Wes Prussing is a transplanted New Yorker living in South Florida. He's worked almost exclusively as a sales and marketing manager in the construction industry for the past twenty years or so. Wes holds degrees in Liberal Arts and Business Marketing. His work has appeared in a number of small literary magazines and e-zines; Ken-Again, The Fairfield Review and Wild Violets to name a  few.

First Things Last (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.)

XX

Elise slapped the snooze button for the second time. She kicked off the goose-down comforter flipping it on to Marshall who was on his side, his back to her, still asleep, still snoring lightly. She rolled quietly over and gently spooned her body up close to his, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Gradually, their breathing fell into sync and she pulled his body in tight hoping to draw in some small portion of his unflinching resolve and steady determination. When the alarm sounded yet again she disentangled herself, rolled over and hit the off-switch. Still on her side she drew up her knees and locked her fingers across her shins. She remained like this for some time listening to the electric ticking of the clock, imagining a similar low-voltage pulse emanating from somewhere deep inside her. At length she glanced over at the clock and was surprised to discover that nearly twenty minutes had passed.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood; naked and vaguely nauseous.

Snatching a terrycloth robe from the bedpost and stepping into her slippers she shouted, “Wake up, Marshall. Babe…wake up.”

From beneath the covers came a hoarse: “Huh? What? What time is it?”

“It’s almost eight. I must have fell back to sleep—sorry.”

“It’s what? Eight?”

“Almost, we overslept a bit.”

“No problem. I’m up, I’m up.” He reached over to the nightstand and tipped up the face of his wristwatch. “We’re okay. There’ll be hardly any traffic today. We’ve got time.”

He sat up and yawned with a distinctly audible relish then fell to the floor and began doing push-ups. “You go ahead and shower first,” he huffed, as he mentally counted reps. “I’ll head down and get breakfast going in just a sec.”

Elise went to the linen closet and gathered a stack of towels. As she padded toward the bathroom Marshall crept up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“You feeling okay?” he asked. “You seem a bit out of it. Everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Maybe a little tired. I didn’t sleep very well.”

He slipped his hand between the folds of her robe. “Wow…you’re ice cold.”

She nudged him with the stack of towels. “Let go Marshall, you’re all sweaty. How many of those crazy push-ups are you doing anyway?”

“I du-know. A hundred.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well, you’re certainly sweaty enough. But…you know I love you just the way you are, right? You don’t have to prove anything to me. I fell in love with your brains, not your muscles.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Yeah sure you did. Hey, race to you the shower. Last one in has to—.”

“No you won’t buster, I’m first. Besides I need to wash my hair and I’ve got little enough elbow room as it is.”

“Okay, fine. But save a little hot water for your incredibly bright but very sweaty boyfriend.”

“Calm down there Schwarzenegger; I won’t be that long—besides a cold shower might do you some good.” She slipped from his arms and in a pensive tone added, “I just hope they have some heat on today. Remember last Tuesday? It was ice cold. And then there’s that ridiculous paper gown you have to put on the moment you walk in the door. Why do they need to keep it so cold?”

“Beats me,” Marshall answered, peeling off his tee-shirt. “Germs, I guess.”

“Well it’s a wonder everyone there doesn’t come down with phenomena.”

She deposited the towels on the bathroom vanity and got the water in the shower running. When she could see a sheet of vapor hanging just beneath the tiled soffit she stepped in and pulled the curtain closed. Immediately her pours opened. She scrubbed furiously; the washcloth a tight knot in her fist, her capillaries blossoming like tiny bouquets of pink daises. Soon the heat began to coax pinpoints of perspiration from her pale skin. She continued scrubbing while nudging the hot water valve even higher, fogging up the mirrors and dampening the porcelain fixtures. Finally she turned the water up as hot as it would go and let the exquisite needles of heat dance across her body. She lifted her head and arched forward letting the water beat against the small of her back then rolled her shoulders forward, shaking her hands furiously against the unyielding torment that she not only invited but embraced. She continued showering until the water finally began to cool. She dried herself with a towel while staring dreamily into the vanity mirror, wondering, not for the first time, if the visceral chill that had settled into her bones would ever dissipate.

XY

“Coffee’s on hon. You almost done up there?”

