DEATH BY GRAVY
By Paula L. High, © 2005

    The late afternoon sunbeams streamed through the large picture window and reminded Matilda that it was almost dinnertime.  Her concentration on the file in front of her was so intense she had lost track of the hour.  She closed the file, and stretched her arms up and outward.  She took a deep breath and realized she had a slight headache.  Well, she thought, That’s what I get for pouring myself so completely into my consulting work!  That stuff really wears me out.  

    She stood up and stretched again as she walked over to the window.  As she looked outside, she noticed the nosy next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gladdis, standing in her own yard, next to the two-foot high, white picket fence.  Matilda couldn’t believe her eyes.  That crazy woman was watering those poor daisies again!  It had to be at least the fourth or fifth time today.  But of course, Mrs. Gladdis wasn’t just watering the daisies. She wasn’t even watching where she aimed the hose. She was actually watching someone else.  The daisies were merely an excuse to be out and close enough to snoop around.  She looked as if she might be cooking up a contrived conversation— a fishing expedition of sorts, no doubt.  Matilda went into the kitchen but she couldn’t help wondering who Mrs. Gladdis’s target was this time.  

* * *

    The whirring sound of the corded electric pruning shears drowned out everything except Harv’s mentally active, internal world.  His mind was also whirring along on half a dozen other thoughts and theories, as he trimmed the climbing roses on the sides of the two-story house.

    Although Matilda’s husband Harv was very nice, he was not very good with social graces, nor did he notice the small details of life going on around him— unless they had a specific scientific application to his thought process of the moment.  He was a tall, lanky, brilliant scientist who worked at the university on the other side of the small Midwestern town in which they lived.  It was not uncommon for him to be "lost in thought," as he went about daily chores.  Regarding regular everyday things, he was frequently baffled.  He was the stereotypical, absent-minded professor.  This day was no different. He had no idea that he was being watched from over the fence. 

    Harv reached a point in the pruning task where he needed to reach the roses on the southwest side of the house.  He turned off the shears and looked at how abundantly the roses had grown over the past year.  On this side, they grew up both stories on the lattice, thicker than ever.  They framed Matilda’s upstairs sewing room window very nicely.  He knew she loved the way the gentle summer breeze would waft the light rose scent into the room, through the open window.  Matilda had specifically asked Harv to make sure they continued to grow that way.  He liked to try to please her, and he figured since he always seemed to have trouble doing the right thing to make her happy, this was at least a little thing he could do.  However, the bushes still needed some pruning.  As Harv stood there assessing the situation, he noticed his foot was getting wet.  Water was running into their yard, where it was already mysteriously soggy.  He looked over toward the source of the water.  He groaned inwardly as he saw Mrs. Gladdis watching him. 

    The craggy old woman smiled flirtatiously at him, oblivious of how ridiculous she appeared.  He knew as soon as she spoke, she would sound like the wicked witch of the West. 

    She began her discordant word assault.  "Hello Harv.  You’re doing a nice job on those roses this year.  They’ve really grown.  What kind of fertilizer did you use?  Did Matilda pick out those colors?  Don’t you think some yellow ones would have been nice?  I really think you should plant some yellow ones.  Matilda likes those reds and pinks too much.  Why doesn’t she come out here and help you with that?  What does she do in there all day?  Who was that visiting this morning?  Did you know that . . . " 

    But Harv was no longer listening.  He had no idea how to deal with such a busybody.  He looked at her, and weakly smiled as he turned on the pruning shears again.  What a relief, he thought.  I’d much rather hear these stupid shears than listen to that crazy old woman. He trimmed some junipers near the ground, hoping she’d go away. 

* * *

    Across the street, Mr. Witherspoon sat on his porch, hiding behind his afternoon newspaper.  He periodically peeked out from behind the paper to watch Mrs. Gladdis pester Harv.  Today, it was Harv and not Mr. Witherspoon who was her target.  For that, he was quietly thankful. 

    Mr. Witherspoon was the quiet, kind, widower of the neighborhood.  He marveled at how Mrs. Gladdis targeted the various men on the block, on various days, with her self-proclaimed charm and wit.  Her invasive, manipulative behavior was transparent to everyone.  The nosy old biddy was stupendously annoying.  He felt a twinge of sympathy for Harv’s predicament.  Mr. Witherspoon couldn’t help but chuckle when Harv turned the shears back on to drown-out the nag, without answering her. 

