BEATING THE REAPER
John Laneri

Arthur Fralen was waiting when the door to his room opened. It seemed he was always waiting waiting for meals, waiting for joy, waiting for the inevitable.

Good morning, Arthur, beautiful day.

Wouldn t know.

Nurse Weatherall fluffed his pillow and continued, For breakfast, we re having oatmeal, bananas and juice—your favorites.

Like hell they are. I need a shot of Scotch whisky and a good cigar—something to get my motor running.

Oh Arthur, you say that every morning. Did you sleep well?

Who sleeps in a nursing home? The Grim Reaper lurks in every corner.

Turning away, she hurried to open his window shades, recalling the years she had known him.

From what she knew, Arthur had been a vigorous man for most of his ninety-two years; however, with his wife gone and most of his family scattered about the country, the effects of age were slowly beginning to overtake him. Now, he seemed to move from one major cardiac event to another in an unrelenting downward spiral.

Open your eyes and try to wake up.

What for? All I ever see is you, and you re not my type—too bossy. And, close that blasted window. I don t need sunlight. I need girlie magazines; pictures of the real world.

You're too old for that kind of stuff. It's not good for your heart. She started for the door. I'll be back with your breakfast so try to think good thoughts.

I am thinking good thoughts.

~

A sponge bath followed breakfast and a morning nap. Then Nurse Weatherall helped Arthur into his fresh bathrobe and paper slippers and to his favorite chair in front of a large picture window.

Would you like me to read to you? she asked after getting him situated.

He turned to her, his bushy eyebrows narrowed. No! Now, leave me alone. I have work to do.

Then, you have to promise you won't get out of that chair. You might fall again.

Annoyed, he mumbled, Okay, okay. I ll stay in the chair. Just leave me alone. Give me some space.

With Nurse Weatherall's retreat, Arthur directed his attention to the scene beyond his window.

Before him, the nursing home lawn led to a typical suburban neighborhood, complete with trees, sidewalks and a row of houses sitting modestly in the morning sun.

For entertainment he watched neighbors come and go; observed children at play; but his real love, the only reason his day-to-day existence remained motivated, was the attractive housewife in the white stucco house directly across from his view.

The woman was distinctly special.

Even from his window, he was more than able to appreciate her agile body and provocative manner. He liked the way she moved as she glided about the yard, going from one activity to another. On days when the light was right, he awoke to a glowing iridescence as the sunlight filtered through her hair. Without doubt, she was the only highlight of his life.

In many ways, she was the reason for his latest cardiac episode. The event, as best he could remember, came about during an afternoon nap—one that featured her beside a pool, sunbathing in the nude.

Come out you pretty little thing. Arthur is waiting.

Feeling a twinge of rejection, he looked from one side of the house to the other, searching for signs of life. Concluding that all was quiet, he yawned. Then, for the second time that day, his eyelids became heavy, and he quietly drifted into his late morning nap—a good one, complete with suntan oil and soft, warm skin.

~

Later in the day, as he was finishing lunch, he noticed a green sedan cruise slowly along the street and stop two houses away. Coming alert, he patted the arm of his chair and said aloud, We have action—finally some action!

A well-dressed man stepped from the car and paused. Once satisfied that all was well, the man started toward the white stucco house and hurried to the door.

After a single knock, she appeared.

Suddenly, Arthur's heart skipped, with several irregular beats in rapid bursts rumbling across his chest. Ignoring the heart, he inhaled a deep breath, trying to soothe the sensation, and eased forward hoping to see more.

Today, she was wearing red shorts and white sandals, his favorites. He studied the shorts, admiring the way they accentuated the legs and hugged the thighs. When he saw her fingers move to the blouse, he smiled, knowing that she was saying I have many wonderful secrets, and they're yours to share.

Wow, did you see that? he said to his chair, as he watched the man step into the house and close the door.

Still staring at the scene, he settled back in his chair to consider matters. From past observations, he knew that it would be several hours before she again reappeared. Her routine seldom varied.

Before long, his eyelids again became heavy, and he drifted into another nap. His dream took him to white sandals and red shorts tossed to the wayside in a passionate frenzy, then on to fingers merrily touching real flesh and the warmth of human contact—joys far beyond his reach.

On awakening, he yawned once and looked about. The sun, he noted, had shifted further to the west. The green sedan sat quietly at the curb, and the stucco house gave no outward signs of life.

A movement from the street diverted his attention.

Turning to look, he saw a black Thunderbird approaching. A smile formed on his lips as he watched the car ease into the driveway of the white stucco, and its occupant, a tall lanky man with curly hair and a bushy mustache, step out and head to the door.

Arthur knew him as the Master of the House.

He waited, his anticipation growing as the minutes ticked off. Maybe, his conclusions had been wrong. She could be a hair stylist or a mystic or even a masseuse dealing exclusively with men.

Suddenly, his heart kicked into another flurry of irregular activity the effect sending a crush of chest pain radiating to his neck.

Ignoring the heart, he again adjusted his glasses and leaned forward for a better look. A subtle shifting of the bushes at the side of the house had attracted his attention.

We have a head, he said, patting the chair excitedly. With a grunt, he pushed against the chair, attempting to assume a standing position, his fingers digging into the fabric.

His first try was unsuccessful, and he fell back into the chair, his body bouncing against the cushions and coming to rest as a crumpled heap of skin and bones.

The head reappeared searching the driveway, carefully studying the situation.

Again, pushing against the chair, Arthur continued his efforts, determined to gain his vantage. With a mighty shove, he came to his feet and took two or three cautious steps. His hip nearly collapsed. When it held, he propelled himself by a series of shuffles to the side of the window where he clutched the glass for support.

