several bones in her arm. This meant Shirley had to be in a motorized wheelchair until her arm healed as she was unable to use her walker. This meant that Shirley left the house even less than she had before.

This was when Bill realized that things weren’t going to get better, only worse. Bill spent the night with Shirley in the hospital. As she had slept, he thought about their life together.

Though Bill loved Shirley with all his heart, and he knew that she loved him, too, he couldn’t help but sense that they were drifting apart as a couple and as people.

When Shirley was released from the hospital, their children concluded that Bill had pushed Shirley down the stairs. So they phoned the police. Bill was heartbroken at this gesture, proving once and for all that his children had little love and no faith for him. All they wanted was to see Bill suffer by doing everything they could to take Shirley away from him.

So things went on from there. The police arrested Bill, asked him a bunch of questions.

Bill denied everything. What was there to agree with? They had it wrong. All wrong.

With a restraining order prohibiting Bill from seeing his wife, the police let him go home. Expecting to see Shirley, he came home to an empty house. Bill had cried himself to sleep that night, wondering where Shirley had gone and why.

When the police removed Bill’s guns from his home, Bill felt raped. He felt violated and naked. The police had misunderstood the entire event, and because his children swore that Bill pushed his wife down the ramp, Bill lost his hunting guns. If his children had not already taken most everything of worth from him, the guns were surely the last valuable things in his home.

It had been a few weeks since Shirley had healed as Bill stared at her sitting in her chair from the hallway. He didn’t know how long he had been reminiscing, but his sore knees told him he had been standing there a while.

“Bill?” Shirley asked.

“Yes?” He asked, but did not move.

“Can you get me my painkillers?”

Bill turned on his heels slowly and made his way down the hall and around the corner to their modest bathroom. As Bill opened the medicine cabinet, his heart sunk even lower at the depressing sight. Four racks in the medicine cabinet, and they were all lined with prescriptions. Most were for Shirley’s pain, her arthritis, her diabetes, her poor heart. Some were for him, but most read her name.

Bill tried to go through the pills to think what each one could be for, but even with the labels in front of him he couldn’t remember what they had been prescribed for and if Shirley even used them still.

All he knew was that every day, she took dozens of pills.

Sometimes from her pills, Shirley was so delusional that Bill couldn’t even have a conversation with her. She wouldn’t know who he was. Shirley could be sitting there staring at him, and she would see right through him.

Bill picked up the familiar bottle with the red cap. He knew well that it was Shirley’s prescription for her pain in her lower body. She took several of them in a day.

Bill brought the pill bottle to his wife, and over her shoulder he handed the bottle to her.

Shirley’s hands met his, taking the pill bottle. Her hand quivered and she coughed. Shirley took a moment to dab her lips with the tissue that was clipped into her wristwatch. For a moment, she didn’t move, as if expecting another cough, more painful than the last.

Bill watched her from her side.

Shirley struggled for a moment with quivering hands, trying to open the pill bottle. She dropped three pills into the palm of her hand.

“Three? I thought you were only supposed to take one at a time, Shirley.” Bill spoke up, noticing.

Shirley put the pills on her tongue and reached for her cup of tea. She brought it to her lips slowly and sipped it for a few moments, swallowing.

“Shirley,” Bill said again.

“I’m in pain, Bill,”

“I know, Shirley, but you’re only supposed to take one,”

“My whole body aches. I can’t feel anything but pain. I just want the pain to go away, Bill,”

Bill watched his wife settle the tea on the table to her left and then lean back gently into the chair to watch one of her television shows.

Bill expected her not to move for several hours, and she would likely not speak to him either.

So Bill ventured up the stairs to his bedroom. Shirley had moved to the ground-floor bedroom when climbing the stairs became far too difficult for her to do. So, the upstairs bedroom had become his, as they had been sleeping apart for months.

Across the room, under his mattress there was a shotgun, a double-barrel shotgun that had been in his family for years. His grandfather had given it to his father, and his father had given it to him. It had never been registered, and was likely not worth any money. It was mostly of sentimental value to him.

Bill sat on the bed, the gun lying across his lap, his hands on top of the cold metal.