    Harv moved the ladder to the southwest side of the house, next to the sewing room window.  He still needed to solve the problem of reaching the pruning shears up to that second-story height.  The extension cord he was using wasn’t long enough.  He looked around and remembered there was no outside electrical outlet on that side of the house.  The sewing room window invited the solution.  Harv remembered there was a plug inside, under the window.  He climbed the ladder with the extension cord in hand.  He gave the window a slight test push, to see if it was unlatched.  Sure enough, he opened it.  He reached in, plugged the extension cord into the wall outlet, and went about trying to continue his pruning.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but he soon realized how cumbersome the corded pruning shears were to work with while on the ladder. 

    He turned off the pruning shears and reassessed the unruly roses.  Humm . . . I suppose tomorrow I really should just go to the hardware store and get those cordless electric shears.  God knows—it would sure make this job easier.  With that, Harv decided he was done pruning for the day and would finish the job tomorrow.  He reached back into the sewing room window, unplugged the extension cord and brought his tools down the ladder.  He left the window slightly open and the ladder in place, in anticipation of finishing the task later. 

* * *

    Matilda got a glass of water from the door of the refrigerator and drank it.  She wasn’t sure where Harv was, or what he was up to, but considering the sound of various yard tools around the neighborhood, she figured he was probably doing something in the garden.  Her focus shifted to deciding what to make for dinner.  Her mind was still cluttered with frustration from her consulting work.  She reasoned that getting dinner started would help her tune out the noisy thoughts for awhile.  She stared at the food selections in the pantry.  She was long past worrying about her weight.  At fifty years old, 5 feet, 5 inches, and over 280 pounds, she just didn’t care anymore.  It seemed the only time her mind was quiet was when she was eating. 

    As she looked in the pantry, she picked up a sixteen-ounce jar of beef gravy.  Just then, Harv walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.  Matilda gritted her teeth.  She was tired, she had a headache, and didn’t feel like she could deal with the stream of questions to come.  Without meaning to he just annoyed her so much— day in and day out.  He seemed to be always questioning in that slightly nasally voice of his.  She often wondered why she married him, and even more, why she stayed with him.  He was a sweet man and always good to her, but sometimes she despised him.  She felt guilty for feeling that way.

    Matilda was raised in a day when a young girl did not turn down a marriage proposal from a decent man with a good education.  Harv was six years her senior.  When he proposed to her thirty years ago, her parents had insisted that she marry him.  They thought he was "such a great catch!"  And maybe he was . . . for someone else.  Even back then, that little, knowing voice inside of her had said, "No!"  But the pressure was on, and she felt her parents had made it all but impossible for her to do anything else. 

    Her thoughts were brought back to the present by the grating sound of Harv’s voice.  He was asking, "What-cha doin’ in here?" 

    Matilda shuddered.  Isn’t it perfectly obvious what I’m doing? she thought.  The sun was soon setting and she was looking in the pantry shortly before dinnertime?  He’s a scientist, for cryin’ out loud!  Can he not observe, hypothesize and figure it out?  Why does he have to ASK me the obvious? DUH! Geeze! 

    Still facing the pantry, she had to take a deep breath to keep herself calm.  "Dinner." was all she could stand to utter.  She reached into the pantry with her free hand, grabbed a fudge-striped cookie, and stuffed it into her mouth.  For just a moment, she savored the rich chocolate flavor.  She sighed softly.  She had just successfully fought back the urge to scream at the innocent man.  Instead, she calmly turned and smiled at him.  Harv just stood there, looking at her in that sweet, clueless manner of his.  She felt guilty again for feeling annoyed. 

    Thinking quickly, she handed him the jar of gravy and said, "Could you please go to the store?  I need another jar of gravy, just like this one— please."  It was a lie.  She didn’t need any more gravy— there were three more jars in the pantry.  But it would get him out of the house and save her from hearing his voice. 

    Harv smiled.  "Of course I’ll do that for you, Honey-bunny.  Just let me go change out of these yard-work clothes.  I’ll get right on it!"  He turned and set out on his dawdling path— upstairs to change his clothes, find his car keys and wallet, then back down to the car in their driveway.  Matilda knew it would probably take ten minutes just for him to make it to the car, and another twenty or thirty minutes to run what should be a fifteen-minute errand.  Matilda rolled her eyes and shook her head.  Bless his well meaning, annoying heart, that’s just how he is. 

    Matilda saw the opportunity to have some quiet time alone.  She quickly went to the freezer, selected a package of beef, put it in the microwave, and set it to defrost.  Then she went upstairs to her sewing room, where she kept a small stereo with fabulous little speakers.  It was a place where she could temporarily escape the world and all the noise in her mind.  She chose one of her favorite music CDs: Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, 18^th Variation. 

