Issue 13
Rock
Brad Wagshul
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The Last Laugh
Ruth was as mean as they come, so hard and cold that we called her "Rock." She criticized us continually and laughed at our hard-luck stories.
So when she developed a nagging cough, I wasn't surprised to hear other co-workers, and maybe even myself once or twice, say, "I hope she dies." A month later it happened: cancer, whose first symptom had been that cough, killed her.
"How about a moment of silence?" I said.
"How about a party instead?" a co-worker named Melanie said, and we laughed. But later Melanie handed me Rock's obituary, with the funeral details circled.
Only three others were at the cemetery: a Rabbi and Rock's twenty-something twin daughters, who were her spitting image and seemed more annoyed than sad. When the Rabbi finished the ceremony, Rock's daughters silently nodded, walked to their cars, and drove away.
I knelt and placed a pebble on Rock's epitaph-less tombstone. Certain she'd look up and condemn any sign of weakness, I promised myself I wouldn't cry. But when I conjured up an image of her daughters, Melanie, and I drinking champagne, repaying the favor of laughing at her misfortune, I couldn't hold back the tears.
~Brad Wagshul
Brad Wagshul lives with his wife in Miami, Florida. His fiction has recently appeared in flashquake, San Luis Obispo's New Times, and Santa Maria Sun. Email.
© 2003 by Brad Wagshul. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.