The whiskey was in the cereal cabinet. Again. With a forlorn sigh Henry Witherford ended his fifteen minute search for his wayward beverage. He had no idea how it had ended up so far from its proper home in the liquor cabinet. His hands shook only a little as they closed around the half filled bottle. He didn’t recall the bottle being so empty either. Sixty year old Highland Park Single Malt Scotch was not cheap, but it was one of the few extravagances the old pensioner allowed himself. It took him another five minutes to find his shotglass. [i]That[i] at least was right where it should have been. It would have gone much quicker if he hadn’t let his cabinets get so cluttered and disorganized. Martha would have been very disappointed in his sloppy housekeeping these days. But that was okay. He was in no great hurry. Slowly and steadily he made his way back to the living room of his condo. The thought of his slow pace made him chuckle. These days, at the age of eighty two, [i]everything[/i] he did was slow. Steady was another matter entirely. But there was still enough strength in his old bones to get around his home, no matter how his children and grandchildren fretted. With a creak and a quiet groan, he settled himself down into his old recliner, and set his drink and shotglass on the tray beside his chair before turning it to cover his lap. That was another gift from his children. The tray table had its own set of wheels and hydraulics. It could move up and down, slide back and forth, and roll left or right. It was a damnably useful thing, but Henry hated it. It reminded him of the hospital. Seeking happier memories, he turned to the credenza beside him. It was a bit of a stretch, but he could just reach the closest picture frame, pulling it towards him with shaking hands and a smile gracing his lips. It was a black and white photo, of course. In it a handsome young man in a sailor’s uniform stood tall and proud beside a beautiful young lady in a sundress. His arm was around her waist, an honest smile on his face. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes half closed as the photo captured her in mid laugh. Henry ran his finger over the young woman’s face, trying to match the young man’s grin. Wasn’t it strange how some memories remained so clear and vivid over the years? He could practically smell the sea air and smell the Coney Island hot dogs, even after all these years. Setting the picture down on the table in front of him, he carefully poured himself a shotglass of the amber liquid before taking a small sip. He savored the taste and fire of the whiskey, but drank it slowly. He’d had a very light lunch, so there wasn’t much in his stomach to soak up the alcohol. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself drunk and fall asleep too early. Setting the half empty shotglass down, he admired the logo on the side. It was a silly, simple thing. Just a silhouette of some Casino or other, he couldn’t remember which, and the words “Las Vegas.” It was a cheap souvenir, that was all. But it was a memento from their last vacation together, before the Alzheimers took her. Henry ran his hand along the faux wood of the tabletop, though his eyes remained fixated on the picture before him. It was a strange dichotomy, an item filled with happy memories sitting atop another that brought only pain. The disease had hit his Martha hard, and so very quickly. Oh, there had been signs before. Forgetting where she left her keys. Leaving the oven on. Forgetting where she was going, or why she’d entered the room. But soon enough she was forgetting what the keys were [i]for[/i], forgetting what she was cooking, forgetting where she [i]was[/i]. Forgetting her children and grandchildren’s [i]names.[/i] It wasn’t long before it was too much for an old man to handle alone. His children, God bless them, had done their best. But she deteriorated so quickly, and needed so much help, it hadn’t been long before they’d had to do something… Henry sighed and shook his head. He had things to do today. Things he couldn’t put off. Picking the cordless phone up off the table, he stared at the keypad for several long seconds before slowly dialing the first number. “Dad? Is that you? Is something wrong?” Came a worried voice. “Bobby! No, nothing is wrong. Can’t an old man give his son a call now and then?” He smiled, forcing a bit of good cheer into his hoarse voice. “Of course you can call Dad. What’s up?” His son cheered up, the worry and concern quickly fading away. Thought it’s mere presence had been enough to warm his heart. “Oh, I was just looking at some old pictures and feeling a bit nostalgic is all.” He replied wistfully, tracing his finger over the picture once more. “Remember that time when you were six, and your mother and I took you to Jones Beach? You spent hours digging in the sand...” “Yeah Dad, I remember that. Wasn’t that the time I got big by a sand crab?” “Heh, yeah. Taught you not to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong, didn’t it?” Henry chuckled. “So, tell me, how are the grand kids doing? I haven’t heard from Jennifer in a while...” Henry smiled, sitting back in his recliner and listening to his son’s voice as they bantered back and forth, reminiscing on old times updating him on the next generation. Those memories came