Just In Impression

  Torturous halls were systematically lined with photos of him and photos of her. He—she knew well and intimately, an air of devoutness shared dutifully through her day. However, She, herself was far and unfamiliar, haunting her busied routines between the rooms. Her mind transfixed on how her youth could remain unfettered, while the wickedness of time’s embrace pooled in her lover’s eyes. Her logical gaze was soon sundered by the echo of his thundering demand.

  “Where’s my day’s breakfast? I told you last night, I cannot be late.” 

  “Oh!” Poised on her toes, she glided down the hall, entering the kitchen calmly. “Good morning! My clock says there’s 4 minutes and 28 seconds until your baked oats are ready. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Clearing his throat he replied, “Yes. And the morning paper. I’d like to ease my mind into the day before my big proposal this afternoon.” 

  “Of course, honey. Three minutes and 54 seconds.” She moved through the marble floors of the foyer, fetching the paper that lay out front. The mahogany door thudded under its own weight. Sweeping back through, she poured his coffee, adding one tablespoon of cream and a cube of sugar. The cup, and the paper opened to its left, were laid out at the head of the banquet table in the adjoining room. “27 seconds.” She spun back through, grabbing the baked oats from the oven, and flew back into the dining room. “Your breakfast, my love.” Her greet in time for his entrance.

  He kissed her cheek, “Thank you, darling.” Sitting down, he sipped his coffee, and popped his paper. “Delightful, my dear.” His demeanor relaxed; she resumed her daily chores spread-out through the rooms—which remained consistently unoccupied. 

     “I’ll be back for dinner, wish me luck, darling.” His voice sprang down the hall, brimming with content.

  “Be safe, my love. I know you’ll simply woo the board! We’ll be having steak to celebrate, honey.” She smiled and turned back into the room. “Ten-thirty— I shouldn’t delay anymore; else the dust be dusted.” Her chores went on, uninterrupted, allowing her to finish promptly at four o’clock. 

  She ushered the breeze in through the Paladion windows and paned French doors. The tempered evening ideal for grilled steak and vegetables. She plucked sage and thyme and exited the kitchen onto the patio. The grill clicked. She paused before turning the igniter again— a loud knock signaled from the foyer. “Hello? Mrs. Bartlett?” A male’s voice accompanied the knock. 

  “Who could that be?” She set down the platter of vegetables. “I’ll be right with you,” she called, her heels bouncing with each delicate step. “Hello, Officers—” she stood glowing; her hair pulled back by a large blue band. She wore a knee length white dress steeled by a navy-blue apron. A pair of ruby stilettoes kept her feet perfectly arched, and her skin seemingly luminescent. “How may I help?”

  “Do you mind if we come in, Mrs. Bartlett?” His tone steady. 

      “Well, I most certainly don’t have the time for a formal chat gentleman. If you don’t mind, I must attend to dinner. So, I insist. How may I help?”

      “Well—ma’am, it is about Dr. Bartlett. You see…” 

   “Yes, yes. Dr. Bartlett will be home soon, and I really must attend to dinner. It won’t grill itself.” A soft chuckle elevated her tone. 

  “You see ma’am…Mrs. Bartlett, I’m sorry to have to inform you.” The officer paused, looking helplessly at his partner, baffled by Mrs. Bartlett’s dismissive tone. 

       “Ma’am, Dr. Bartlett was involved in an accident earlier this afternoon.” The second officer somberly stepped in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bartlett, he—Dr. Bartlett died at the hospital.”

        They stood there in silence for what could be described as an eternity. 

  “Oh—Well, if that’s all officers, I must attend to dinner. Thank you for stopping by.” Her words cut coldly and systematically. “Do get home safe, I heard there’s been a terrible accident.”

        The officers glanced back at each other, eyes wide, “Wil…will you be alright?” One muttered. She responded with a turn on her heels and a slam of the door. “Call please—don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything,” the officers words muffled by the mahogany.  

  She continued her evening as planned. Dinner was grilled and set in place on the patio at six o’clock. At seven, she cleared the table, scrapping the untouched meal into the trash. The windows and doors were locked, curtains pulled for the night. Donning a robe, she fluffed the pillows and pulled the sheets back, “Good night, honey.” Her words calm, as she slid into bed, pulling the lamp string— she sunk into the consuming night. 

