[wendybeth]

Emily's Flight



“No, really- I’ll be just fine. Thank you so much for everything”.

Emily gently shut the door and leaned against it, sighing with relief. The long, dreaded day was finally over and she could enjoy a moments’ peace. That is, once she’d deposited whatever it was the neighbor had brought over in the garbage disposal and poured herself a stiff drink. She opened the corner of the Tupperware container and sniffed at the contents- whenever would Mildred realize that no one ate tuna casserole anymore? Did they ever? Still, she meant well; she always did. Poor Milly- she had cried longer and louder at the funeral than anyone, including Emily. She always did. Too bad her husband had left her; instead of the lonely death he’d suffered in that seedy little Vegas motel room, he’d have been feted away with rivers of tears and casserole. Milly had a dramatic streak, no doubt about it. She would probably never forgive him for dying out of her jurisdiction. Now, she haunted the ever increasing funerals of her friends, dispensing her usual platitudes and casseroles and finally making use of that little black dress in her closet.

Emily set the food on the counter and turned toward the pantry. Standing on tiptoes, she felt around the back of the top shelf- there it was! She carefully withdrew the bottle of Scotch from its hiding place and surveyed it’s contents. They looked to be sufficient. Turning, she opened another cupboard and from it she took a small juice glass. Smiling to herself, she wondered what would have bothered Warren more- the fact she was drinking, or that she was using a juice glass in such an inappropriate manner? She remembered a time when he wouldn’t have cared. She never had. No doubt this had been a source of great disappointment to him, but he was beyond caring now. “Poor Warren” she murmured, but it wasn’t the Warren of yesterday that she was thinking of….


“Buy you a drink?” the handsome boy had asked, and she declined. The next night, he’d asked again, and by weeks end he’d grown devastatingly handsome and she had no choice but to say yes. His looks were only outpaced by his intellect, which was curious, searching and insatiable. They read Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and spoke of expatriotism as though it were a virtue. Then, the war began, and before Emily knew it, she was married and her husband was somewhere in the European theater. She endured morning sickness while he cowered in foxholes. She grew a Victory garden and joined in the metal drives while he scrounged for petrol in the Bulge. She gave birth to a stillborn son while he recuperated in a London hospital. He returned home a virtual stranger.

Years passed, and their family grew. Warren became a partner in his law firm, and later a judge. They moved into the same suburban enclave that all their legal friends resided in, and their children played and grew up together. Warren became more conservative with the passing of every decade and when the Sixties hit he was blindsided by the social and political upheaval. He couldn’t understand the anger and the activism, but Emily did. She was a bit frightened by it, but she knew what drove it and had faith that this vibrant new generation would learn to channel that energy into something good. After her youngest went off to college Emily began volunteering at the local library. Warren retired and retreated to his office, where he finally died last Monday morning. Emily found him slumped over the newspaper, facedown in a puddle of coffee with a half-eaten piece of toast still in his hand.

She shook her head, trying to erase the image from her mind’s eye. Poor Warren. He was so angry and so frightened, but now he was beyond all that. Emily finished her drink and set the glass in the sink. Time to get busy. She walked about the house, lighting fragrant candles that had been strategically placed about, then went downstairs to where the water heater and main furnace was located. When she’d finished, she went back into the kitchen and grabbed her purse and small bag that she’d packed earlier in the day. Turning toward the door leading to the garage, she hesitated, then set one of her bags down and strolled over to the stove. Bending down, she gently blew out the pilot light, then slowly turned the knobs until she heard a soft, hissing sound. She straightened up, ran her hand over her hair, and then picked up her bag and headed for the garage. As she backed the car down the driveway Emily heard a small explosion and she smiled, a smile that grew along with the conflagration she watched in her mirror as she drove away into the Arizona night.