Scooter’s Gone

“Five-hundred-eighteen times,” it said, materializing in the mobile home’s little kitchen. A spent jar of orange marmalade and a butter knife sat next to a toaster and a nearly finished bag of store-brand sliced bread. Barren cupboards mounted over the tiny countertop and scattered bills suggested surrender.

“I’ve made you some toast, Jack,” said Gina.

Sitting across the table from her, Jack said, “Toast sounds good. No butter.”

“I know.”

“Is there marmalade?”

“Of course.”

Startled, Jack asked, “Who are—?”

“I’m Gina. We’ve been married for fifty-three years.”

“Fifty-three?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long time,” said Jack. “Are we happy?”

“It is. And we are. Very.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Jack started on his toast.

“Last time for this conversation,” Death said to itself, stepping closer to their table, as the hue of the rising sun painted the couple in shades of love.

“We should take Scooter to the park,” said Jack. “After breakfast. He’s really doing well with his new harness and leash. Cocker Spaniels are pretty smart.”

“They are, but Scooter’s gone,” said Gina, extending a frail hand, palm down.

“Oh no. We’d better look for him.” He shifted his weight to rise from the chair.

She patted him on the wrist. “He died ten years ago, Jack.”

“That’s sad.” He sank back into his seat.

“Yes. It was. It is.” A tear dribbled down her face, traversing ages and strumming laugh lines on its way to her chin and lap.

Death squatted down at the table, eye-level with the couple. There were twin, translucent pill minders marked with the days of the week. He picked one up. “Thursday” nearly overflowed with tiny off-white ovals, while the other days were empty. Same with the matching container. He admired her patience and commitment: it was no small feat to squirrel away that much Percocet. He returned the container to the table.

Gina reached for “Thursday” as Jack gummed the last of his breakfast.

“Is it time for our vitamins?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Jack. It’s time. It’s finally time.”