A Man Gives His Heart

 A Man Gives His Heart



     I’d known Mrs. Jackson all my life. She lived in the big, white Victorian house halfway down the street, around the corner from where I still lived with my parents. I was going to the community college, studying to be a veterinary technician. My parents didn’t have the money to send me to college to be a vet, but I was thinking I could get a job, save some money and finish my education, even if I could only take a couple of classes each year. I was young enough to do that. And I could make extra money so I could afford those classes by doing odd jobs like this one.

     Mrs. Jackson had called to ask if I could drop by today. She had a leaky faucet in the kitchen and now the incessant dripping had turned into a constant trickling. I was pretty good at small plumbing jobs so had quickly diagnosed the issue. A blown gasket. Well, basically, it had disintegrated, it being so old. A quick trip to the hardware store on Main Street and now I was back with the few small things I needed to repair the faucet.

     Mrs. Jackson, a widower a number of times over, was busy at the stove frying strips of what looked and smelled like bacon. “I’m making you a nice sandwich before you go,” she said.

     “You don’t have to do that,” I replied.

     “You work so hard, Billy, it’s the least I can do. How are your classes going, by the way?”

     “I aced the anatomy and physiology exam last week.”

     “Good for you! Your parents must be so proud of you.”

     “I guess.” I think my parents were anxious to get me out of the apartment. I was costing them money still.

     “You’ll get your degree in May?”

     “Yup. I’ve already been doing an internship at We Care Veterinary Clinic out on Shore Road.”

     “You’ve always loved animals. You’ll make a good veterinarian one day.”

     “I think they’ll offer me a job when graduation gets closer.” She nodded. I turned back and gave the faucet handle a few tries. On and off. On and off. No drips. Good water pressure. “I think you’re all set.”

     “Thank you, dear. Henry was a plumber, you know. He always took care of the pipes and drains.” Henry had been one of her husbands. I didn’t remember how many she’d had, but there had been more than six. She hadn’t had much luck with husbands. They’d all had health issues and died fairly young. “John was an electrician. Peter was a carpenter. They kept the house up through the years. I always seemed to have the right husband at the right time, when something went wrong in the house. Old houses are like old ladies, dear. You can keep up the appearance with some paint and primping, but the internal mechanisms, the heart of the home deteriorates.” She sighed as she turned the strips of meat in the pan. “I miss them at Valentine’s Day. They always brought me candy.”

     Now I wished I’d thought to stop at the drug store to get her a small box of candy on my way back from the hardware store. It would have been a nice thing to do. She must be lonely here all by herself. But, hadn’t I heard that she was pretty close to Mr. Baker these days? Mr. Baker was one of the ushers in church. He was a few years younger than Mrs. Jackson, according to what Mom and her friend Barbara had been saying over coffee in the kitchen the other day. “Maybe Mr. Baker will bring you some chocolates later.”

     She nodded. “Perhaps. He is coming over for dinner tonight. He’s been so lonely since Louise passed. I thought a nice dinner would cheer him up.”

     “Maybe he’ll bring you roses,” I said as I turned on the tap so I could wash my hands.”

     “I didn’t think of that.” She paused, thinking, and then said, “You’re tall. Would you go in the pantry and reach down a vase for me? They’re in one of the cupboards.”

     “You got it. No problem.” I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel then walked toward the pantry.       “You’ve sure had a lot of husbands,” I said, what I was thinking in my head just slipping out of my mouth.

     “Yes, I have. I’ve been lucky though. Every one of them gave me his heart.”

     “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be, though? A guy gives his heart to his girl,” I said, pausing in the pantry doorway to look back over my shoulder at her.

     She turned her head and smiled at me, her blue eyes twinkling. “Yes, it certainly is supposed to be that way. You’re right about that.” A strip of meat popped in the pan. She flipped it over using the long handled fork she held. “You’re still young, but one day, there’ll be a special girl who comes along and you’ll find yourself doing exactly that, Billy, giving her your heart.”

     I nodded. I liked a girl in one of my classes. Her name was Annie. She was cute. She had freckles. I stopped and surveyed the pantry. It was narrow and deep, lined with cupboards above a counter and cabinets beneath. There were two dusty windows looking out toward the old carriage house and attached shed in the side yard.

