There was no need to go on. Life had become meaningless to Elsa. She sat in the darkened room. Twilight hour was past, and the night sounds were filtering through the drawn windows, a howling dog, the slam of a door, a chirping cricket, a distant ambulance, a child’s laughter.
Elsa sat alone, staring into nothingness. She heard none of these night sounds. She only heard her mind in acute distress. She was only aware of the dark despair which was devouring her brain. Elsa was afraid of being old and feeble and alone. It was the being alone, completely alone, which frightened her. She knew she should get ready for bed now, but she didn’t move. The once fine chair sagged beneath her. Her once strong fingers now so gnarled and crooked caught the worn threads in their nervous searching. Her cane rested on the arm of the chair, but she didn’t reach for it. The room became dark as twilight turned to evening.
Elsa stirred, she thought she heard someone. Could it be Aaron?
“Hello, my darling. I’m glad to be home,” he said. “It’s been a hard day’s work, but I’m finished. Now we can relax over dinner and then let’s take our evening walk together. It’s so lovely outside tonight. The moon is full, and it is as light as early morning. Children are playing jacks down the street and they are skipping rope outside our house. They love the summer evenings, too. And Elsa, the stalks in our flowerbeds fill the air with their sweetness, and the bridal wreath falls ever so gently over the garden wall. Oh yes, I saw a hummingbird moth fluttering around our front porch light.”
“Oh, Aaron, it’s so good when you come home,” she searched for his hand. “I am always thrilled to hear your footsteps on the front porch each evening. You brighten my heart as much now as the day we were married.” Elsa reached up for his embrace. He pulled her to her feet and then they walked towards the kitchen together, strong and sure in their love for each other. Elsa’s heart was light and gay with his arm circled around her waist.
The next morning at 9:00 the social worker who visited Elsa three days a week to check on her and help make out a grocery list, as well as count her food stamps for her, knocked on the unpainted front door. When there was no answer, she tried the knob. It was unlocked.
She opened it and called, “Mrs. Ledbetter.”
There was no answer.
She called again, “Mrs. Ledbetter, it’s Janie, your case worker. May I come in?”
No answer.
She probably can’t hear me, she thought and walked to the kitchen that she knew so well. Then she saw her, sitting alone at the kitchen table. How odd, she thought, the table is set for two. I didn’t know she ever had company.
“Why Mrs. Ledbetter, are you expecting company?” she asked cheerfully.
When she touched her arm, she realized Elsa was dead.
She picked up the two half empty coffee cups and walked towards the sink with them.
“I wonder who was here last night?” she mused.
“Poor Elsa, she must have died alone. I wish her guest had stayed a bit longer.”
As she walked over to the telephone to call the police, she glanced at the old-fashioned portrait of Aaron Ledbetter. Looking down at her from its oval walnut frame, someone had written on the photograph Born 1887 – Died 1960.
As she dialed, she whispered, “Yes, Mr. Ledbetter. She misses you. She was lonely for you. You must have been a good and loving husband. I hope you’re together again.
“Hello. Police, this is social worker Janie Wilson. I would like to report a death. Mrs. Elsa Ledbetter, the address is….”