Wife and Death

Several years ago my wife, Joan, and I took up bicycle riding to stay fit. We mapped a 12-mile loop—north on Washington Street to County Road 500, east to Old Pittsboro Road, then five miles back into Danville, up the park hill, and back home—unless the Dairy Queen is open. If it is, then we stop by there. Being slightly obsessive, my wife rides it several times a week, weather permitting. I’m better at starting things than I am at finishing them, so while my enthusiasm was initially high, it has dimmed over the years.

One afternoon, my wife announced she was going for a bicycle ride in the country and asked if I wanted to go.

“I think I’ll ride into town to see your mother,” I said. I often disguise trips to the Dairy Queen by claiming to do something virtuous like visiting my mother-in-law or feeding the homeless.

Joan struck off north, while I headed south to the Dairy Queen. When I reached town, a fire truck and an ambulance rushed past me, sirens screaming, down the road past our house in the direction that Joan had ridden not 15 minutes before.

Naturally, I assumed the worst—that she had been struck by a car and was now lying dead along the road. I dialed her cell phone, and when she didn’t answer, I took it as further evidence of her untimely demise.

I knew it was important to keep up my strength, so I went ahead to the Dairy Queen and ordered a Buster Bar. My friend Dave Helton saw me, stopped, and asked how I was doing.

“I’ve had better days,” I said.

He asked me if anything was the matter.

“I’d rather not talk about it just now,” I said.

I know it’s important to let out your grief, but my Buster Bar was melting all over my hand, requiring my attention.

After Dave left, I called Joan’s cell phone again. She was apparently still dead and didn’t answer.

I had always counted on Joan out-living me and hadn’t made any plans in the event of her passing. I began to think of all the things she did that I had no idea how to do. She had been after me for years to learn about our finances, but I was content to let her manage them. That had long been our understanding—I earned the money, she spent it. I wondered if we had any money, and if so, where it was.

In this day and age it seems sexist that my wife did all the cooking in our family, but she did. With her gone, I wondered what my sons and I would eat. We could probably go to McDonald’s two nights a week, but no more than that. There were always TV dinners to fall back on, and Spaghetti-Os. But I would eventually have to hire someone to cook. Just as soon as I figured out whether we had any money.