The Black Hare
I don’t really know why you would care to hear this story
again, but I’ll tell it. Mind you, this old lady doesn’t find any joy in
telling it. I’m not long for this earth, and there are much more pleasant
thoughts with which to occupy my time, young man.
Alright, you know how it began. My husband Walter was
working in the yard as usual. You know, if it weren’t for Walter always needing
to be working in the yard, we wouldn’t even be discussing this. Walter and his
gardening. I’d thought being a golf-widow had been suffrage enough, but once
Walter got too old for that, he’d gone to gardening. What’s wrong with that,
you say? Fresh air, a feeling of accomplishment? Let me tell you, I knew what
he was up to. Avoiding me. I’m fair skinned, you know. An hour in that Florida
sun and I’d swoon. Never cared for rolling around in the dirt. I refused to
clean his clothes after a day of rutting around. He’d wear the same shirt and
pants until they were literally rags, then rinsing them with the hose, hanging
them on the clothes line for God and everyone to see. Who knows what the
neighbors thought!
Yes, I’ve wandered a bit. As I was saying, Walter was
working in the yard.
I sat in the shade on the back porch, sipping on an ice tea,
reading one of my romances. There are people in this world that are truly in
love, young man; in those books. I usually kept to the air conditioning, but I
think I chose the shade of the porch as it was an unusually cool day for July.
I think I sat there, relaxing with my drink and a book to spite Walter, just a
little bit. That’s when he called out to me.
“Look, Martha. Look!” he shouted to me from the very back
corner of the yard, “It’s a hare! Entirely black!”
As soon as I heard ‘black hare’ I dropped my tea. It burst
all over the stone porch floor. My book joined it, soon ruined and wet.
“It’s gone. You should’ve seen it. Maybe somebody’s pet got
loose? Oh, well,” he said. Oh, well?
Walter went right back to weeding around his roses, by God.
Yellow roses. I hate yellow roses. They were the color of pee, excuse my
French. Went right back to his task. Germans. What do they know? Any Irishman
worth his salt knows an omen of death when he sees one. And Walter had seen
one. I was terrified. Soon a death
would come to our household. There was no denying it. No avoiding it. Never
begin to make a dress on Saturday, or the wearer will die within the year. Those
who marry in autumn will die in spring. A broken mirror brings seven years bad
luck. The fool! Walter had seen the omen, and was none the wiser!
I went inside, my stomach sour from the tea; my book
forgotten. I sat hard on the nearest kitchen chair, ringing my hands, wiping
them on my apron. Who would die? Myself? If only. I’m seventy seven years old;
take me now Lord, if you should feel fit to. My Granddaughter? The dear had
lost her mother, my daughter, but two years previous. Not even the Devil
himself was going to take her away from me!
“What happened here?” said Walter, when he came onto the
porch. He sounded concerned, but then men have their ways to undermine you.
Never completely trust a man, even a husband. No offense meant, I hope none
taken.
I sat crying at the table, my eyes blurred with tears. I
could hardly make out the pattern of the apples and oranges on the wallpaper.
You can well imagine my distress. Walter was as cool as a cucumber.
“Now, now. No use crying over a broken glass and a paperback
romance…” he started, laying his dirty hands on my shoulders. Thoughts of my
little girl lying in state darkened my eyes to pitch. I would lose her! Not
another! Walter was oblivious. Walter became silent after I’d shrugged him off.
He got the broom and dust pan from the broom closet at the top of the basement
stairs. I tried to explain what he’d seen. He told me not to get hysterical.
Can you believe that? Not get hysterical? Didn’t he care for our baby? A
callous man, Walter. Callous. He cleaned up the mess. I heard that broken glass
hit the bottom of that dust bin with the finality of a broken heart. My broken
heart. I decided it wasn’t going to end this way. I’d save my Granddaughter!
Walter went to put back the broom. That’s when I pushed him. You want me to
tell it all again? That’s when I pushed him down the stairs. He was the one who
saw the black hare. He brought it on us. He might have lived, you know? He
might not have split his head the way you say he did. If he had lived, I’d have
been resigned to believe it were me or my grand-baby that were to die. But God
chose Walter, now didn’t he?
I didn’t know what to do. That’s why it took a couple of
days to call you. My sweet Emily convinced me it was the right thing to do.
Fifteen and so smart! I’ve told you everything twice over. It’s time to go?
Alright, Officer Michael, I’ll go. You’ll find a good home for my grand-baby,
won’t you?
Check out my two
short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:
TRAILER PARK FROM
HELL
LIFE'S A BITCH. A
WEREBITCH.