Marshall waited but received no reply. He continued with his breakfast preparations. From the Sub-Zero refrigerator he began gathering up deli-sausages, a carton of eggs, butter, cream cheese, jellies and jams. He set a cast iron skillet on the front burner and fired it up.

“How many eggs, babe?” he shouted, louder this time.

“Be right down,” he heard her call out. He glanced at the kitchen clock and shook his head. Typical.

He selected three extra large eggs from a new carton, placed them in a glass bowl then wedged the carton back into the fridge. He dropped two slices of pumpernickel bread into the toaster and gave the pan a quick spray with a nonstick shortening. Humming to himself he adjusted the burners while beating time on the butcher block with a wooden spoon.

A few minutes later Elise appeared in heavy robe with a white bath towel wrapped turban-like round her wet hair.

“Coffee ready yet?”

“Yup, cream’s next to the microwave.” He slid the sugar bowl down the granite countertop. “Sit down and relax, I’ll have a plate fixed up for you in just a minute.”

She poured a cup and sat alone at the table cinching tight her robe to cover bare legs. “I don’t know Marshall,” she said between sips. “I think the instructions said that you’re supposed to fast or something, same as a blood test, I guess. I think I read something about twelve hours—or maybe it was only eight. I can’t remember exactly.” She grabbed her purse from the baker’s rack they had purchased at yard sale and removed a small brochure. “I think it was here near the back,” she said thumbing through the pages. “Let’s see…God, my brain’s just not working this morning.”

Marshall snorted. “They just say all that so you won’t get sick to your stomach or anything. A little bit of breakfast won’t hurt you. I didn’t want to mention it, but you’ve been looking a little anemic lately.”

“I can’t find it,” she said wearily and slid the brochure into the napkin holder. “Maybe I should eat something, though.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

She sipped her coffee quietly lost in thought. At the counter, Marshall began removing thick links of sausage from the butcher’s salmon-colored wrapping paper. He glanced back at her as he worked. From where he stood her face was blocked from view but he could see that her fingers were wrapped tightly around the coffee cup, her knuckles red and chaffed. He thought he detected some trembling when she set the cup back in its saucer. He turned back to the stovetop and said, “There’s really nothing to worry about. It’ll be over before you know it – you’ll be home in time to watch Oprah.”

“It’s Saturday, Marshall. Oprah’s not on.”

“Oh, right. The View, then”

“Not on either. And you know darn well I never even watch those shows.”

“Never watch—now wait just a minute here…you are a woman, right? Isn’t that against some sort of code you guys got going?”

He waited for a quick laugh or a jab back at his faux-sexist remark. When it didn’t come he began again: “Look, it’s natural to be concerned, okay. That form they had you fill out. It’s just to cover their asses—you know that, right? You can ask Ted. Call him at home if you want, he won’t bill us. Ninety percent of all malpractice suits are bogus.” He paused and gingerly plucked the bread from the toaster. “It’s practically fool proof—the procedure, I mean. It’s like getting a wart removed.”

She sniffled and murmured into her cup.

“Huh?”

“I said, some wart.”

He let it pass, picked up the spatula, and began rolling the sausage links as they browned in the pan. After a minute or two of silence he guardedly asked, “Have you said anything to your mother?”

“I was going to. I actually picked up the phone last night. But—you know, she’s going through all that stuff with Noreen and everything. This is the last thing she needs to deal with right now.”

“Hey, it’s entirely your call babe. You know that, right?” He placed some paper towels on a small plate. “You know how it is with your mom. She’s got a lot of hang-ups. She’s still living in the past. I’m not trying to be mean or condescending or anything. It’s a generational-thing actually.”

Elise sighed. “Maybe I’ll just tell her after. What can she say? She’ll have to at least be supportive.”

Setting down the spatula Marshall went over to her and began massaging her shoulders. He sensed a subtle change in her tone; a fissure in her resolve that he had not detected before. “You do whatever you think is best, okay. I’m behind you a hundred percent.”

Elise reached up and placed a hand over the back of his fingers. “Marshall, what if I get sick, I mean right in the middle of it all. I mean if I feel this awful now what will happen—.”

“You’ll be fine,” he stopped her. “You need to stop worrying. You’ll be fine. Look, I’ll fix you up one of those small egg sandwiches you like, with the crust cut off. It’ll help settle your stomach.”

