The Breathings of His Heart - Carol Arnold

We sit silently at the chipped Formica table, the three of us chewing in unison. Willa has fixed us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which sit on cracked Lone Ranger plates, another item left over from the carny, a whole set of them. I don’t really want to eat in that kitchen, but it would be rude not to. I know how to act. My mother taught me you don’t refuse food when someone offers it to you. Anyway, there’s not much else to do with our mouths.

I watch jelly drip down Willa’s chin and wonder if I should bring it up, the board and care homes. What would I say? The words form in my head and come out in a cartoon balloon. “What about it, Willa? You’ll love the color scheme, and the plum trees must be lovely in the spring,” or, “A woman like you needs someone. Just think of all the hunks that must be in there. Ha ha.” The balloon bounces off the greasy ceiling and falls on the table with a thud. This needs to be Johnny’s job. He needs to tell her this decrepit house is no place for an old woman.

“Johnny,” she finally says, the jelly drip on her chin now suspended over her plate. “Bun knew you would do the right thing. He didn’t think women could handle much although God knows I handled everything, but he left the house to you so you would handle the details, then pass it on to me.”

The jelly falls on the plate and splatters a little. I hear the breathings of Johnny’s heart, air squeezing out of an old bellows at a dying fire to warm a cold room. “Sure, Willa,” he says. “I’ll handle the details. Leave it to me.”

I know now what I have to do. I will have to put on my orange baby-dolls tonight (things are at least still hot in that department), wind my fingers through what’s left of his poof, tickle him just under his ribs like he likes, and let him know exactly what the details are. “Here they are, Johnny, one, two, three four. They all point to one thing. Willa moves out. As decrepit as it is, Johnny, the house is ours. A hundredth of a loaf is better than none.”