The head quickly became a man wearing boxer shorts.

Arthur watched as the figure eased along the driveway, moving carefully one step at a time. Better move faster than that young fellow. You might get caught.

As if on cue, the man reached the front corner of the house, carrying an armload of clothes, then burst across the lawn running rapidly towards the street. A shoe tumbled to the side, bouncing across the grass.

Suddenly, the front door of the stucco house flew open, and the master emerged. A handgun appeared followed by a single uncontrolled gunshot.

Arthur's heart kicked into another series of irregular beats, the chest pain extending to his shoulder. A siege of vertigo followed. He started to falter, his fingers sliding against the glass in an attempt to remain standing, his lungs gasping for air.

Across from him, the runner sprang into the street, the legs propelling him onto the nursing home lawn directly toward his window. In the distance, he saw the master raise his weapon and steady it with both hands.

A gunshot exploded. The armload of clothes went flying. Another shot, and the ground beside the runner's foot erupted, causing him to stumble and fall to the turf.

Get up, move! Arthur shouted, his fingers frantically clutching the glass.

The runner jumped to his feet and scrambled away moments before another shot cracked through the air and crashed into the bushes before the window.

Still planted squarely on the porch, the master poised for a final shot, his feet spread. He steadied the weapon tracking the runner, following him as he darted in and out through a clump of trees.

Arthur watched as the runner turned away from the trees and made a dash to his car a move that sent him diving headlong through the driver side window. Behind him, a bullet thudded against the car door, missing by inches.

You're almost home, Arthur said. Better hope those keys are in your pocket. His heart skipped more beats, each coming in rapid succession, pausing then continuing in a series of frenzied runs. Get the keys out, you idiot. You can't hide in the car!

An impact screamed against the car trunk sending bits of paint flying. The car roared to life and sped off down the street.

A final shot of frustration echoed from the porch as the master squeezed off one last round before stepping back, his shoulders slumped. To his side, the weapon hung useless, its barrel emitting thin threads of smoke that mingled with the heated air.

Arthur watched him return to the house and shut the door.

Soon, the discomfort in his chest began to subside, and before long, it was totally forgotten. Life from his perspective seemed to be returning to normal one minute a violent eruption, and then an eerie, lingering silence almost as if a thunderstorm was approaching.

With a smile of contentment, he remained at the window thinking about the incident, wondering if an irate husband had ever confronted him. Life, he knew, had a strange way of playing tricks.

ARTHUR FRALEN! Nurse Weatherall screamed, her voice reverberating like a thunderclap bursting within the nursing home. What are you doing at that window?

She hurried to his side.

I can t believe you would get out of your chair without my help!

She reached to steady him.

Quickly, she returned him to the chair and gathered a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. Following a hasty medical appraisal, she stepped back and directed both hands firmly to her hips, her eyes narrowed.

Your blood pressure seems fine, she said in a voice he rarely heard. I'll never understand why you do the things you do. I've told you a million times, over and over, not to get out of that chair without my help. Sometimes, you're like an unruly child—absolutely incorrigible!

I was only watching.

Watching nothing. That window will be the death of you. For all I know, you could have died standing there.

Did you see that? he asked, pointing toward the window, his finger quivering.

See what? I've been busy. People falling in the bathrooms, televisions blaring.

He nodded toward the window and the white stucco house. No, that, he repeated.

Nurse Weatherall looked toward the window. I don t see anything. Well, I do see a police car, but it's moving away in the other direction. She turned to him. Now, you get some rest. I don t have time for your nonsense.

Arthur's attention returned to the street.

Directly outside, a single sock dangled from a bush. Nearer the curb, he noticed a shoe, and across from him, from all outward indications, the white stucco house appeared quiet.

Soon, his eyelids began to grow heavy. We had a good show, my friend, he said to the chair, as he gently stroked an arm while fighting off a yawn. Still smiling contentedly, he drifted into his late afternoon nap, feeling unusually tired from the excitement.

Somewhere in his dreams, he saw white sandals and red shorts. But mostly, he dreamed of her, wondering if she was hiding in the bathroom trembling for her life or giving the master her finest so he would forgive and forget.

On awakening, he reached for a glass of water. Across from him, the white stucco was quiet, so he set the water glass aside and returned to waiting, knowing that it was almost time for dinner.

As he reached for a magazine, an aberration on the window glass caught his eye. Odd, he mumbled, Never seen that before. He adjusted his glasses for a closer look, but unable to identify it, he returned to the magazine.

While reading an advertisement, however, he began to notice an unfamiliar lump prodding him between his shoulder blades. Turning about, he spotted a fluffy hole in the upholstery. Around it, the fabric had billowed into a mound, and from it, a fragment of spring appeared as a shiny coil of metal.

Looks like a new hole. Now, how'd that happen? He pushed a finger into the opening. You're getting almost as old as me, he said to his chair.

But, something was not right.

He adjusted his glasses and looked toward the window glass to study it in greater detail.

That—that looks like a bullet hole! he said aloud, when he recognized the straight path from porch through window to chair a perfect trajectory.

Over the ensuing minutes, his attention remained riveted to the hole, the consequences whirling through his mind. Finally, he raised a hand.

Yes! he shouted, as he shook a fist in the air, knowing that he had once again beaten the Reaper.

© John Laneri 2004

John Laneri lives in Houston where he enjoys writing for fun and for professional journals relating to nature and medical literature. The rest of his time is devoted to the company of his family and his passion for birding, golf and the horses, in that order.

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