“OK, but no sausage, okay. I’m feeling queasy enough as it is.”

“Leave everything to zee master chef, madam.” he said, in his best snooty-butler voice. He picked up the pan and gave it a few of good shakes. The sausages sizzled and spat grease into the air. He let them cook for another minute or so then forked them onto a cushion of paper towels and set them aside. He poured most of the grease into a plastic container they kept in the fridge leaving just enough in the pan to help the eggs along. His mind was sifting through all the new issues Elise seemed to be dwelling on. They’d gone over all this stuff a dozen times already. Why the sudden apprehension? A vague ache had begun throbbing in his bottom left gum. He placed the pan back on to the burner and turned the heat down. Rubbing his jaw he turned toward her, “Damn… this is really getting bad. Probably should get it looked at again.”

She looked up. “That same tooth? Is it getting worse?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Not as bad as it was the other night but it’s definitely not going away.”

“I can call my dentist and make an appointment for you. He’s very accommodating when it comes to emergencies.”

“That’s all right. I’ll go see Shuller next week. He knows my history and everything. He’ll fit me in if it gets really bad. They’ll probably want to pull the damn thing this time. Three hundred bucks on a root canal and it’s worse then before.” As he said this a connection formed in his mind. Teeth, bone, tissue, flesh; all the same when you got right down to it; all ephemeral to one degree or another. He wondered if she saw this too. “But you’re right, hon. I gotta deal with it. If it’s gotta come out, then it’s gotta come out. Shuller warned me. I should have considered an implant from the get-go.”

He slid the bowl of eggs next to the burner, selected one and tapped it on the side of the pan. “Say babe, grab me the pepper would ya.”

Standing on her toes she grabbed the antique wooden pepper mill from the cabinet over the microwave. She squeezed in beside him and held it over the pan.

“These are for me so give’em a couple of good twists,” he said, cracking a second egg into the pan.

She cranked out the pepper. “Enough?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s good.” He cracked the third egg against the pan. “You want yours over easy, right. No pepper, no salt?”

“Yes, just let one side get—.”

The pepper mill hit the tiled floor with a hollow thud and bounced under the table.

Elise screamed.

Into the bubbling grease fell a milky, yellow embryo; a tiny completely formed chick, nearly limpid, with a delicate web of pink veins. Its dark, inky corneas were heavily hooded giving it a sad and sleepy-eyed expression. One wing was tucked neatly under its stubby beak as if it were sucking some invisible thumb.

Right away the chick’s flesh began to cook as small patches of germ feathers blistered and floated into the air. The tiny body trembled on the beads of boiling fat and grease, leaping about as if still alive, still feeling pain.

“Oh God,” Elise cried. “Oh God, Marshall!”

Elise’s sudden outburst jarred him. He looked down in astonishment, letting the eggshell fall into the pan.

“It’s a chick Marshall… a baby chick. Look…Oh God, I think it’s still alive.”

He picked up a fork and tentatively poked at it. “Don’t be ridiculous Elise. It’s been in the refrigerator for over a week for chrissake.”

“Don’t poke it Marshall. Maybe—.”

“Calm down will’ya.” He lifted the pan off the flame. “Geezzzz!.”

Elise hung on his arm, her heated breath on his neck.

“Watch yourself babe,” he said, and moved the pan over the garbage disposal. He tipped it slightly and let the chick and broken eggshell slide into the sink. The other eggs still looked fine so he slipped them onto a plate. He flipped on the garbage disposal. Instantly it spun to life sucking the tiny knot of tissue through the black rubber flaps. There was a brief crunch of cartilage and egg shell and then, just as quickly, just the low hum of the blades spinning and churning the water.

Marshall watched until the detritus had disappeared into the black void. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “Grab me another egg from the fridge will ya, there’s a full carton on the bottom shelf.”

Elise was now next to the stove with her arms crossed, holding tight to the lapels of her robe.

“Babe? Elise?”

“I can’t Marshall.”

“Just check—.”

“Please Marshall. Aren’t you listening? I can’t. I just can’t. Her voice cracked and tears began running down her cheeks.

“You can’t what?” he asked, dropping his arms so that the frying pan swung at his side like a pendulum.