There would be shells inside, he was sure. He had initially put the gun there to ensure that if someone were to break into his house in the middle of the night he would be prepared. No fumbling about in the darkness to find shells stashed away in his underwear drawer, no stubbing toes as he shuffled across the room. No, this would be a swift movement that he was sure would save his life, and perhaps take another’s.

Downstairs, a loud hacking was heard.

Bill cringed at the sound. His wife’s incessant coughing had become stressful on her body as well as on his patience. He was watching her wither and die before his eyes, and he felt helpless and angry.

Bill sat the gun on the bed at his side, and eased off the bed to his knees. He brought his hands in front of his face, entangled in each other.

Tears streamed from his sad, blue eyes as he looked to the ceiling, but past it. To God.

“Please God,” Bill began in a begging tone, “please give me the strength to do what I need to do. Please, God, don’t judge me for my sins, past and present. I love my wife, dear God, I love my wife.” Bill felt like a child, on his aching knees, praying to a god he had never believed in before.

I want to be sure, Bill thought to himself, I want to be sure I won’t be judged.

Bill wiped his eyes viciously with his cold, calloused hands. All he wanted was happiness for him and for his wife. He wanted his wife to be young, healthy and full of life. Not the lump she was, withering away in a chair as old as her.

Bill stood, determined. He grabbed the gun and held it as tight as his hands would hold it. His gold wedding band clanked against the metal of the gun as he grabbed it.

Bill breathed in and out deeply before moving, almost as if he were giving himself a pep talk in his head.

Another vicious, horrendous hacking noise came from downstairs. This time it wasn’t just a quick hack, but a constant, phlegm-filled hacking that sounded as though poor Shirley was dying.

That was it. That was all he needed to hear. Bill held the gun tighter and made his way downstairs, careful not to fall.

He hurried down the hall, picking up the phone. As he dialed the police, he began to cry uncontrollably.

“Bill?” Shirley called from the living room. She didn’t move or attempt to turn around, nor mute the television.

Bill ignored her.

“911 emergency,” dispatch answered.

“I need to end this. My wife is in pain, and I need to put her out of her misery. She deserves to be happy, and to be healthy,” Bill sobbed through uncontrollable tears. Bill dropped the phone, letting it hang by its cord. He stormed to the living room, in front of his wife in the chair. His gun hung at his side.

Shirley didn’t move. She looked from the television to Bill, and then down to the gun in Bill’s hand. The sight of the gun did not move her, “What are you doing?” She asked.

“I’m doing,” he paused, sobbed, wiped his eyes, “what needs to be done.” Bill raised the gun so that it was pointed at her. His hands shook, shaking the gun. His finger moved from the butt of the gun to the trigger guard.

Shirley’s face was unchanging. Her lips parted so she could breathe, her eyes focused on the end of the barrel pointed at her face. Her eyes met Bill’s once more. She was calm, and quiet.

“I love you,” Bill whispered. He waited a moment, and then pulled the trigger of the gun, his shoulder being tossed back by the force.

Immediately, Bill turned away with a cry, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth. His eyes shut tightly.

Quickly, he glanced back to where his wife sat in the chair.

Shirley’s head hung, her chin against her chest.

Bill stepped forward, half expecting her to survive this shot. He picked up her hand, her fingers limp and freezing in his. He spotted her wedding ring on her left hand, and his heart throbbed so hard in his chest he felt as though it might explode out.

Bill stepped back, falling into his chair adjacent to Shirley’s. His head lolled to the right, the barrel of the gun pointed to the floor.

The television screen flickered, and although he looked at it, he saw nothing.

A life without Shirley was not a life he wanted to live. Though Shirley’s last years were defined by pain and unhappiness, all Bill could see was a flickering picture in his head of earlier, happier years. Even if he let himself be arrested, Bill would surely die soon in prison. His old bones and joints and tired heart would be unable to endure such an event.

Slowly, Bill turned the gun around in his hand, and found himself staring down two, long barrels. He felt tired and cold, lonelier than before.

Bill opened his mouth, resting the barrels on his teeth. He took his right arm, stretching it in order to reach the trigger.

Bill’s eyes wandered to the window. The world outside he had once fallen in love with was now cold and uninviting. The world outside was filled with hate, and he couldn’t stand to be in such a depressing world for even a moment longer. Slowly, Bill’s eyelids closed, and he slowly put his finger against the trigger.

Squeeze, don’t pull.