The woman from social services pointed to a four-foot stack of New Yorker magazines and asked, “What about these?”
“What about them?” the old man asked, his throat tightening.
“Do you need those?”
“I need them.”
“Why? Have you read them?”
“I read them.”
“Then why keep them?”
“I need them. For things. Different reasons.”
“Why can’t you throw them out?”
“Look, honey,” he said, resisting the urge to point his finger. “You young people don’t need words. At least that’s what you think. You can dispense with them and shorten them and ignore them, but eventually you’ll grow up and need them. Well, I’m keeping mine.”
The social worker sighed. “Mr. Long, all this paper, all these magazines and newspapers,” she gestured to indicate every stack in the room, “these are a fire hazard. One spark and they’re gone.” She patted his knee and did her best to sound tender. “And you with it. We wouldn’t want that.”
Mr. Long sat up straight. “I don’t allow smoking in the house.”
“But that–”
“My wife smoked until the day she died. Even on that day. But not in the house.”
“That’s nice, Mr. Long–”
“She loved words, Miss. And her cigarettes. She’d sit outside on the porch with her coffee or tea if it was afternoon and she’d write all sorts of things. Poems and stories. She had lots of articles published in the local paper. I could show you–” He began to stand.
“That’s not necessary. Maybe you could keep her writing in a scrapbook. Donate the rest to the boy scouts or something.”
“What for? Boy Scouts don’t read. They camp and make crafts.”
“For recycling. They could take it to a recycling center, who would pay for it. Help them pay for equipment and uniforms and such.
Mr. Long shook his head. “My wife wouldn’t like a scrapbook.”
There was a silence between them for several minutes while the social worker tried to think of another approach. A clock from the kitchen chimed.
“One thing I didn’t like was the smoking. But she couldn’t stop. Even though she loved me. But we worked it out. I think she was happy.” He felt then like he was choking.
“I’m trying to help you, Mr. Long,” the social worker said softly. “This isn’t healthy.”
“Maybe,” he said and sobbed.
Finally Mr. Long nodded assent. Over the next two days, men came and took almost everything away. A maid service was hired to clean the house, and the social worker took care to make the small house look cheerful with photos of his wife, whose clippings were neatly placed in an attractive scrapbook.
Mr. Long sat on his porch, sometimes sipping coffee and fingering the cover, but he never opened it. He also never spoke again.
Michael Neal Morris has published short stories, poems, and essays in a number of print and online venues. He most recent books are naked and Recital Notes, Volume I. Collections of his work are listed at Smashwords and Amazon. He lives with his family just outside the Dallas area, and teaches at Eastfield College.
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