The Widows’ Guilt

John Hollis Merriweather’s lungs sound like an old porch swing in the wind—slow, creaky, reluctant. The morphine drip ticks beside the bed. A fan whirs above us, stirring air thick with heat and mildew.

He’ll be dead by the end of Spring.

His wife sits in the corner of the room, legs crossed, fingers stained from cheap menthols and nail polish chipped like old china. She hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. Just watches him. Or me. Hard to tell. She’ll be dead pretty shortly afterwards. But I’m the only one who knows it.

The brass bed looks like it was made for a man stronger than what’s left of Hollis. He used to run timber. Built this house with cash and pride. Now he lies under a piss-yellow quilt, mouth open, eyes unfocused, skin like candle wax left too close to a flame.

“He was stronger than this,” she says.

“They all were,” I say, adjusting the tube with practiced care.

She doesn’t flinch, but her gaze lingers on me a second too long.