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11. Mrs. Cassidy’s Last Year
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Husbands and Wives 55 11 Mrs. Cassidy’s Last Year Mary Gordon Mr. Cassidy knew he couldn’t go to Communion. He had sinned against charity. He had wanted his wife dead. The intention had been his, and the desire. She would not go back to bed. She had lifted the table that held her breakfast (it was unfair, it was unfair to all of them, that the old woman should be so strong and so immobile ). She had lifted the table above her head and sent it crashing to the floor in front of him. “Rose,” he had said, bending, wondering how he would get scrambled egg, coffee, cranberry juice (which she had said she liked, the color of it) out of the garden pattern on the carpet. That was the sort of thing she knew but would not tell him now. She would laugh, wicked and bland faced as an egg, when he did the wrong thing. But never say what was right, although she knew it, and her tongue was not dead for curses, for reports of crimes. “Shithawk,” she would shout at him from her bedroom. “Bastard son of a whore.” Or more mildly, “Pimp,” or “Fathead fart.” Old words, curses heard from soldiers on the boat or somebody’s street children. Never spoken by her until now. Punishing him, though he had kept his promise. He was trying to pick up the scrambled eggs with a paper napkin. The napkin broke, then shredded when he tried to squeeze the egg into what was left of it. He was on his knees on the carpet, scraping egg, white shreds of paper, purple fuzz from the trees in the carpet. “Shitscraper,” she laughed at him on his knees. And then he wished in his heart most purely for the woman to be dead. “Mrs. Cassidy’s Last Year,” from Temporary Shelter by Mary Gordon. Copyright © 1987 by Mary Gordon. Used by permission of Random House, Inc., and SLL/Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Random House, Inc. for permission. 56 Fiction and Poetry about Family Caregiving The doorbell rang. His son and his son’s wife. Shame that they should see him so, kneeling, bearing curses, cursing in his heart. “Pa,” said Toni, kneeling next to him. “You see what we mean.” “She’s too much for you,” said Mr. Cassidy’s son Tom. Self-made man, thought Mr. Cassidy. Good time Charlie. Every joke a punchline like a whip. No one would say his wife was too much for him. “Swear,” she had said, lying next to him in bed when they were each no more than thirty. Her eyes were wild then. What had made her think of it? No sickness near them, and fearful age some continent like Africa, with no one they knew well. What had put the thought to her, and the wildness, so that her nails bit into his palm, as if she knew small pain would preserve his memory. “Swear you will let me die in my own bed. Swear you won’t let them take me away.” He swore, her nails making dents in his palms, a dull shallow pain, not sharp, blue-green or purplish. He had sworn. On his knees now beside his daughter-in-law, his son. “She is not too much for me. She is my wife.” “Leave him then, Toni,” said Tom. “Let him do it himself if it’s so goddamn easy. Serve him right. Let him learn the hard way. He couldn’t do it if he didn’t have us, the slobs around the corner.” Years of hatred now come out, punishing for not being loved best, of the family’s children not most prized. Nothing is forgiven, thought the old man, rising to his feet, his hand on his daughter-in-law’s squarish shoulder. He knelt before the altar of God. The young priest, bright-haired, faced them, arms open, a good little son. No sons priests. He thought how he was old enough now to have a priest a grandson. This boy before him, vested and ordained, could have been one of the ones who followed behind holding tools. When there was time. He thought of Tom looking down at his father who knelt trying to pick up food. Tom for whom there had been no time. Families were this: the...