“I can’t do it, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking. Nothing feels right about this.”

“Whata-ya taking about?”

“Oh, Marshall,” she sobbed. “That little chick; you saw it. How can we?”

He set the pan on the burner. “Come here sweetheart. Let’s just take a moment and calm down. I know your hormones are ragging and everything. Let’s just take a step back and discuss this rationally.”

She pushed past him and darted through the kitchen door. “Oh God, I feel sick.”

“Where ya going?” he called after her. “Please Elise, at least come back and talk to me.”

She paused in the hallway and steadied herself against the wall. She swallowed hard and looked down at her slippers. Then she threw up.

She tried to cup her hands below her mouth but it was too late. She heaved violently feeling all the acid and bile that had been collecting in her gut for days drawn up and forced out by some foreign force. She stepped over the puddle of vomit and dragged her quivering body up the stairs.

Marshall let her go. He went to the stove and stacked the sausage links next to the eggs he had saved. He sat at the kitchen table staring down at the food. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. He picked up the salt shaker, his brain in overdrive, then slammed it back down with enough force to rattle the silverware. Their plans were ruined. The entire morning was a disaster. What had gone wrong? After all the talk about their future and what it all meant.
Upstairs he could hear the soft padding of footsteps moving from the bathroom to the bedroom and back again. He thought about their plans; one more year of law school to go. All those loans, not to mention the huge credit card debt they carried as a couple. And the wedding? Elise had had it all planned out; early June, right after his bar exam.

He picked up a piece of toast, took a bite and flipped it back on to the plate. Damn it! How could he let this happen? Everything had been set. The next few years meticulously mapped out.

He wondered if he could call and reschedule the procedure. Maybe Monday? Give her a day or two to calm down. She’d get over this, he was sure. His head hurt just thinking about what he would need to do to get her back on track. And on top of everything else his bad tooth was throbbing again with a renewed intensity. How was he supposed to even think?

He jumped from his seat, retrieved his iPhone from his briefcase and returned to the table. What the hell was Shuller’s number? He scanned his address book and found it under ‘dentist’. He figured the office was probably closed on Saturday but he’d leave a message anyway. Maybe they could fit him in early in the week. He pressed on the name and put the phone to his ear.

Across the table, sticking out of the napkin holder he spotted the brochure Elise had been looking at earlier. On the cover was the picture of a smiling, short-haired woman strolling insouciantly past a group of obviously successful and impeccably groomed young men as they gazed rapaciously after her. She looked happy and successful—a woman pleased with her life and in total control of her environment. He picked it up and turned it over. On the back, in bold font, he found the telephone number and website address.

He hit the ‘end’ button and set the phone on the table.

First things first, he thought. The tooth could wait. He needed to get control of the present situation before things got out of hand and their life together forever altered.

Leaving the phone on the table he tapped the speaker button and entered the clinic’s number with his index finger. With his free hand he dunked a link sausage into the cold, congealed egg yoke. He tossed his head back and guided the dripping concoction into his narrow mouth, chewing vigorously and deliberately on his bad tooth.

He listened as the i-Phone’s speaker toned the ringing sound at the other end. As he waited for someone to answer a startling and liberating revelation came rushing into his head; a notion he had briefly but imperfectly entertained in the past but that now exploded with perfect clarity. How could he have failed to recognize its significance? Embrace its righteousness?

He gazed over at the imposing twin doors of the stainless-steel Sub-Z, at the built-in Bang & Olufsen sound system mounted tastefully beside the hand-carved wine rack, at the new, gleaming iPhone blinking back at him from the table.

“Modern Woman,” came a hurried, abbreviated greeting. “Can you hold?”

“Yes I can,” he answered, directing his voice down into the phone. He selected a piece of toast and scooped up more egg yoke. On the phone’s tinny speaker the Mamas and Papas were singing ‘Monday…Monday…Can’t trust that day....”

He popped the toast into his mouth, eased back into the chair and began humming along. Overhead the footsteps began again; heavier then before—quick and deliberate.

He looked up and he smiled; a distinctively sly and self-satisfied smile—secure in the world’s new promise that there really is nothing dwelling within any of us anymore—no pain or pleasure, no blessing or curse—that can not be effortlessly extracted and perfunctorily washed down the drain.