Death By A HoneyBee (19 page)

     
While waiting, an elderly priest shuffled into my room after taking note of my room number.
 
He patted my shoulder and began speaking in Latin.
 
I could smell peppermint on his breath and Aqua Velva emanating from his thin papery skin.
 
Recognizing that he was giving me the last rites, I interrupted, “Father.
 
FATHER!
 
I think there has been some mistake.
 
I am just here for a short time.”

    
The holy man looked at me sympathetically and responded,
 
“Daughter, we are
all
here for a short time.”
 

    
I stifled a laugh, letting him continue.
 
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was Baptist.
 
I made sure that I knew the name of his parish so I could send a note expressing my appreciation.
 
After all, he did take time to try to make me feel better – somewhat.

   
When he shuffled out of my room, I called the nurse and had her show the priest to the correct patient.
 
At that moment, I wished I were Catholic. I longed to confess. Just have someone to listen to my inane ramblings.
 
I knew I had sinned three years ago and had not yet atoned for it.
 
But I guess that’s why God invented talk therapy for Protestants – someone to listen to us verbally vomit.
 
It was cheaper being Catholic, especially at a hundred eighty-five dollars a session.
    

    
After a hot shower, I dressed in clothes Matt had brought from the house and sat in the chair by the window, waiting for breakfast.
 
Since I had paid for it, I was damn sure going to eat it.
  

    
Hearing a knock, I looked up to see Matt poke his head around the door.

    
“Don’t you look better!” he said with relief.
  
“You even washed your hair.
 
So glad to see it.
 
Now let’s see if we can yank a comb through it.”

    
I ignored his smart-ass remark about my hair.
 
I remembered how he let me go into town only a few – how many weeks ago?
 
It seemed like yesterday my hair was sticking straight up in full view of everyone.
 

    
“So what happened?”

    
Matt relished telling me about how he found me lying prostrate, how he and Franklin pulled me into the van and rushed me to the hospital.
 
“Really, you weigh a ton.
 
You have got to lose some weight, Babe.”
 

    
“So it wasn’t a heart attack?” I asked weakly.

    
“Nope.
 
Just an old-fashion panic attack followed by an asthma attack – still could have been quite lethal.”

    
“Did you find a letter nearby?”

    
“You mean this little old thing that said you killed your husband?” announced Franklin, who strolled through the door brandishing a soiled envelope in a baggie.
 
“Sorry, but I was outside preparing for my grand entrance.”
 

     
Franklin was as plain as Matt was beautiful.
 
I guess he wasn’t ugly, just non-descript looking.
 
He was lean like Matt and had a face that – just was not interesting.
 
His saving grace was an agile, playful mind that made him sexy.
 
Add his retro glasses, his dyed blond hair and his loud bow ties, Franklin screamed “flaming” but with style.
 
I liked Franklin, but he made me feel clumsy.
 
His mind worked so quickly.
 
“Looks to me like some crabby old Mennonite typed this.”

     
“Shut up, this is serious,” snapped Matt.
 

  
  
“Let me see the letter,” I demanded.
                                                                                         

     
“I don’t know about that,” answered Matt, looking quizzically at Franklin.
 
“I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

 
    
“What better place to have a relapse than in a hospital,” I said, grabbing the letter out of Franklin’s hand.
 
I read it again.

     
“Want to confide in me?” asked Matt.
 
It was plain that he was concerned that there was something to these letters.
 
I had never discussed Brannon’s death with him.

  
  
“Is this privileged?”

 
    
“Pay me a dollar.”
 
He looked at Franklin.
 
“Get out.”

 
    
“I’ll just have to listen at the door,” said Franklin on his way out.

 
    
“Hey, get me something to eat,” I called after him.
 
“I’m starving.”

 
   
I handed the letter to Matt.
 
It read, “THEE KILT THY HUSBAND TOO.”

  
  
I gazed out the window.
 
I didn’t tell Matt about the priest’s visit – how it had left a hard knot in my gut - but I needed to talk to someone.
 
Matt was my best friend, but would he understand?
 
I had to put my faith in our friendship, our common human experience.
 

 
   
It was hard to admit, but I have always felt guilty about Brannon.
 
I had never explained the events leading up to Brannon’s death to anyone, but now I needed to release the anguish.

    
“Brannon and I were in love for a long time but he fell out of love during the second decade of our marriage.
 
For a while, he tried to put on a good face but I knew he was unhappy.
 
We both wanted different things.
 
Brannon wanted to live in a Tara.”
   

    
Matt looked astonished.

    
“I kid you not.
 
He hated the Butterfly.
 
