THE AWAKENING OF GEORGE MAHOONEY

George Mahooney hated flies. They buzzed around his ears, and pecked leisurely at his withered flesh. To swat them, was useless, and spent energy George didn’t have. His movements were slower now that he was ninety. His breath was heavy and tortured.

He arose from his bed, allowing the even breathing of his wife to whisper of past dreams in the already warming room. They’d spent the majority of their lives here, making love, talking, arguing about things George no longer remembered.

He kissed her once, taking in the cinnamon scent in her hair and skin. She always smiled, even in her sleep, and George had always wondered why.

In moments she would awaken and the quiet of the morning would be replaced by her endless singing. Her quiet hands would busy themselves in the kitchen. She would make his breakfast: Oatmeal with milk, dry toast and butter, a glass of orange juice and a side order of cinnamon roll.

George walked barefoot into the living room and through the door to the front porch of their country home. It was the absence of flies he noticed first in the warm August air. He hadn’t looked at the clock, so he’d probably beaten them awake.

George smiled at his cleverness, and sat down on the old rocker. He pushed himself forward, then backward, then forward again and watched the birds—they were brown and speckled with dusty tan—unlike the birds of yesterday that came every day in the summer to peck at his overgrown fruit trees.

Last month they had pecked the apricot seeds from his precious fruit—to leave the orange sweetness splattered and molding on the ground—magpies, they called them. But there were no magpies this morning as George arose from the rocker and walked to the garden he loved.

It was only in the garden that a semblance of peace could enter George’s heart. Everything else was just a rat race of chores, unbelievably long-winded women, and money that never sufficed.

His wife, more than once since he’d grown old, had called him a hard man. When his legs were young and his heart was vibrant and new, he had little room to gripe. At least not about anything he could remember.

They were poor then, but he hardly knew it. The gathering of friends was more than ceremony then. The music was grand, and the dancing…well, nothing could compare to it.

His garden was full of weeds. George could see that now. Their tiny, prickly heads poked above the ground as if to say “Come and get me. I dare you.”

But George hadn’t pulled a weed in months. And if the truth were known, George’s hands had done nothing but swat at flies for the last three.

George looked at his hands, curled and lined with years of living. He liked to remember them straight and even, but his eyes told him otherwise. Why did a body have to get so old? He reasoned. Why couldn’t life remain intact, still, and glorious like the early days?

George closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of tears filling his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

It was all right to cry now. His wife was asleep and she would never know.

Was that Cleo’s voice in the kitchen? Yes, she was singing, her cockney accent twittering out the window and landing in his aching ears.

Even her voice had been beautiful—once. Now, he could only see beauty in her pale blue eyes. Pictures in their living room reminded him of years ago when the sound of her voice and the lovely wave of her golden hair had made him want to take her in his arms forever.

And now?

They touched hands now and again. A wet kiss on the lips. A stroke of the back after a long day of aching. Nothing more.

George opened his hand, allowing the crusty weed, he hadn’t know he picked, fall to the ground.

He followed the voice of his cheerful wife, and for a moment, watched her busyness from the kitchen window. Perhaps she wasn’t beautiful, but there was a beauty in her love for him—something he could never doubt.

George didn’t remember the front door squeaking that morning either to or from the house, and as George realized once again that those pesky flies had not awakened, he removed his hat that he couldn’t remember placing on his head, and sat down at his place at the kitchen table.

The smell of cinnamon wafted ceremoniously to his nose, and for the first time in ages, George smiled. His wife’s voice softened in his ears and spoke of the early days when she had sung him to sleep—a solo chorus for his ears alone.

It was only upon his wife’s turning from the old stove that George realized something was wrong. Her eyes were full of tears, and like his only moments before, the water that glazed them fell from her eyes and down her cheeks. She walked to the table, placing a cinnamon bun in front of him.

The glass of orange juice was already poured, and he could smell the oatmeal bubbling on the stove. The bread, already buttered, sat in a neat stack in the center of the table.

It was only after surveying the morning meal, and counting it complete, that George spoke.

“Cleo, what’s wrong?” he asked, patting his wife’s back, and trying with his shaking hands, to dry her falling tears.

But his wife was silent. If the truth were known, she cried even more after his move to comfort her. George could feel the shuddering of her small shoulders underneath the makeshift gown.

What could he have done to hurt her so?

“Cleo, please don’t cry.”

Cleo sniffed, and walked to the phone, the rotary dial phone that she would never replace with those more fangled types—the ones with the cord and the small numbered squares for buttons. Without even a word she began to dial.

George sat. He didn’t know what else to do. He should perhaps wait until his wife was ready to talk. If there was nothing else he remembered it was how much Cleo liked her space when she was sad. Nothing was worth—forcing.

“Hello? Doctor Galloway?”

The voice bit at George’s heart. Something was wrong with Cleo! So why hadn’t she spoken to him first?

“It’s about… George…I found him…this morning…”

Found him. Found him, where? She must be losing her mind. She hadn’t found him at all, he’d found her! Or rather, he’d come into the kitchen after hearing her sing.

“I don’t know what to do…oh, doctor…”

The tears came again. Cleo dropped the phone. It hung by its cord like a dead man. George could hear the old doctor jabbering in the air.

He followed Cleo to the bedroom where they had made love so many years ago-- where they had talked, and where she had born their first child now grown. Suddenly the fights they’d had here no longer mattered as he watched her.

She had been his wife for over 60 years, and in all that time he had never told her that he loved her. Why?

Cleo raised the old cotton sheet that covered her husband’s pale face. George’s body lie still on the bed, and as George watched himself, he couldn’t help but smile a little as Cleo shooed the sticky fly that had landed for a leisurely visit upon his left eye. She kissed his withered cheek.

“Good-bye, George,” she said.

“I love you Cleo,” George answered into the thick warm air he realized now, wasn’t thick at all, but as cool as the spring breeze just before the fruit begins to bud.

Cleo’s eyes sprung with new tears. She kissed him once more and then covered his face with the sheet.