Arthur Mayfield’s Last Decision
By Robert Bishop
The skeleton hanging from the ceiling by a hook bolted to the top of its skull unnerved Arthur Mayfield. He felt its eye sockets were sizing him up with a malevolent delight, as if to say, “The doctor cannot save you. Soon you will join me.”
Arthur shivered and turned his attention to the jaws wired together in a mirthless grin that mocked the desolation he felt sitting alone in a cold exam room lacking any trace of warmth or comfort. He shivered again, then looked at the hands, observing how the bones were held together with thin silver wires that glinted in the bright fluorescent light.
He wondered what country the skeleton came from. The US? India? China? No, not China, he told himself. Respect for the dead was too ingrained in that ancient culture for a skeleton to end up hanging from a hook in its head in an obscure US medical clinic. Then he thought, Maybe the dead are no longer valued in China. Maybe the China of today is like America, where everything is measured in dollars, where human life has a monetary value affixed to it by the medical and pharmaceutical industries, insurance companies and the courts.
Arthur stood, approached the skeleton, picked up its right hand, shook it, and said, “My name is Arthur Mayfield. What’s yours?”
He waited expectantly, as if he might get a reply. Then he said, “Of course. How foolish of me.” Arthur chuckled at the absurdity of what he was doing and wondered if he might be going mad. Then he became aware of the hand he was holding. He peered closely at the finger bones, rubbed his thumb over them, felt their hard glassy texture. The skeleton, he decided, was made of plastic.
Arthur dropped the hand, returned to his chair, and waited for the doctor.
***
Doctor Nathan Ranlad tapped three times on the door, came in and sat on the backless stool at the computer terminal. Doctor Ranlad looked at Arthur for a few moments without saying anything. Arthur knew Doctor Ranlad was trying to find the words to convey unwanted news. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayfield,” Doctor Ranlad finally said.
Arthur nodded. “Two to four months. That’s the usual time frame, I believe.”
“Your cancer is a tough one, but with careful planning and aggressive treatment a few months can sometimes turn into a year.”
Arthur smiled, knowing he was being offered faint hope. “Doctor Ranlad, I’m not going to have the last weeks of my life chewed up by chemo and radiation. I’m eighty-five years old. I’ve lived long enough to know I have lived enough. That’s an important distinction to understand.”
“Some treatments offer...”
Arthur interrupted. “My wife died ten years ago. I’m old, I’m sick, I’m alone. Nobody cares about me. I’m not going to kick and claw for a few more weeks of a life that’s coming to its end.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Mayfield. We all go. How do you want to proceed?”
“My biggest concern is pain,” Arthur said, trying not to think about the pain of Sandra and Brad. “I don’t want to go out burning up with pain.”
“Right. Let’s work out a plan.”
***
Arthur sat at the kitchen table with the lights dimmed and the curtains closed, a glass of scotch at hand. He had arranged the brown plastic tubes with white caps containing his medications into two ranks. Arthur thought they looked like soldiers in formation, disciplined, obedient, ready to go into a battle they knew they could not win.
A sudden flare of pain flooded Arthur’s body, making him bend over, wince and hold his breath. When the flare subsided, Arthur sat up, caught his breath and muttered, “Ah, God.” He reached for the glass of scotch instead of the pain medications and drained the glass in one long swallow. He poured more scotch and thought about Sandra and Brad. But mostly he thought about Brad.
Yes, Brad.
That son of a bitch.
***
Arthur replayed in his mind the first time Sandra had come home three years ago with a black eye and an ugly bruise on her right cheekbone. Her bottom lip had a scabbed-over split in the middle.
“Brad did this,” Arthur said when she came into his house.
Sandra nodded.
Arthur put his arms around her, hugged her and said, “I’m so sorry, Sandra.”
They sat next to each other on the sofa, neither saying anything. Finally, Arthur said, “Want to tell me about it?”
“It’s my fault, Dad. I kept at him, wouldn’t shut up about the reckless driving ticket he got and how it’s going to up our insurance rates.”
“A traffic ticket didn’t do this to you. Brad did. You need to go to the police.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t turn against my husband. I just can’t.”
“Is this the first time?”
“Well, he’s slapped me a few times. He loses his temper. You know how he is. He doesn’t mean it. I’m sure he loves me. He says he does.”
***
Arthur went to the police when Sandra refused to go. He recalled the police lieutenant’s words: “Until the person who is being abused files a complaint and gets a restraining order we can’t intervene.”
And now Sandra was back a second time.
“This is not going to stop until you file a complaint.”
“I can’t do that. I won’t go to the police.” Sandra stood. “I’ve got to go.” She tried to laugh. “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll work it out.”
***
When Sandra failed to respond to his daily texts and phone calls, Arthur went to her house. Brad answered the door.
“I want to see my daughter,” Arthur said.
When Brad didn’t say anything, Arthur tried to push his way in, but Brad blocked his way.
“I want to see Sandra right now. Where is she?”
“The city morgue.”
“The morgue? What the hell are you talking about?”
“She killed herself last night. Ten o’clock. Locked herself in the bathroom and shot herself in the head. Blood and brains everywhere. Made a hell of a mess.”
“You bastard, you killed her!” Arthur grabbed Brad’s shirt and tried to shake him.
“Get your hands off me, old man, and get out of here.” Brad pushed Arthur away. “Don’t come back.” Brad slammed the door.
***
Arthur sat in front of the county prosecutor’s desk with his hands on his knees and waited for her to speak. “The coroner’s inquest ruled your daughter’s death a suicide, Mr. Mayfield. Your daughter took her own life,” the county prosecutor said with a finality that made Arthur wince.
“Her husband drove her to it. He abused my daughter. He belongs in prison for what he did,” Arthur said.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Mayfield. I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid there is nothing I can do.”
“This isn’t right,” Arthur said before leaving.
***
Arthur took another swallow of scotch and put the glass down. He went into his bedroom, got the pistol and ammunition from a closet, returned to the kitchen, sat down and put the gun and ammunition on the table. He poured another scotch, drank half of it and thought he might be getting drunk.
He spilled ammunition onto the table, picked up a handful of bullets, loaded the magazine, slammed it into the butt of the pistol, chambered a round and put the gun on the table next to the brown tubes.
He studied the tubes, thinking how useless their contents were now. He stood, got the trash can from under the sink, swept the pill containers into it then put it back.
Arthur finished the scotch in the glass, poured more and drank it slowly with his eyes closed, savoring the smoky taste of peat and oak as the pungent liquid flowed over his tongue.
When the glass was empty Arthur put the pistol in his pocket, left his house and got in his car. “I have lived enough, Brad, and so have you,” Arthur said. He started the engine and pulled out of the garage.
THE END
Author Bio: Robert P. Bishop, a U.S. Army veteran, holds a master’s degree in biology and lives in Tucson, Arizona. He started writing following his return to the U.S. after working in South and Central America, Africa, and the Persian Gulf. His short-story fiction has appeared in Active Muse, Ariel Chart, Bright Flash Literary Review, CommuterLit, Fleas on the Dog, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Lunate Fiction, Scarlet Leaf Review, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Woodside Review, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize.