Gwen, in Green

Mushroom poisoning can vary with the individual. Some of the more deadly varieties, such as the milky-­white destroying angel, are fatal in about fifty percent of reported cases. Other varieties can produce anything from death to mild stomach upset. Gwen had only the fly amanita close at hand. It had one advantage over the more deadly species. Its effects were almost immediate.

She served a nice little Spanish wine with the steaks. George wanted to talk about the discovery of the decomposing body. She forbade it. “Honey,” she protested, “I want to enjoy my dinner.”

She made her announcement toward the end of the meal, after George had hungrily demolished his food. Dr. King was eating slowly, mixing the meat taste with the plentiful supply of mushrooms on his plate. “Dr. King thinks I should go into therapy.”

“Well,” George said, “he’s the doctor.”

It was a pleasant meal. She was, for a change, ravenous. She finished her steak and salad, even most of the baked potato. They talked about the peculiarities of the flytraps over an after-­dinner glass of wine. Dr. King began to show some agitation within fifteen minutes.

“Anything wrong, doc?” George asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” King said, wiping his eyes, his glasses held in his hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” George said: “It’s a long drive back to Port City and we’ve got an extra bed.”

“Very kind of you,” King said, shaking his head. “I suppose it’s just the excitement of the trip.”

“Come in the living room and sit down,” Gwen said, rising.

“Yes, yes.” He stumbled as he rose, and caught himself on the edge of the table. “Perhaps, because the food was so delicious, I overdid it a bit.”

Gwen took his arm and guided him to a comfortable chair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be all right in a moment.”

George looked at Gwen with a raised eyebrow. “I seem to be having trouble with my eyes,” King said in a matter-­of-­fact voice. George, feeling helpless, bent and looked into King’s eyes. Gwen did not have to bend to see that his pupils were dilated.

“Would you like to lie down?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

Together they helped him to the guest bedroom. He lay down after Gwen removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He began to take his own pulse. “Hummm,” he said. “I wonder, George, if you’d go out and get my bag. You’ll find it in the trunk of the car.”

“Sure,” George said. When he came back, King was breathing rapidly and rubbing his eyes. “Here we go, doc,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t see too well,” King said. “But there’s a small bottle with small blue pills in the side pocket.” Gwen brought water. King was twitching as if in excitement, his pupils huge. “Don’t let me worry you,” he said. “Please go ahead and relax. It’s just the stomach of an old man protesting too many good things.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” George said. “I can call Dr. Braws.”

“No, no,” King said. “No need for that.”

“You go ahead, George,” Gwen said. “I’ll stay with him.”

“Well, O.K.,” George said, feeling uncomfortable and unable to help.

She closed the door behind him and sat beside the bed, her hands folded. King muttered to himself. “Agitation, spells of near blindness, rapid pulse.”

“You’ll be all right,” Gwen said.

“Drug,” he muttered, trying to sit up. “A drug.”

“No,” she said, leaping up to push him back. “Just lie still.”

The hallucinations began shortly. She could hear George making himself useful, clinking plates as he loaded the dishwasher. The sound came to her dimly, backgrounded, eternally, by the distant roar of the heavy equipment.

“Ruth,” King said, looking at her with wide eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Ruth.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Your left breast is larger than the right,” he said, reaching. She did not move as his hand smoothed her knit blouse, cupped. “Such lovely breasts, Ruth.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“May I see them?”

“Yes.” She lifted her blouse. As usual, she was bare. She sat on the side of the bed, letting his hand fondle her.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, removing his hand, pointing. “Can you imagine it, Ruth, as it was, with people, alive, complete?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Pericles said let it be, and it is,” he said, his eyes looking into a distance. “For us, Ruth. Once it held Athena in gold and ivory. See it?”

“I see it,” she said.

“And no strong Greek boys to carry us,” he said. “We can soar, Ruth. Soar! Come with me.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said, pushing her blouse down to cover her nakedness.

He extended his arms. “Come,” he said, his eyes wide and unseeing. Visions were replacing vision.

She went into his arms, laying the pillow over his face and putting her weight on him. She felt his old arms around her, weak. He struggled only briefly. She pressed her cheek against the pillow, lying full-­length atop him and feeling the last spasms of his lungs.

“George,” she said, white-­faced, tears on her cheeks. “He—he just stopped breathing.”

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