Have you ever asked a simple question? One you believed should have elicited a quick reply.

However, life’s necessities got in the way and no answer was forthcoming. This is what happens in . . .

Just Answer My Question

     Some questions go unanswered. Although frustrating, even sad, this seems to be part of life and, in particular, love. We get caught up in the daily grind and lose sight of what should be our central focus. Such is the case in the lives of Max and Martha Slepper.

     It had been a long, fall day. With clouds overhead and rain threatening, Max swept the garage floor, gathered up the trash from his bright yellow beach bungalow, and dragged a half empty garbage can out to the curb for collection the next day. He then washed his ten-year old Ford Taurus, soapy water flowing down the driveway, although he knew his efforts might be wasted with the possibility of rain on the horizon. He hosed down the mess he created and trudged into the house, dragging his tired, aging body toward the master bedroom.

     “I’m so confused,” he muttered. “I’ve got this question that’s been hanging around in this tired brain of mine. I’ve got to confront Martha. I have no choice.” Oh, there she is. Standing in the bedroom doorway, he stared at the woman in his life.

     Martha had just finished making the bed after a day of what seemed like endless household chores and sat motionless, head bent to her chest, on the still rumpled bedspread she had not finished straightening out. She wondered why she had put it on the bed in the first place, for she soon would be turning in for the night. Then a rustling noise interrupted her thoughts. With a tired look in her eyes, she lifted her head and gazed at Max, standing in silence in the doorway.

     “Max, you look like you're lost.”

     “Maybe I am,” he moaned, his breathing labored.

     “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

     “I don’t know. Just bothered by the reality of life and my impending death.”

     “Death? You’re not dying. You just had your annual physical. You’re in great shape for a seventy-six year old man.”

     “Well, yeah, but—“

     “But what?”

     “Do you love me?”

     “How can you ask such a question?”

     “Because, I’m old and I need to know.”

     “I’m old too. So what?”

     “But do you love me?”

     “We’ve been married fifty-six years. Doesn’t that mean something? We’ve raised four wonderful children. John’s a doctor. Maura’s a lawyer. Chip built a marvelous catering business from the ground up. And Sammy? Maybe someday he’ll realize his dream. But enough about him.”

     “Okay, we have three wonderful children.”

     “Three? Don’t you mean four?”

     “Guess so—if Sammy ever finds himself.”

     “See, we do have a great life.”

     “But you haven’t answered my question.”

     “What question, Max?”

     “Do . . . you . . . love . . . me?”

     “We have a beautiful house, where we raised the kids—so many good memories. You have your man cave, where you can have your space. I have my kitchen, where I can putz around all day. We have it so good.”

     “But am I the man you still want to be married to?”

     “We’re a couple. We watch TV together. We walk the dogs, Sven and Oogie, together. We shop together. Oh, by the way we need to pick up some groceries tomorrow. The grandchildren are coming on Saturday.”

     “Groceries? What does that have to do with the question I asked?”

     “Everything. We all have to eat good to stay well. I want to make sure you stay healthy so you can have a long life and take care of me if, heaven forbid, I can’t take care of myself. I am seventy-five, you know.”

     “So you just want a caregiver? Is that all I am to you?”

     “No, No. You’re much more.”

     “Okay, tell me then. Do you love me?”

     “Did you hear the buzzer on the clothes dryer?”

     “What?”

     “The clothes dryer. Did the buzzer go off?”

     “But I asked you a question.”

     “And I asked you one?”

     “Is the clothes dryer so important you can’t answer my question?”

     “You don’t want wrinkled clothes? Do you?”

     “I really don’t care. I just want an answer to my question. It’s not hard. If you love me, just say it.”

     “I will, but first I have to get the clothes out of the dryer.”

     “Answer my question and then you can do whatever you want to do.”

     “It’s always what you want. I have to drop everything just to please you.”

     “Oh my, how have I put up with you for fifty-six years? Fifty-six exasperating years.”

     “Because you love me. Right?”

     “How should I know? I can’t even get a simple answer to my question.”

     “Well, do you love me?”

     “Huh? I don’t know anymore. You drive me to distraction—make me crazy.  I’m not even sure why I came in here. I’m going to the kitchen to get a coke. I need a good dose of caffeine.”

     “But . . . I love you, Max.”

     “Not now Martha, I can’t handle this.”

     “Do you love me?”

     Max didn’t respond. He turned and trudged down the hallway, leaving Martha sitting on the bed staring off into space confused. Her heart palpitated. She wanted to run after him . . . put her hands around his neck and strangle him. He started this whole thing—not me, she thought. Then tears welled up in her eyes as she whimpered, “He does love me. Doesn’t he?”

     At that moment, Max appeared in the doorway. Their eyes met, and he muttered, “Yes.” 

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.