FRANK'S TRIAL

Frank Guerney was a large, untidy man with twitching eyes and a face that frightened children. Summer or winter, Frank always wore an old overcoat. He was always cold; he worked at the foundry in town. Frank was a puddler, he poured the molten iron into the sand moulds on the floor of the foundry, a job he'd done for forty-five years. He was old now, bent, beat, and busted. He'd had enough of the hot, dry air and the white-hot spluttering, sparking liquid that made his eyes blink. Each day he would stop in the bar near the foundry to quench his thirst and restore some humour before heading home.

Home was a small property at the edge of town, where the motels met the cornfields, just beyond the reach of grasping land developers. He always used to say he was content to sit on his front porch and watch his pension plan creep towards him, but the town had stopped expanding, it didn't look as though his pension would make it on time. Frank didn't care anymore; he had other plans. He might even sell the house. A small bungalow, it had to be worth something. On a small lot, it was surrounded by an ill-kempt lawn, dotted with a few worn out shrubs and the occasional flowerbed, remnants of his wife's attempts to brighten up the place. Frank didn't particularly like helping in the yard, the long days in the foundry left little energy. He left the gardening to his wife along with the rest of the work around the house, she did it all.

Frank wasn't sitting on the porch this evening. He was working — in the backyard. He had been digging. He tossed the few last shovelfuls of soil and then tamped down the surface firmly with the back of the shovel. It was late now; he hadn't been able to start until the sun had gone down and he'd had to hurry. He was afraid it may not be deep enough, but it would have to do.

The newly dug, rectangular flowerbed didn’t look out of place. No one would suspect it had not been in the middle of the back lawn forever. He paused for a moment; head bowed. Then, finished at last he returned to the house, dragging his feet as he walked up the path, leaving a trail of mud from his boots. It was beginning to rain again, heavily, and would soon wash everything clean. He carefully rinsed off the shovel in the rain barrel before replacing it in the garden shed, then entered the house.

He was exhausted, but he still had a night's work ahead of him. He threw open the door to the living room and turned on the light, surveying the scene, his stomach turning, his mind half closed. He went first to the dining table and set up the bottle which had spilled its contents onto the filthy tablecloth, then retrieved the chair from where he’d propped it against the patio door. He next fetched pails, cloths, brushes, and with a curious concoction of chemical compounds, set to work, scrubbing away at any trace of what had taken place in that room. After three hours the room looked respectable again and frank relaxed a little. He felt he could reward himself with a drink, but withheld the urge, he was sober now and afraid the drink would bring on the guilt and depression that would be his downfall. Besides, he wasn't finished yet.

Frank wished things hadn't happened the way they had but it was too late now. When he and his wife had married, they’d been crazy about each other, then over the years they drove each other crazy, till the one fateful morning when everything changed forever. Frank tried to put from his mind the look in his wife's eyes when she realized she was going to die. At first it seemed she wouldn’t resist, but then she fought, fought for her very life.

Frank shrugged. He really needed that drink, but there was still one more awful task he had to face. He went down the narrow hallway of the small bungalow to the bathroom, steeling himself before he entered. He took the rubber gloves which were still on the counter, rinsing them off before putting them on, then began. The living room had been bad, but this was worse, there were splatters everywhere. The bathtub was a nightmare, at least he could rinse it out with a hose. The acrid smell of the bleach he was using stung his nose and made his eyes twitch even more.

Every time Frank thought he was finished, he would see another speck, but at last he felt sure there was nowhere he had missed. The place would have been better repainted but there was no time. Finally, Frank took all the bedding, towels and cloths and stuffed the lot into the washing machine, throwing in soap and the rest of the bleach.   

It was four am before he emptied the last load from the dryer. He was exhausted. He gave himself the promised drink, a large one, then another, before finally passing out in the armchair. He slept fitfully. When he awoke the sun was well up, streaming in, warming the house. He eased out of the chair, stiff from the previous day's activity. He forced himself to eat some breakfast, knowing he'd need all his strength to face the trials ahead. Then he sat and waited. They would come soon, but he was ready for them; he'd planned carefully, he had his answers ready. He could explain everything.

It was around 11:00 a.m. when Frank spotted the flashing lights down at the county road and Highway 3 intersection. He watched anxiously as the vehicle turned into his laneway, fishtailing on the mud washed down by the previous night’s rain. Wheels spinning, it climbed cautiously toward the house, stopping in the front yard, close to the door.

Frank wasn't sure whether to go out and meet them or wait in the living room. His nerves were taut as the doorbell rang. Putting on a confident face, Frank went to answer it. Two men in uniform stood waiting. One of them spoke, "Sorry we're late Frank, the traffic was heavy."  They opened the rear door of the ambulance then manoeuvred the stretcher into the house, behind them followed a third person.

Frank recognized her. "How is she doctor?” he asked.

"Oh, she's fine," was the reply. I sedated her for the journey, she'll be coming round soon. I hope you know what you're doing Frank. Especially since there are some wonderful places nowadays for the terminally ill. It will require an awful lot of work. She says you are a terrible housekeeper when she's away.

Frank felt a twinge of guilt as he looked down at his sleeping wife, but he was now sure at last they'd made the right decision. Knowing she only had a few months left to live, he didn't want her alone among strangers in a distant hospital room. He wanted her to be able to die in peace — in the home they'd shared for forty years, the home he'd let go the last few weeks, but it sparkled now. She'd never know how he'd fought his own battles there. His only wish was that she'd live through the winter to see the masses of her favourite spring flowers appear in the brand-new flowerbed he'd dug in the middle of the back lawn.

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David M. Hobson July 4, 1994