Death by Chocolate

Death by Chocolate

by Haline Gregory

Ruthie Lysinger sank slowly to the concrete driveway outside Norman Brothers Produce. Tomatoes, and navel oranges spilled out of the bag she was carrying. Charlie, her husband of forty years, stood over her and thought, “She’d better be careful not to roll over on the tomatoes.”

Ruthie looked up at him, clutching at her chest and gasped, “But you’re the one with the weak heart, Charlie.” Then she sighed, and died.

The funeral was lovely, thanks to her two best friends – Charlotte and Susan. Ruthie did not want cremation.She loved nature, and in her Will she stipulated that she was to be buried at sea. Her friends chartered a boat out of Haulover Marina in Miami where Ruthie, in a wicker casket, wearing nothing but her favorite coral lipstick, was slowly lowered into the ocean. Charlie stayed home. He thought it was a dumb thing to do.

Afterward, they hosted a Celebration of Life at Ruthie’s home. Everyone there was surprised that sweet, caring Ruthie had been the first to go. Ruthie had devoted her life to caring for Charlie’s “condition”. Not because she loved him. No, love had jumped out the window and scampered down the road the first year of their marriage. It was because Ruthie was a woman of her word.

Friends who attended the burial, arrived at her home to find Charlie, at the buffet table, heaping his plate with everything in sight. Now that Ruthie was gone, he was reverting to his natural instinct to stuff himself silly.Many of the guests stayed in the kitchen with Charlotte and Susan to avoid being near him.

The ladies cleared up after the guests had gone, leaving Charlie snoring on the sofa in front of the TV, empty bottles of beer scattered on the carpet.

They drove to Key Biscayne and threw roses into the bay for Ruthie. This had been her secret “Get Away from Charlie” place, where she sat on the sand, watching the windsurfers sailing, and wishing she was one of them.

They read parts of her favorite Edna Vincent Millay poem as the sun set.

“Love is not all”.

It is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

And rise and sink and rise and sink again;

…Yet many a man is making friends with death

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

...I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It well may be. I do not think I would.

It was a longing for the love she did not have.

A week later, as the ladies were packing Ruthie’s clothes to take to the Salvation Army, they found a handwritten note in her undie drawer. It contained a simple sentence… “Take care of Charlie for me.” It was addressed to each lady, and dated the week before Ruthie died.

“She had a premonition,” Charlotte said.

Susan folded the slip of paper and put it in her purse. “She’s asked us one last favor. We have to honor it.”

They nodded grimly. It would take all their love for Ruthie to overcome their distaste for Charlie, and fulfull her final wish.

From that moment on, the ladies took care of Charlie for Ruthie. Every day they prepared his meals. Charlotte bought fat-free, low-sugar health foods, fresh fruits and vegetables.

Susan became adept at making delicious low-calorie meals, that Charlie ate sullenly…sneaking in a beer and a candy bar when the ladies weren’t looking.

One day, as Susan took Charlie’s blood pressure, he tried to grope her. “Aw come on Susie. I ain’t had none for a long time.” He giggled as she pushed his hands away.

“Charlie,” she said aghast, “Remember your heart condition.”

He whooped with laughter. “Shoot, woman, my heart’s no problem. I just said that so Ruthie would take care of me.”

That night, Susan told Charlotte. Charlotte looked at Susan with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps, we misread Ruthie’s last request.”

Susan removed Ruthie’s note from her purse and re-read the words carefully. “I do believe you are right, Charlotte.”

From that day on they increased their workload. Charlotte whizzed around the supermarket picking up larded roasts, chips and dips and gallons of Chocolate Dutch Marshmallow Heavenly Hash.

Susan hummed as she churned out buttermilk biscuits slathered with butter, sausages and thick slabs of bacon, pancakes smothered in syrup for breakfast every morning; four-decker sandwiches with heaping sides of potato salad and mac and cheese for lunch. Each evening there was a spectacular five-course dinner, ending with a lavish, heavily-frosted calorie-rich cake.

When they finished their day’s work, they were gratified to see a burping, bloated Charlie Lysinger lying on the sofa, blissfully surfing channels on the TV, drinking six-packs of beer that they replaced quickly as he finished each one.

One day Susan reported a dangerously high blood pressure reading to Charlotte. “Hmm, we have to do something about this.” she declared.

That week the house quivered with activity. Neighbors could feel it. Pots bubbled. The microwave buzzed incessantly. The oven sizzled. Outside, the barbeque roared every night.

When the 911 call came in, the voice at the other end said, “He overate tonight, I’m afraid, and had a heart attack. He’s wedged under the dining room table. We can’t budge him. Please send someone over.” A short while later an ambulance arrived and carted off the two-hundred ninety-eight pound remains of Charlie Lysinger, recently widowed husband of Ruthie.

That evening at the bar, the bartender smiled at the two grey-haired ladies sipping Martinis. They were cute. They seemed to have the hots for a guy named Charlie. They kept toasting him and ordering more Martinis. He winked at them as he set down their glasses. “I’ll bet you ladies know how to get to a guy’s heart.”

They almost fell off their stools laughing.

The End (1,003 words)