The Angel of Death

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by Julia Robb

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Elroy Camp died at midnight, while Beulah held his bony hand and prayed.

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Mr. Elroy took a trembling breath.

He never breathed out.

“I might have known,” Mr. Elroy’s daughter said when Beulah called.

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me. Families in this community hire you to take care of their loved ones and two months later they’re dead.”

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“If you had ax Mr. Elroy, he would have tole you I was taking good care of him.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I cook good. You cain’t get them meals in a restaurant.”

“Estella Washington’s family hired you in December and they were popping Estella in the ground before Easter.”

“What you saying?”

“Just look at your name. Beulah Land. That says something right there.”

Hanging up, Beulah lowered her bulk into the chair by Mr. Elroy’s bed.

“Mr. Elroy, you was good to me,” she said.

She already missed their Saturdays at the lake.

After baiting his hook and propping the bamboo pole in Mr. Elroy’s hand, they sat together in blissful silence.

Last year, she worked for Miss Dorothy.

True, Miss Dorothy had diabetes, but surgeons lopped off her blackened leg before Beulah learned how to use her dishwasher.

When she picked daisies from Miss Dorothy’s garden and took them to the hospital, Miss Dorothy’s daughters were already weeping and clutching each other in the hall.

Two days after Mr. Elroy was buried, Helping Hands Home Health Care sent her to Arthur Treadwell’s house.

Mr. Arthur, 90, sat in his easy chair wearing pajama bottoms. He hadn’t managed to put the top on. The skin on his chest was so wrinkled it fell in waves.

“You think you gonna sit around here doing nothing because I can’t see your black face,” he said.

Mr. Arthur’s milky eyes stared at the ceiling.

“No sir. I respects you.”

“You better.”

“Would you like your supper now?”

The second day, Mr. Arthur threw his green bean casserole and strawberry shortcake to the floor.

“Mr. Arthur, why did you do that?”

Silence.

“Mr. Arthur, I spend two hours in the kitchen making that for you.”

The third day, Mr. Arthur did not say one word.

On the fourth day, Mr. Arthur said, “I want Leon.”

“Who?”

“My friend. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re not sorry worth diddly squat.”

“Is that lady in the picture your mama?”

“My wife. She’s dead.”

“And who is the little girl? I believes she favors you.”

“My daughter. She’s dead.”

“Do you have grandchildren?”

“No.”

“Mr. Arthur, is there some ways I can help you?”

“I want Leon. We played dominos.”

“I can play. And I can tell you the numbers on the dominos.”

“You’re an idgit.”

“Mr. Arthur, does you just like being mean?”

“Can you read?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Open the drawer.”

A tattered book lay inside. On the cover, a barbarian wearing a horn helmet and red cloak wielded a sword.

It was John Carter of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Mr. Arthur sat rigid while Beulah read.

In a few pages, Beulah’s hand flew to her ample chest: “…a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face was thrust cautiously around the shoulder of the cliff, and savage eyes looked into mine.”

Hearing something, Beulah glanced up to see Mr. Arthur smiling and pounding the arm of the chair with his fist.

It took one month to finish the novel.

After reading the last line, Beulah threw a happy smile at Mr. Arthur.

Mr. Arthur’s body lay in the chair like a melted candle.

Nobody sent flowers. Nobody attended the service but Beulah. The funeral home chapel surrounded her like an air-conditioned cave.

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Courthouse in Marshall, Texas

 

That afternoon, Beulah sat in her house listening to the refrigerator hum.

“I needs a paycheck,” she thought, and searched the want ads.

Maid service needed. Cooks needed. Janitorial.

Mr. Elroy, she thought, I wish you was here and we was fishing.

Closing her eyes, Beulah saw the fishing line whizzing through the air.

The line sank and fish nibbling on the worm made the cork bobble.

Sunset spread over the pines.

And to Beulah, the vast universe, with its hellos and goodbyes, seemed contained in the lake’s dark water.

She picked up the phone.

“Helping Hands,” the receptionist said.

 

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Julia Robb is the author of Scalp Mountain and Saint of the Burning Heart, ebooks for sale at amazon.com. She can be reached at juliarobb.com, juliarobbmar@aol.com, venturegalleries.com, goodreads, pinterest, facebook, twitter, facebook and amazon author pages and probably places she’s never heard of.

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