“Orson, honey, tell my adoring fans my very last thoughts were of them. I lived for them and now I…I…” she gasped with a flourish, then drifted off. Her bowel gurgled and chirped once.
He checked; she was still breathing. “Vanity press. She sold seventeen copies,” he said to Gloria, the nurse who had appeared. “I couldn’t pay a publisher to take it.” The nurse looked confused, maybe a little frightened. His imperious, hazel eyes were upsetting. “…thinks she’s Michener for God’s sake.” Vitals were okay, Gloria turned to leave. Just then a long screeeeed then a tweeter and finally a bluurgle came from the old lady. Gloria looked at him as she held the door knob. “That was not me…,” he began, but Gloria was gone.
Half hour later her eyes fluttered open. “…Is this… am I in…?” then she noticed Orson, “Oh, God, no, help, there’s been a terrible mistake,” she yelled.
“No Mother. No pitchforks here. You’re still among mortals.”
“Oh,” her head flopped back on the pillow. She searched the ceiling for perfect words. “Orson, take notes,” she began, “beloved fans. No, scratch that. ‘Dearest fans,’ yes, that’s warmer. Dearest fans, you have never been far from my… from… of…my fellow Americans,” she grew confused. “Orson, I believe it’s… finally…the… big…one…” her eyes fluttered, then closed. Gloria re-appeared, but this time with back-up. They skittered around Orson. They tugged, pulled, raised, switched, emptied, changed, lowered and left. Orson saw the slow, steady rise and fall of her breast. Another hour passed. Her eyes opened.
“Oh, you again.”
That hurt. I have greater things to do, he thought.
“Let’s start over,” she said. “You are like the silent river; I, like the noisy storm come to replenish you.” Her hands swept down like gentle rain, but then she faltered.
“Mother, this is vain, and what did I tell you about similes?”
“Oops. You are the silent river, I am the noisy storm…” she began theatrically.
“Mother, stop this silliness and rest.”
“But my dearest fans…”
“Mother,” he breathed, “all three of them?”
She looked wounded. “Gentle readers.”
“Rest,” he ordered.
“Beautiful ones…”
“Shh.”
“Friends, Romans…” she gesticulated.
“Quiet. I’m reading.”
“How I miss the stage. Oh, Orson, I always wanted my final words and deeds to be grand; memorable as in classic literature,” she said, downcast.
“That’s pretentious, Mother. Shut up and rest.”
Buffoon, she thought. She rested another half hour, then woke, “Orson, roll me on my side,” she requested. “I’ve got gas.”
He dragged himself up and moved her. “There; better?”
“Put your hand here and press. I gotta fart.”
“Oh, Mother, that’s crude. Please.” However, he did.
With an explosion heard throughout the ward, a toxic cloud emitted from the little old lady and quickly filled the room. Gloria came running. The faint trace of a smile briefly lit Mother’s face as her eyes rolled back in her head. Now, her breast was at peace.
“Santa Maria, Senor,” Gloria had just come through the door. She covered her nostrils. “Joo have keeled her,” Gloria screamed, turned and fled down the hall.
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