clearly and easily. But all good things come to an end, and far too soon the conversation was winding down. “I’d love to chat more dad, but Peggy needs some help in the kitchen...” “Say no more, Bobby. I understand.” Henry paused, and cleared his throat. “Just, ah, one more thing. I was hoping you might be able to swing on by here tomorrow morning. I’ve got… something I need you to take care of for me.” “Well, I was going to visit Sandra and see how she and her rugrats are doing, but I guess I can stop by first. What do you need help with?” “Oh, it’s… just some paperwork and maybe moving a few things. It might take… a few hours. You still have my key, right?” “Sure dad. Of course I do. Are you sure you’re okay?” A worried note had crept back into his voice. “Good as I can be, at my age.” He gave a short laugh. “Anyway… Just wanted to make sure you know.. I love you son, and I’m proud of you.” “I love you too, dad and I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.” “Goodbye, son.” Henry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he put the phone down. Everything would be fine tomorrow. He was sure Bobby could handle things. He was always a strong boy. And not just physically. He’d handle his mother’s condition better than any of them, truth be told. It had been hard, so very hard, when they moved Martha to the home. They’d never been a [i]rich[/i] family. Shady Pines was the best they could afford, and it was far from a dump. But it wasn’t like living in the condo either. Not that it seemed to matter much to Martha after a few months. He’d visited most every day of course. So had their sons and grandchildren, at least at first. But as she’d gotten worse and worse each visit was harder and harder. She’d forget the names and faces of her family. She’d ask after people who’d been dead and buried for decades. She’d forget where she was, and start wandering the halls, trying to find her way ‘home.’ It was on one of those midnight excursions that she’d fallen and broken her hip. Henry shook his head, trying to drive off those horrid memories. Why were those the ones that stayed with him? Why couldn’t he forget those last few years, and only remember the good times? And they’d had been so [i]many[/i] good times, he and his beautiful, vivacious Martha. With a sigh he refreshed his shotglass, taking a few more small sips. It wasn’t time to finish off the bottle just yet. He still had more phone calls to make. “Let’s see here… I’ll call Anthony next I suppose. And then Daniel. Francis died in that car wreck back in… 78? God rest his soul.” Henry muttered to himself, once again staring at the keypad on his phone. After staring for a few more minutes, he sighed and set it back down. “Damn it all, where [i]did[/i] I leave that phone book?” He muttered, grunting in exertion as he rose out of his chair. [hr] Twenty minutes. It took him twenty minutes to hunt down the little brown book of phone numbers. What it was doing in the bread drawer, he didn’t know. But regardless, he’d found it. And called both of his other sons. And eight of his grandchildren. Of his great grandchildren, only Tommy was old enough to hold much of a conversation over the phone. “Okay Tom, tell Great Grandpa goodbye and that you love him!” his old ears could barely pick out his granddaughter Catherine’s voice in the background. “By Great Grandpa Henry! I love you!” Came through much louder, and with the enthusiasm only a six year old could muster. “I love you too, sweetpea. Give the phone back to your mommy now, would you?” “Okay Grampa! Here mommy!” “Thanks sweetheart.” There were the unmistakable sounds of a phone (roughly) changing hands, and then his granddaughter was back on the line once again. “So, do you think you’ll be able to make it to Tom’s birthday party this year grandpa?” “Birthday party? That’s in.. Um….” Henry frowned, searching his memory for the date. “It’s in two and a half weeks, grandpa. The 23rd? You remember, right?” “Oh yeah, of course, of course. Could hardly forget [i]that.[/i]” He rambled. “But, ah... I don’t think I’ll be able to make it this year. These old bones… I don’t think I can make it that far.” “Are you feeling okay Grandpa? You just sound a little, I don’t know...” “I’m just as fine as can be.” Henry kept his tone light, even as he blinked back tears. It had been a long day, with many phone calls. Not everyone had been home, or been able to talk for long. But the worry and concern was there in each of his family member’s voices. And somehow it managed to both warm his heart and pain him at the same time. “... You know you’re always welcome to come visit us, right Grandpa? Or come and stay for a while? George and I have an extra bedroom. We all worry about you being all alone you know. It’s been five year since Grandma passed away...” Henry closed his ears, fighting back a few more tears. It hadn’t been five years. It was more like seven or eight. It had only been five years since her body shut down. But he’d lost his Martha well before that, when the light of recognition had faded out of her beautiful blue eyes... “Grandpa?” Wiping his eyes, Henry struggled to keep a quaver out of his voice. “You don’t need to worry sweetheart. I’ve got everything I need here. Things will take care of themselves, you’ll see.” He forced his voice to