     I began opening cupboard doors, not sure where she kept vases. There were canned goods and packages of various types of pasta in the cupboard closest to the doorway to the kitchen. Dishes and glasses in the next. Then I noticed a glint of glass through the gap where the last cupboard door was slightly ajar. I walked to the end and opened that door

     I didn’t quite know what to make of what I found in that cupboard. There were canning jars in this one, each one containing one preserved something or other. I reached in and rotated one f the jars. There was a strip of old masking tape that had come loose. I ran my thumb over it to lay it flat but the adhesive was too old, it wouldn’t stick and the rest of it came loose. “Oops,” I murmured, picking up the piece of tape to see if any part of it still retained any stickiness. It felt crisp and dry. It was very old. But the writing on it was still fairly legible. It looked like the word heart. My eyes went back to the jar where my brain acknowledged that yes, it looked like a preserved heart in the jar. I’d seen stuff like this in anatomy and physiology. I had dissected a sheep heart, a cow heart, and a pig heart. I wasn’t absolutely sure what kind of heart this was, but it seemed weird she had a cupboard full of jars with hearts in them.

     “Not that one, dearie,” Mrs. Jackson said from the doorway. “The next one back toward me has the vases in it.”

     “The label fell off this jar,” I said, holding up the piece of tape. “It dried out.”

     “I’ll make a new label later on. Just leave it on the counter so I remember. Now, grab a vase, and then come and have your lunch. It’s ready.”

     I nodded and she went back into the kitchen. Glancing down, I looked at the label. It wasn’t the word heart like I thought. It was a name. The name Henry was written on the piece of tape. My eyes went back to the rows of jaws, to the jar missing its label first and what it contained. Then my eyes shifted to the next jar. Its label also looked kind of brittle, but the name on it was still legible. Frank. The next piece of tape read Peter. The one behind that said John.

     My heart was pounding as I quickly swung the cupboard door closed. It didn’t quite catch and kind of bounced open again. The door either needed to be sanded because it had warped or the hinges needed oiling. I could fix that for her, but then I shook my head. There was something weird here, something not right. I couldn’t shake the goosebumps that had popped up all over me.

     “Billy, are you coming to eat your lunch?” Mrs. Jackson called from the kitchen. Again she appeared in the doorway, long fork in hand. Her eyes fell on the open cupboard door and then slowly returned to meet mine. “I still do my own slaughtering and butchering,” she said. “One pig will last me a couple of years. I always preserve their hearts. Down in the cold cellar, I have jars of pig’s feet, pig’s ears, and pig’s knuckles.” She smiled at me. “Come along. I’m sure you want to get home and get cleaned up. You must have a big date tonight?” I nodded. I was taking Annie out to a movie and then for something to eat.

     “I can fix that cupboard door for you, if you want,” I said as I swung the door mostly shut.

     “Another time,” she replied. “Just grab a vase down from the shelf in that next cupboard before you come to the table, will you? And wash your hands before you sit down.”

     “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, opening the next cupboard door, expecting to see a shelf full of grinning skulls, but there were only vases and miscellaneous bowls and platters. I grabbed a tall vase off the top shelf. It looked sturdy enough to hold a dozen roses. Cautiously, I entered the kitchen, thinking she might run me through with her fork, but she wasn’t in the room. The cellar door across the room stood open however.

     Glancing around, I noticed the sandwich, thick with bacon that she’d fried up, on the table. There was only one place set. A glance to my right showed me that there were still some wide, thick strips of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. The burner, however, was off. I walked over and stood looking down into the pan. I’d never seen home cut bacon before, but even so, it seemed a little odd to me, not quite right. It didn’t quite smell like any bacon I’d ever eaten either. I didn’t know how she’d cure it though. Maybe she did it some old-fashioned way that I didn’t know about.

     “Billy! Before you sit down, can you come downstairs a minute? I could use some help, please. I’ve got something heavy that needs to be moved into the root cellar.” I walked to the cellar doorway, but something made me stop at the top of the stairs. I could see her shadow moving around down there. No, it wasn’t her. It was something else, something large, the shadow of something big swinging slowly back and forth on what appeared to be a segment of rope or several thick links of chain. My God! She must have something hanging from the basement ceiling!

     As I stood there, I heard her footsteps approaching the stairs. “Billy?” She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with a sweet smile on her face, her blue eyes twinkling.

     But that was how she always looked, well, except for her hands. Her hands were wet and red, dripping with gore. In her right fist she gripped the handle of a long butchering knife, its blade red with blood also. Clutched in her left hand was what made me turn and bolt for the front door. It was a heart, a very human heart!