We Could Get By

vi.

Lately, in the wake of the dustings of flowers that had cropped up colorfully along the streets of their town, Nellie had arisen most mornings greeted by her husband’s heavy snoring. The first few days, she had been sympathetic- Poor sweet man, allergic to all these flowers! He had become prone to sneezing fits during the day that turned to large amounts of congestion at night, much to the extreme displeasure of both parties. Sweeney had quickly grown tired of Nellie’s home remedies, and her tolerance for losing a good night’s sleep lessened. Perhaps he did not require much rest, but Nellie could not run an entire shop all day without a reasonable amount of sleep. She had to talk herself out of giving up and retreating to sleep on the sofa on more than one occasion.

And so it was a miracle to wake one early Tuesday to complete, blissful silence. It was still early enough that the birds were quiet, and the room was bathed in the first few moments of sunrise. She let her eyes fall closed again and very briefly considered closing up the shop for the day. She entertained the idea far more often than was probably conducive to good business, but she never went through with it. Nellie had not slept well in far too long, though, and she did not want her work to suffer for it. She was certainly hesitant to tell that to Sweeney, lest she drive him right out of her arms and onto the sofa. The man had never taken a day off from work in all the time she had known him. As far as she was concerned, their vacation days were long overdue.

Visions of a long morning in bed and a nice breakfast danced in her head. After breakfast, once Toby had gone off to make his newspaper rounds, they could always go back to bed. If Sweeney was not at first entirely pleased with the idea of taking the day off, Nellie knew she could persuade him. After all, they both knew she was a very persuasive woman.

Nellie rolled onto her side, intent on whispering into his ear every reason he should just stay in bed, but the sheets were rumpled with his absence. His pillow was cold. Her heart sunk into the pit of her stomach like a stone. She had been pressed snugly against him just hours before.

Whether or not it was the recent lack of sleep that was making her so paranoid, she did not know, but a sickening sense of urgency propelled her into action. Nellie leapt from the bed and stumbled hurriedly into the hallway, pulling her dressing gown on as she went. The old floorboards groaned pitifully beneath her feet. She knew he was not upstairs already; it was far too early for him to even consider joining the waking world, let alone set up shop. Even Toby was still asleep.

She paused a moment in the hallway to compose herself. Last time she had gotten all worked up, the barber had simply been sick in bed and all her worries were for nothing. The living room was empty, the fireplace cold and untouched in the faint light that had managed to creep past the drapes. A slight creak from the kitchen made her stop dead in her tracks. She had locked the doors the night before, she was sure. Yet somehow, somebody had still managed to get in. Perhaps Sweeney had accosted the intruder already and taken care of the situation.

Has he been hurt?

Nellie steeled herself and grabbed the iron fire poker with shaking hands. She had never brutally killed someone before, but for all she knew, Sweeney could be lying dead on the ground some place while a burglar helped himself to their belongings. Her heart pounded nervously in her ears. Whoever was in the kitchen was rummaging around in her cabinets, taking no care to conceal the noises the doors made. If someone had broken in with the intent to steal from them, surely they would have come straight to the bedroom, or even attempted to go upstairs if they were in search of Sweeney’s razors. Unless they’re after all me silver.

She gave the poker a practice swing, trying to work out whether she should use it like a club or stab the intruder with the pointed end.

The sound of glass shattering made her shriek, the projection of her own voice in the house seeming somehow foreign, and clamp her hands reflexively over her mouth. The poker clattered loudly to the floor, narrowly missing her feet.