She Remembers on a Cold Summer Day

She sat in an old, worn chair. It was a red shade; dark save for the white threading and stuffing that peeked out at tears. She watched the news on a battered looking television set, her eyes squinting through thick lenses on her perfect, gold-rimmed glasses. They were the only thing that seemed to be even slightly decorative on the frail old woman. Her age was a delicate 82, almost too old for her to be living in a home on her own. Of course a caretaker came by often, but the wrinkled woman considered herself to be completely alone. Her face reflected nothing of what she felt inside. It was stone, stone that had been carved as deeply as water wore away at canyons. Folds and dips were hidden everywhere on the ashen skin.

Veronica had been her name when she was young. Now everyone referred to her as Ms. Heatherling.

The doorbell rang. It startled Veronica out of her thoughts on whether the meteorologist on the weather channel was lying about today’s average temperatures or not. She came back to her senses quickly though, and warbled out, “I’ll be there in a minute!” She fumbled for the remote to the television with a shaking hand, pressed the red “off” button, and stood to her feet. A cane was always at Veronica’s side. She grabbed it and used it to hobble to the front door. Her withered hand grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and invited a chilly wind inside that was surprising for the middle of July.

On Veronica’s front porch there stood a man. He was tall, in a long black coat, black shoes, black gloves, black pants and a midnight blue dress shirt showing through the gaps of his coat. His beard was the palest white, shortly trimmed, and stood out oddly against the smooth and pale skin of his face. Equally white hair could be seen tucked under his white business hat, and dark spectacles hid dark eyes behind thin lenses. It only took one look for Veronica to recognize the man.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she uttered, feeling as if she was finally releasing a long held breath of air. The man did not respond, only stare with those deep eyes, deep as the voids of space. “Come in then. Make yourself comfortable.” She stepped back and opened the door completely for the man.

“Thank you, Veronica,” said the man. He stepped into the small home and Veronica gestured to her sitting room, a small alcove to the side with two old armchairs and a threadbare yellow couch. The man took a seat on the couch, sitting with a certain elegance and delicacy. It was as if every movement he made was a practiced art, done with perfect form and grace. Veronica took an armchair, sitting down as gently as possible so as to not jar her bones. When they were settled, a short silence lapsed between them, but then the man removed his glasses, removed a handkerchief to polish the left lens, and said, “It appears you know why I am here, Veronica.”

“Yes,” Veronica responded, watching him put his glasses back onto his face. The perfectly white handkerchief went back into a coat pocket. “I’ve been waiting to meet you. I have wanted to speak with you for so long.”

“Mhmm…” the man uttered. “I knew you would. Everyone with similar experiences always asks the same question.”

“You know what I went through.”

The man nodded.

Veronica closed her eyes. She felt weary, useless, and lonely. “Why did you let it happen?” she asked quietly, tears restrained by her thick-walled glasses.

Now the man gave a heavy sigh and his posture slouched only slightly. It was like seeing a crack appear in a large structure. “It’s not that simple, Veronica,” the man whispered.

“Why not? What did she ever do to harm anyone?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you take her?” Veronica yelled.

“I did not take her from you.” The man’s voice was stern and his face terrifying. It was only a flash in the pan though, and his face returned to that still mirror of poise. “Give me a chance to explain.”

Veronica studied the man closely, her eyes squinting. She did not want him to have a chance to explain. She wanted to keep fueling the anger within her. There was another voice within her though, the voice of her May who would have told her to listen. She drew in a shaky breath, released it, trying to expel some of her anger, and said, “Very well. Explain.”

“Think back to the day you first met her,” instructed the man. “Picture it clearly in your head. Relive it.”

Veronica thought, sorting through the endless vault of her mind. Quite suddenly, she remembered, as clear as a Technicolor cartoon. “I met her right after World War II ended, in the hospital I worked at. She was a new nurse there.”

The man nodded. “Tell me about her.”

“She was kind, the favorite of all the patients, and even if she was not the best nurse there, she still had a certain something about her that made everyone smile,” Veronica said wistfully.

“May was a flower of society,” said the man.

Veronica sighed. “Yes, she was… I remember- I remember the first time I kissed her, or we kissed each other. It was such a haphazard moment. We were cleaning out a room recently vacated in the hospital, and we were suddenly face to face and she and I…” Veronica’s words were lost as she remembered how the taller woman had looked at her with a spark in her dark eyes all of a sudden, and Veronica had stared back with a hungry gaze. The kiss had been light, barely a touch, and the two had jumped away right after, frightened as hell. After all, proper women did not kiss one another, they kissed men.

“Ask yourself this Veronica,” said the man softly. “If May was such a good person, then why would I prematurely take her away from you?”

“I-“

“It was out of my control,” he said sternly. “Three men who decide to beat the life out of a middle-aged lesbian are clear out of my realm of influence…” The man looked sad then, infinitely sad. “I cannot stop man from killing their own kind.”

Veronica let a tear fall as she remembered the incident that had taken May from her. They had been together for quite a while. They were in their late 40s and living alone in the same small home. They were happy and in love, but the tension about gays in society had been tightening. Some men in the neighborhood had noticed something peculiar about Veronica and May’s “friendly” relationship, and they decided to do something about it.

One evening the police had knocked on Veronica’s door and had told her the news. May was dead, her skull clubbed in by a Louisville slugger that one of the men had borrowed from his boy. That was not the only injury done to her body, but it was the most brutal. She had been attacked upon returning from a nightshift at the local hospital. Veronica had sobbed uncontrollably at the funeral and was barely able to speak in front of the small audience of mourners. She had spiraled into a depressed, secluded life shortly after. But… amongst all the mourning, she found happiness again, more like a seed of hope rather. Over the years, she constantly watched the news, and every year the opinion of the gay community grew friendlier and friendlier. It warmed her old heart.

“Veronica,” said the man, a note of sympathy in his voice.

The calling of her name called her back to reality, and Veronica looked back toward the man. “Yes.”

“It’s time.”

“I know.”

The two of them stood. Veronica left her cane behind. She did not need it anymore. They walked to the door slowly. The man opened it for Veronica and the breeze from the outside rushed in, though it did not feel cold anymore. This cold summer day was no longer one. It was just a day. Everything was suddenly so simple and beautiful to Veronica. She took one last look, one last sigh, and stepped out of her house.

And the man, the king of death, the angel that collects our departing souls, shut the door on Veronica’s life and led her to her final peace.