Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

Eugene’s voice gave him away. She was worried. She didn’t like the sound of it. “I want you to come over right now. You shouldn’t be alone. I’ll make the funeral arrangements. I’ll let your father know.”

“No, mom. I’ll be all right.”

“Eugene, I insist. This is your mother talking to you. You come over right now. I’m starting breakfast this minute and if you aren’t here in fifteen minutes I’ll call a cab and come right over.”

“All right, mom. Give me about a half hour.”

“Sit down, Eugene. I have your breakfast right here. When did you last eat?”

“I don’t know.”

“Eugene, you look terrible. Stay here today, okay?”

He forced a smile as he picked at his food. She poured a cup of coffee and set it down. “Tell me everything. What was going on with her?”

It was painful to discuss it with his mother, but he knew he had no other choice. He told her about Dennis and the Lightning Squad; her dramatics when he invited him over; about her drinking; and her disappearances.

“This doesn’t sound like her at all. Do you think this has something to do with the Lightning Squad?”

“I don’t know. Really, mom. I’ll be all right. I’ll make the funeral arrangements and go back to work right afterwards.”

She was worried, but nothing she said could convince him to stay.

Eugene returned home only briefly to shower and dress, and then he went out. He let Stuart Everson know what happened and took some time off. He found a funeral home, picked out a casket and burial plot, and then he went to the shopping district in the town square.

The streets of the square were closed to traffic, so Gene got out to walk. The place was crowded with hucksters, whores, zombies, and hundreds of partygoers. There were bars on every block. Tattoo parlors and adult bookstores dotted the square where neon signs lit everything up. Crowds of people would congregate outside the seedy dens. The smell of pot punctuated the air. Fights were common, and yelling and laughter were everywhere. Head shops added to the gaudiness, and in the center of it all was Shorty’s; the town casino.

Eugene remembered when it was a boarded up community center. His father used to go there, but lack of interest forced it to close until the town sold it to Shorty McDougel, who opened up a gym. He couldn’t make a go of it until five years ago when Stu Everson talked him into gambling. At first he put some slot machines in the gym, and then began taking some of the exercise equipment out to add a roulette and card table. Finally, he decided to convert the whole place into a casino. Mark Packable then convinced him to open up some private rooms for sex; and with sex, to add a headshop and sell drugs. Eugene doctored the books for him.

“Hi, sweetie,” a hooker shouted to Eugene, as he passed by. “Need a date?”

“Let me keep you company tonight. I’m very lucky,” another said.

“Hey buddy, need some weed? How about some acid? Got everything man. Come on in.” Eugene hurried past them.

Passing the tawdriness, the shrillness of the signage, and the seemliness of the whole atmosphere, he reached the L&S supermarket at the south end of town, where he picked up some bread and lunchmeat. Then, one more pass through the garishness.

When he arrived home he sat in his favorite chair, sipped a glass of wine, and played some music. After awhile he went to the kitchen to fix a sandwich and have a glass of beer, but the sandwich had no taste and the beer seemed flat. He felt hungry, and yet he had no appetite. He put television on, but it could not fill the emptiness within him. He tried to think about why she did it. Could I have stopped it? Why did she say I have to get out instead of we have to get out? What did this have to do with Dennis? So much uncertainty.

Several hours went by with Eugene searching his mind for the answers to his questions. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he didn’t want to go upstairs. He dreaded the moment when he’d go to where Catherine murdered herself, and so he poured himself a shot of Jack Daniels. He downed several more, and began pacing through the house; his emotions overcoming fatigue. After a few more shots he became angry. “DAMN IT, CATHERINE! WHY? WHY DID YOU DO IT?” He began sniveling as he paced the kitchen. “This isn’t fair. We had a great life together. Why did you ruin it? DAMM IT! WHY?” His voice got louder and harsher with each question. He was in a blind rage when he hurled the glass toward the far wall, crashing and splintering it. He collapsed to the floor next to the kitchen table and began sobbing again. He was on his knees with his face arched toward the ceiling. “I HATE YOU! YOU HEAR ME, CATHERINE! YOU TOOK AWAY EVERYTHING FROM ME. I HATE YOU!” His sobbing came in wild pulsations until he let out one last horrible scream; a scream from the top of his voice that could rattle the dead. Finally, he sprawled out on the kitchen floor until sleep overtook him.

When he woke up, shameful and thanking God no one knew of his outburst, he got up and climbed the dreadful stairs. He walked over to his wife’s side of the bed and pulled back the covers, and climbed in. He lay down in her space. He could still feel her; still felt her warmth. He stared at the nightstand once again and picked up the book. It had a tissue she used as a bookmark near the end. He opened it up and read … save them from the impending destruction . He closed the book and looked at the spine. Gibbon—the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Eugene woke up to the fierce rays of a rising sun. He walked downstairs, his head aching. He was making a pot of extra strong coffee when the phone rang.

“Mr. Sulke. This is the county coroner. I just got the results of the autopsy. Could you come in, please?”

“Could you tell me now? Was it alcohol?”

“A mixture of alcohol and barbiturates, but there’s something else you should know.”

“What is it?”

“I’d rather you come down to the County Morgue.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“It is at the request of Detective Wismar that you come down.”

“All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Eugene, let’s talk over here,” Wismar said. Gene sat down across from him, watching him shuffle some papers around. “Ah, yes, here it is. Did you know your wife was pregnant? About… let’s see… three months.”

“What?” Eugene said incredulously. That’s impossible!”

Wismar just stared at Eugene with a blank expression. “I use a rubber because we don’t want children.”

“How were you two getting along? Has she been drinking?”

“Yes, but only the last couple months or so.”

“Has she talked to you about anything wrong in her life?”

“No, we haven’t been talking much lately. We got along great until she started drinking. Then she began withdrawing. In fact, I’d say she started withdrawing several months ago. We made love sparingly during that time.”

“Did you know she was expecting?”

“No. She never mentioned it to me, and I don’t know how she could be pregnant. I use protection.”