Taking Care of Harry

Taking Care of Harry

At the doorway, I could see my husband, of six years, working on his next book. His back was rigid as he hammered away on the computer. Quite famous, he hadn’t had a best seller in two years. It wasn’t the money; it was his pride.

I could see his lunch tray on the desk, he’d eaten. I made a note to take that away as soon as I was able. I had his cleaning. His one suit that I took to the cleaners once a week even though he never wore it. Everyone in town knew how eccentric he’d become. The cleaners, the grocery store where I picked up the same few things weekly, the only things he would eat anymore. Even the post office where I was required to mail twelve pages of his novel to his publisher every Thursday afternoon, precisely at two-thirty. People felt sorry for me.

I walked past him. I could see the dark circles under his eyes, purplish because he rarely slept. I spoke, “Here’s your suit Harry.” He didn’t look up. It was time.

Walking behind him, I took the suit out of the plastic bag. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the long bag over his head. His hands reached up, trying to brush it away, as if it were cobwebs. He didn’t even look at me; he was too groggy to understand. He struggled for just a moment, then slumped over his keyboard.

I picked up his tray. I would clean it and get rid of the rest of the poison before I “found him.” Walking away, thinking of the last six years putting up with Harry, I remembered what my mother had said when she pushed me into marrying him. “Honey, think of all those lovely royalties!”