  The morning came the same as they all had. She awoke to begin her daily cleaning, starting with the making of the master bed. Turning the corner, she came face-to-face with her and Dr. Bartlett. Cocking her head in confusion, she was once again entranced with the allure of the unfamiliar photos.  “Enough of that, the dust’ll aggravate Dr. Bartlett’s allergies.”  Shaking her head, she continued down the hall, when her routine would, again be interrupted by a knock at the front door. 

        The neighbor to their left, Charlotte Doyle, stood in the doorway presenting a platter of assorted sweets. “Hello dear,” she began to only pause, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” shoving the platter towards her, “I’ve baked these just for you, and if there is anything else that you may need, don’t hesitate to call.” Mrs. Bartlett grabs the platter, “You’ll be okay, right?” 

        “You shouldn’t worry.” Mrs. Bartlett responds. “The work is still getting done, Dr. Bartlett will be pleased. Thanks for stopping by now.” Without hesitation the wooden door is slammed. Mrs. Bartlett placed the platter on the kitchen island to resume her duties. Throughout the afternoon, concerned neighbor after neighbor ventured to the solid door, offering casseroles and pastries in abundance. Each neighbor was met with the same stiffness once the delights were exchanged over the threshold. The clock turned seven and the door shook with a fury. 

        “Hello?” A voice barreled through the rattling door. “It’s your sister, Jane! I hopped on the first flight as soon as I heard. Hello!? Brenda, are you there?” 

        The door swung open. “May I help you ma’am? I’m rather busy and have fallen quite behind as I’ve suffered interruptions ceaselessly today.” 

        The woman at the door threw her bags to the ground and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Bartlett’s neck. “I know it has been two years since we’ve talked, but that’s behind us and I’m here for you sister. I can’t imagine how you feel.” She spoke through tears. 

        “If that’s all, I must get back to work.” Her words were cold and precise, her arms stiff at her sides.                                                                                                                                  “Wh—what do you mean? I’m staying with you.” 

        “Dr. Bartlett will be sorely upset if he arrives to a home in disarray. Though it appears he’s running late; however, I have little time to waste.” Her words strung together more quickly. 

        “Sister, what are you saying? Dr. Bartlett, your husband Charles—he died yesterday afternoon.” She took Mrs. Bartlett’s hands in hers, her eyes turning to them inquisitively. 

         “Dr. Bartlett will be home any minute, I have no time for idle nonsense, ma’am.” 

        “Oh,” wiping her eyes, Jane continued. “Sister—you’re in shock, clearly hysterical.” Throwing her bags into the foyer, Jane pushed her way in. “Listen,” she led Mrs. Bartlett to the tufted sofa in the lounge, “sit, I’m going to fetch you some water.” She began clamoring in the kitchen. “Oh! Well look at this spread! —Where do you keep your wine opener?”

        “I really must fluff Dr. Bartlett’s pillo…” her demands from the lounge abruptly cut short.

        “Found it!” Jane entered the room with a tray of beverages accompanying an assortment of treats picked from the neighbor’s offerings. “You did say, fluff his pillows? I guess a lot can change in two years. From ‘Maybe I want a divorce’ to fluffing the old bastards’ pillows. Ya know,” her eyes now met with Mrs. Bartlett; her first pour of wine, a heavy one. “This reminds me of the summer we visited mom. Remember? She chuckled.

        “I do not recall.” Mrs. Bartlett stood blankly, “I’ll see you ou….”

        Before she could take a step, Jane pushed Mrs. Bartlett back to the sofa, “you aren’t changing my mind! I’ll go get settled— I remember the room.” Procuring her bags from the foyer, she made her way down the hall, “second door on the left.” 

   Beyond the creaking door, Jane was met with an echo of whirring mechanisms, their wires connected to pale contrivances identical to the perfectly poised limbs of Mrs. Brenda Bartlett. A red light flashed at the top of a screen to the left: Systems under duress – functions operating at 75% of normal capacity. Mrs. Bartlett requires immediate maintenance.