He would rather have lived in a palatial, ante-bellum plantation home with gleaming horses grazing in the paddocks, shuffling servants serving mint juleps, and Paul Sawyier prints on the walls.
 
He wanted to be part of the old-money Kentucky aristocracy.
 
I wanted to live in my contemporary house with most of the land reverting back to its natural state, a gravel road and wild animals roaming and a few run-down racehorses.
 
He knew it would look odd if he wasn’t living in what was his most awarded design so he put up with the bees stinging him, the peacocks pooping on his Mercedes, and the isolation.
 
We had lots of money then.
 
If it got too much for him, he would take a trip.
 
I thought nothing of it – that was the way most marriages were after years of living together.

   
“It was five years, almost six years ago now, at a faculty Christmas party at the Art Museum that he met her.”
 

   
“The name that can’t be spoken?” asked Matt.

   
“Yes. In fact, I introduced them.
 
Can you believe the irony of that?”
 
I laughed bitterly.
 
“She was a rich alumnus, divorced, and bored.
 
She had money, racehorses, and a blueblood family name that went back generations – everything Brannon coveted.
 
After several cocktails, they discovered they had many things in common – same type of art values, life values, money values.
 
What can I say – they just clicked.
 
Looking back, I would say the affair started that very night.
 
Brannon was smitten. Two months later, he moved out.
 
A month after that, he wanted a divorce.
 
I told him he could have the divorce if I could have everything else.
 
I was going to bleed him dry.”
 
I paused, catching my breath.
 
“He was just as hateful to me.
 
This was not going to be a friendly divorce.
 
The back and forth went on for several years with us both shelling out a fortune to lawyers.
 

   
“Finally, Brannon came to the house pleading with me to agree to a settlement.
 
She was pregnant.
 
He needed our life together over so he could marry her before the baby was born.
 
I should have noticed that he was pale and rather thin at the time, but I was angry and distracted with his proposal.
 
I just couldn’t accept that our marriage had failed.

   
“I refused him.
 
He left in a huff.
 
Two hours later, I got a call that he was in the ER and had suffered a heart attack.
 
When I got there, he had been moved to ICU.
 
I commandeered the doctor who said that they were waiting for him to stabilize before they operated.
 
He felt Brannon was too weak at the time.
 

   
“Then she showed up. There was lots of yelling and accusations. I wouldn’t let her in his room.
 
I was still Brannon’s legal wife and had the hospital call security to have her removed.
 
Even though I heard Brannon mumble her name, I wouldn’t let her see him.
 
He died later that night.
 
I can’t help but think that if I had let her see Brannon, he might have had the will to fight.”
 
I began to cry, dabbing my eyes with the bed sheet.

  
“It gets tackier: the reading of the will.
 
I got his life insurance policy, an oversight on his part, I’m sure, while she got all the rest of his assets.
 
I got nothing else. He didn’t even leave anything to our daughter.
 
Luckily, the farm was in my name only, an anniversary present to me, or she would have had half of that too.
 
If I had gotten the full interest in his architecture firm, his paintings, bank accounts, retirement funds, I would be filthy rich.
 
As it was, after I paid off the mortgage on the farm, I was broke and she was richer than ever.”

    
“Did she have the baby?”
    

    
“His name is Brannon Reynolds III.”
 
I laughed.
 
“She tells everyone that she is Brannon’s widow, but his cremated ashes are in a cardboard box in my closet. Yeah, I had to pay for his cremation.”

    
Matt handed me a tissue box.
 
“Did I kill my husband?
 
Perhaps the strain of our bickering added to the overall stress of the situation.
 
But in some ways, I died just a little too, so I guess we are both even.”

    
“I had no idea, Josiah.
 
You never spoke of Brannon.
 
I thought the two of you just went your separate ways.
 
You never have let on how financially difficult it has been for you.”
 

    
“I say that you have nothing to be sorry for,” exclaimed Franklin as he burst into the room clutching his laptop.
 
“What a soap opera!
 
GAWD, could it get any worse for you?
 
Having to lie to people about your circumstances – that you are one of the down and out poor. No wonder you kept it under wraps.
 
Why, no one would take your calls if they knew you were one of the unwashed . . .”

    
“I thought I told you get to get me some food,” I cut in.
 

    
Franklin plopped down on the bed.
 
“I know how you feel, Josiah.
 
If Matthew did something like that to me, I would be devastated. I mean, cheating is one thing, but not even leaving you a kopeck – that’s a crime!”
 
He pointed his tapered finger directly at Matt.
 
“I would have done everything to keep him from making himself a fool over some shameless hussy.”