Short Story - 2007
Honorable Mention - July/August Short Story Contest
Christina Steiner
The Spitball
The spitball whizzed in a twenty-degree angle, past the old man’s head, in a perfect arch towards the open mouth. The woman had just finished her sentence with the words “. . . . You-good-for-nothing, insufferable idiot.” Her head crooked, she looked at her husband sitting across from her with the expression of complete contempt, her mouth open like a fish out of water. The shooter, a ten-year-old boy, watched, intrigued. By an incredible coincidence the spitball hit a fly hovering over the table. The impact made the spitball fall vertically on the table and catapulted the fly into the woman’s mouth. By reflex she closed her mouth. When the woman tasted the foreign substance, her eyes bulged and her lips puckered in disgust. With one motion she sat up straight, opened her mouth and spat the contents on the table, hitting her husband’s bowl of matzo ball soup. The fly, awake now, started to swim circles around the matzo ball, legs frantically paddling the broth. The husband looked at his plate and then at his wife with disbelief.
“That’s it. The venom that comes out of your vicious mouth just transformed itself into a fly. You disgust me.”
He stood up, threw his napkin on the table and shook his head. His fingers twitched with restraint. He hesitated for a second then pushed the chair with too much force under the table. The silverware on the table rattled.
He said under his breath, “I’m leaving now. I’ve had it.” Turning, he stomped past the table where the spitball originated. The boy sat watching with just the tiniest pinch of guilt.
“You can’t leave!” The woman wailed after him. “Come back here!” The desperation in her screeching voice drowned out the noises in the restaurant. The patrons stared, forgetting what they were about to say to their lunch partners. Some were watching the table where the wailing came from; others fixated on the man heading for the door. Still others traveled back and forth between the two.
He walked past the hostess, out the door. His face had a determined look. He knew exactly what he wanted to do now. The train station was a block away. The street was busy with cars and pedestrians, but the man was oblivious to his surroundings. Each step he took only strengthened his resolve to escape. By the time he ordered a one-way ticket to San Diego, he was smiling at the woman behind the glass screen. As he pocketed his change, an ambulance came whining up the street.
The woman sat at the table fuming. She stared right back into the faces that locked on hers, tempting them to utter a word. Her face turned red; she gulped air. Her lungs tried desperately to replenish with oxygen. The heart pumped a few more times but lost the battle for life. Her blood vessels constricted. Her face expressed astonishment, even wonderment. She clasped her hands to her chest. Her head collapsed on her shoulder and her body went limp. The shifting weight made the chair slide under her. In slow motion, she hit the floor. The whole restaurant held its breath collectively. Forty patrons fixated on the woman, watching her falling arm and hand settle in an awkward position.
A pot banging in the kitchen broke the spell. Everybody began talking at ones. Phones flipped open to dial 911. The restaurant manager hurried to the table and hunched over the woman, checking for vital signs. He stood up, consternation written all over his face.
“We need a doctor. Is there a doctor here? Anybody? A nurse?” he called. He looked pale and confused. The boy, who’d thrown the spitball, wanted to disappear.
Nobody stepped forward. One man said, “The ambulance is on its way.”
Relief visibly flooded through the manager when he heard the approaching sirens. The woman lay on the floor, her features relaxed, just a bag of bones, muscles and tissues. The manager remembered to close her eyes.
The paramedics brought in a stretcher and took her body away. The restaurant erupted in talk. Everybody recounted the past few minutes. The boy did not say a word. The waiters resumed their tasks, refilled water pitchers, the ice chimed against the glass. Conversations filled the air with a hum.
For a week now, the body lay in a drawer in the morgue; a tag attached to the right toe. The name Gertrude Klein and her birthday, 5-13-1925, identified her in blue ink. Her purse had held the clues to her life. The police knew she was married; her husband’s name was on the card in the envelope she had carried in her purse. The Valentine card was signed by him and the handwritten phrase read: From your husband, who’ll always love you, please be kind - - Henry. In addition, they found a wallet, a handkerchief, a plastic envelope with local supermarket coupons, a pill container, a safety pin and a granola bar wrapped in a paper towel. The police could not locate her husband.
Henry had not ventured outside his room yet. It was almost eleven o’clock. The eggshell-painted walls, the cheap TV set, and the lumpy mattress did not improve his melancholy. He sat on the bed, hunched over, cradling his head in his hands and thought, Funny thing is, I miss my reclining chair, my slippers and most of all my Gertrude.
Six days ago, he’d checked into Room 16, at Motel 6. The first three days had been exhilarating. He did all the things he couldn’t do around his wife -- Eat greasy food, smoke a cigar, and visit the local bar. The second night, he had a few too many and got tipsy. By the fourth day, Gertrude had crept little by little inside his mind. At first he shrugged and dismissed thoughts of her, but then his anger and resentment evaporated. He remembered the happiness of the early years, the young Gertrude, ready to conquer life with him. Their disappointment at not being able to conceive children. How their lives started to evolve around just the two of them. Friends were dismissed. Since his retirement ten years ago, things had gotten worse. Ailments invaded their bodies. They took their anger out on each other, forgot how to live . . .
By day five, he picked up the phone but put it back in the cradle before punching in the numbers. He did this several times throughout the day. Last night, day six, he reached over in his restless sleep to touch Gertrude, but her body was missing. He longed for her so much, that even her derogatory remarks would have been welcome. It all felt so empty. He wanted to go home. Only noises from the outside penetrated, unwelcome because of their unfamiliarity.
By lunchtime he’d checked out, holding a grocery bag with the few belongings he’d purchased during his stay. He caught the noon train home to surprise her. Their 56th wedding anniversary was tomorrow. He wanted to celebrate it with her.
He opened the gate and walked up the pad to his front door. He swallowed twice, hope flickered just underneath his skin. He felt like a teenager. A dozen red roses lay over his bent elbow. He rang the doorbell . . . .
A few blocks away, a ten-year-old boy sat at the table trying to do his homework. His thoughts were elsewhere. All week long, sometimes at inappropriate times, he relived the whole scenario at the restaurant.
Finally he asked his mom, “Mom, can a spitball kill somebody?”