remain strong and steady. “You just worry about that husband of yours and my [i]great[/i]-grandson, you hear?” “If you’re sure...” She sounded less than certain. “Very sure. Everything will be fine. I promise.” “Okay grandpa. Love you. I’ll talk to you later.” “I love you too, Catherine.” With a sigh he hung up the phone and leaned back into his recliner. It had been a long afternoon, though one well spent. His eyes returned to the photo before him. “Well Martha, it’s just you and me now.” He whispered, tracing her face with his fingertip. He smiled once more, thinking of the happy days they’d spent together in their youth. The picnics, the night spent out dancing. The night spent [i]inside[/i] doing a different kind of dancing. The joy at the births of each of their children, and their grandchildren. The simple pleasures of taking their boys on vacation, or teaching them around the kitchen table, or just standing beside his wife and watching the kids sleep peacefully in their beds. The smile slipped from his face as more recent memories surfaced. The nursing home. The fall and broken hip. And the last year, spent lying in the Alzheimer’s ward in the hospital. Laying there with a little swivel table just like his hanging over her. Lying there, but never really getting better, just slowly fading away, day by day. If there was a Hell on Earth, it was that place. The sounds and images came back to him in the dark of night sometimes. The incoherent mumbling. The random screams. The ‘healthier’ patients wandering the halls like zombies. And spending each day their, beside his beautiful, brilliant Martha, as she drifted further and further away from him day by day. With that cacophony of loss and madness as a backdrop. Each day he’d prayed for God to heal her. And when there wasn’t anything of ‘her’ left but an empty shell, he’d prayed to God for her suffering to end. If He couldn’t fix her, then at least let her go peacefully and quietly, with what little dignity was left to her! But no. It took over nine months before what was left of his beloved wife finally passed on. Henry blotted his tears once more, drying his eyes so he could see clearly. He carefully looked over his little tray table, making sure everything he needed was laid out neatly. The bottle of whiskey was down more than a little from it’s condition earlier in the afternoon. But there was more than enough left for his intentions. To the left, the paperwork was laid out neatly. The results of his last medical examination. A copy of his Last Will and Testament. A long, heartfelt note to his family explaining his decision, and telling them all just how much he loved them. He only hoped his shaky handwriting was still legible enough. To the right, his bottle of Single Malt Scotch, shotglass, and a mostly full bottle of prescription ‘sleep aids’ he’d talked his doctor into providing him. And of course, in the center, a black and white photo of a happy, loving couple just starting their lifelong journey together. “I'll be seeing you soon Darling, don’t you worry.” He whispered softly to the picture, and if his hands shook as he opened the bottle, it was due solely to the difficulty of the child proof cap. He’d always been told that suicide was a sin. But surely the Lord would understand, under these circumstances. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Hell being much worse than the Alzheimer’s ward. And if doing this [i]did[/i] send him down to the other place, well, at least it would be a [i]private[/i] Hell. Not one he’d drag his entire family into. Forcing them suffer as they watched him waste away. But surely God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny him a reunion with his own personal angel. Surely he’d earned that much in his long life? Henry stared down at the handful of capsules he’d poured into his hand. Each one was half pink and half white. “Heh. Pink and white. Just like that skirt you wore to the roller derby. Do you remember that, darling?” He whispered, closing his eyes and smiling at the memory. Opening his eyes again, the smile lingered as he stared at the capsules once more. Then, one by one, he calmly swallowed them, small sips of Scotch helping them go down more easily. By now his stomach was mostly empty, and his slow drinking all afternoon had his body relaxed and feeling no pain. Everything would proceed nice and smoothly, just as he had planned. With a pleased sigh he finished downing one last shot of Scotch, then closed his eyes to wait for the capsules to dissolve and sleep to take him. As he waited, he let his mind wander, focusing on the memories of happier times long ago. Of family and loved ones and roller skates and red and white skirts. He could almost hear the music playing and the sound of wheels on polished wood. He could see her blonde hair streaming behind her, her skirt swishing in the wind as she laughed and smiled and struggled to keep up with him. He could feel her warmth against his chest as he pulled her into his embrace, the two of them gently spinning in a circle in the center of the rink. He could smell her perfume, the flowery one she wore just for him. Leaning forward for a kiss, he could almost taste her lips as they pressed against his... As sleep took him, Henry Witherford’s lips curled up into one last smile.