Gertrude and
Henry
A Short Story by
Amy Hetland
Whippoorwills and Lightning Bugs:
Gertrude clutches the cell phone in her
fist. Her curly white locks drench with
sweat, along with her glasses fogging up in the steamy heat. Her T-shirt and shorts cling to her, as she stumbles
down a wooded path. Gertrude keeps
calling Henry, but he doesn’t either hear his phone as usual, or can’t. She hopes it’s the former.
“Your husband has dementia Mrs.
Olson.”
“How long will he live?” Gertrude wavered.
“Patients with dementia can live many
more years after diagnosis. It’s a
crapshoot.”
Gertrude smirked with the doctor’s
choice of words. She didn’t want many
more years of this. She wanted her Henry
back. His crooked smile, pale blue eyes
that revealed his Norwegian heritage, his wry sense of humor. Now he growled anger in his eyes, anger in
his words.
Gertrude continues to stagger along the
path, hoping to catch any sign of her wandering companion. They used to follow these trails together on
long summer nights, listening to the whippoorwills, watching the lightning bugs
along the way. They held hands as lovers
did, fingers entwined. Now there was no
trail to follow and no hand to hold. All
that was remembered was lost.
“I can’t take care of him anymore,”
Gertrude sighed.
“I understand,” the nursing home
administrator crooned.
Gertrude wondered what the woman could
possibly understand. Did she commit her
husband of fifty years to this loony bin?
Did she have to share a bed with a stranger? Did she search the starless country roads at
night, frantic with worry over her partner in life? No!
Gertrude wanted to shout.
No! I don’t want any of
this. I want my Henry back.
On the trail, Gertrude stops as she sees
a shadow in the path ahead of her. She
runs to the crumpled form of Henry and collapses on the ground beside him. No sound of whippoorwills tonight. No sight of lightning bugs. As she cradles Henry’s head in her lap, he
opens his eyes, a glimpse of recollection in them.
“Oh there you are, give me your hand.” Henry clasps his wife’s hand in his, the
crooked smile on his face. They entwine
their fingers, listening to the whippoorwills, watching for the lightning bugs.
Promises, Promises:
“You promised.”
“Made to be broken, baby.”
Gertrude stands in front of the marker
to Henry’s grave. She is prepared for
this, this eventuality. Yet, her body is
stiff, mind frozen in time. She clutches
the flag in her arms, not wanting to let go of this last gift from her husband,
her companion, her partner in life.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” Gertrude beamed as Henry cocked his fedora,
trying to imitate Humphrey Bogart. They
finished watching “Casablanca,” of which they enjoyed every Valentine’s Day since the advent of the
VCR. They saw this movie on their first
date all those years ago. Gertrude could
still smell the salty, buttery popcorn, hear the crackling of the film, and
feel the warmth of his hand grasping hers.
This was a world previously unexplored, that feeling of love at first
sight.
Gertrude and Henry’s lockers were across
the hall from each other at Moorhead High.
As they caught sight of each other numerous times, Gertrude longed for
Henry, dapper in his suit and tie complete with fedora, to come over and talk
to her. She was too shy to attempt such
a feat. So she craved him in her dreams,
day and night. Finally one day Henry
ambled over to her and said, “Gertrude, I think this is the beginning of a
beautiful friendship.” She trembled all
over in excitement.
“We’ve got to go, Mom.”
“Give me a few more minutes, I’m not
ready.” Gertrude mumbles in her stupor.
Gertrude notices the turned over dirt
above Henry’s grave. She glances around
at the other graves, wondering how long they had been there, how long since
they had visitors. She vows to visit
Henry’s grave every day. Gertrude could
not bear to leave him here alone, with strangers. Now that Henry has his mind back, she wonders
what he thinks of his new neighbors.
Silly thinking, she thinks to herself.
Gertrude just wants to pass the time, to prolong the inevitable.
Gertrude and Henry loved all the
classics and their stars. At office
parties and backyard barbeques, Henry entertained others with his impressions
of famous actors, gone but not forgotten.
In a popular skit with Gertrude, Henry introduced his co-star with a
flourish.
“You promised,” Gertrude whined.
“Made to be broken, baby,” Henry mocked.
The party chuckled, easily entertained
by cocktails. The script heard from a
cheesy love story seen years ago, a B-rated movie whose title they long ceased
to remember. Yet they recalled this
hokey line at the end of the movie, with the heroine’s plaintive plea and the
cruel villain’s sneer.
“Mom, we should go, you’re getting
cold.” Her daughter tries to wrap her
arm around her, but Gertrude won’t leave, can’t leave.
“You promised,” Gertrude whispers,
swallowing her tears.
“Made to be broken.” She replays the
script in her mind, and breathes.
THE END
____________________________
____________________________
Amy
Hetland is a freelance writer who hails from the land of sky-blue
waters: Minnesota. She loves to read, travel, and advocate for
animals. Amy also teaches English as a Second Language.