    She placed it in the player, turned up the volume, then took a deep, soul-cleansing breath and closed her eyes.  The gentle rose-scented air relaxed her.  Matilda’s mind was so cluttered that she didn’t realize the rose-scented air meant the window was open, and she didn’t know Mrs. Gladdis was out by her fence— again.  The old woman was "watering the daisies," and glaring up at the window, from where Matilda’s beautiful music now floated. 

* * *

    Harv finally found his car keys in his other pants pocket and his wallet on the bedside table.  He made his way downstairs and out to the driveway.  With his car keys in one hand and the jar of gravy in the other, Harv suddenly realized that he wasn’t sure what flavor of gravy to get.  He thought hard for a moment.  "I bet she told me what kind, but I’ll be damned if I can remember now.  If I ask her, she’s going to give me that look.  God, I hate that look."  He decided he’d better brave "the look" and just ask her before he left. 

    Turning back toward the house, he noticed Matilda was standing upstairs in the sewing room.  Her back was toward the window and she swayed slowly, back and forth.  He smiled and watched her for a moment.  He could hear her music through the partially open window.  He liked seeing her enjoy something.  She seemed to be lost in the music and at peace. 

    Since he didn’t think things through like most folks, he figured he would just climb up the ladder and ask her, real quick, through the window, "Hey, chicken or beef?"  It didn’t occur to him that by tapping on the second-story window he would likely scare the begeezis out of Matilda. 

    Harv was so intently focused on getting to that ladder, climbing it, and carrying out his self-imposed task— he failed to notice how squishy the ground was at the base of the ladder or that Mrs. Gladdis was standing by the short, white fence, yapping at him like an angry Chihuahua. 

    Mrs. Gladdis was chiding him, "Why does Matilda have to have that damned music up so loud?  What’s wrong with her anyway?  Can’t she see this is a nice, quiet, peaceful, uneventful neighborhood?  She’s gonna wake the dead!  Why, even the folks buried at the cemetery are gonna complain how loud that is!  Are you listening to me?" 

    Harv didn’t see or hear the nosy neighbor.  He reached the ladder, put the keys in his pocket, and started climbing.  Indignant, Mrs. Gladdis would not be ignored.  When Harv was halfway up the ladder, Mrs. Gladdis threw down her garden hose, stepped over the short fence, and stomped over to the base of the ladder.  She slowly and unsteadily climbed up after Harv.  The ladder began to tilt slightly on the soggy ground as Mrs. Gladdis added her weight, but Harv didn’t notice.  He reached the top of the ladder, and tapped on the sewing room window.  Getting no response, he rapped on the window again. Matilda had the music too loud to hear him.  Once more, but harder this time, he knocked on the window, and called out Matilda’s name through the opening. 

    As fate would have it, Mrs. Gladdis reached the ladder rung just below Harv’s feet at the very same moment that Matilda heard something at the window.  It all happened so fast.  Matilda turned, and saw what looked like a floating head outside the second-floor window.  She jumped and fell back, screaming at the bizarre sight.  This in turn, scared the clueless Harv enough that he jumped slightly— just enough to tilt the ladder further into the water-logged ground.  He had to grab the window frame to keep the ladder upright, and in so doing, Harv released his grip on the one-pound jar of gravy.  The jar fell and struck the unsteady neighbor squarely on her head. 

    Mrs. Gladdis screamed in pain as the jar broke on her head.  Gravy exploded everywhere, coating the ladder as the broken jar and gravy droplets descended.  She lost her grip on the slippery, listing ladder.  Mrs. Gladdis fell, plummeting the few feet to the ground, hitting her head on the concrete walkway below.  The momentum and bounce caused her body to roll over partially, leaving a half-body imprint in the gravy mess.  Harv just stood there, looking down, frozen on the top rung of the ladder.  He couldn’t fathom how or when Mrs. Gladdis had ended up below him on the ladder.  He was trying to take it all in and make sense of it. 

    By then, Matilda had time to pick herself up off the floor.  She rushed to the window, threw it wide open and began yelling at Harv.  "What the hell are doing up here scaring me like . . . " her voice trailed off as she spotted the hideous, twisted, gravy-covered form on the walkway below.  Just then, the music swelled in intensity and climaxed.  The unlikely couple stood, backlit, at the second-story window, staring down in horror at the strange sight below them. 

    From across the street, Mr. Witherspoon had been watching from the comfort of his front porch.  He had witnessed the entire scenario as it unfolded.  Now he stood there, shaking his head in amazement.  "Gracious me!  The plot thickens.  The police are never gonna believe this!"  He turned to go inside and dial 911. 

    "Go figure," he muttered, "Death by gravy!"