Goodnight, Judith

The first few pages of a short story about a man whose wife has recently passed away. The man confronts her estranged father and reflects on her memory.

 

Vince reads over a letter he’s finished writing for Mr. Esperanza.

Dear Anthony Esperanza,

I am writing to let you know that your daughter, Judith, is no longer. She passed peacefully. Her son, Hank, and I stood next to her.

I don’t understand how you are still here in this world and she is not. I don’t understand how you’ve outlasted her. It’s not fair.

Judith didn’t want a funeral, but she wouldn’t have expected you to show up in any case.

But I want you to know that your ignorance, your carelessness and your distance made Judith into the strongest woman I will have ever known. I know that for a fact, and Hank knows that, too.

Yet, Judith never once said she hated you. Perhaps that’s how you are still alive. She never wished you ill—she kept it to herself.

And she lived.

She didn’t live longer than you, but she lived better than you.

Regards,

Vincent

Vince knows little about Mr. Esperanza. The only thing he was sure of was that the old man still lives on Longshadow Lane.

After a short drive across town, Vince finds the place—a sad little house with fading, peeling white paint and sprawling crabgrass stretching out onto the sidewalk. Vince parks his car across the street from Judith’s childhood home and lifts the letter sitting patiently on the passenger’s seat. He checks to see if it’s still sealed, then slides it into his back pocket. After Vince shuts the car door, he hears the rumble of an engine and spots his old friend and Judith’s old neighbor, Chaz Sierra, mowing the lawn next door. Vince checks for traffic twice, then crosses the street over to Chaz. The lawnmower’s roar dies down before Vince reaches the sidewalk and says hello.

“Does Mr. Esperanza still live here, Chaz?” Vince asks. “It looks vacant.”

“That old bastard hardly ever leaves,” Chaz says. “And his grass gets so damn tall that I have to cut it myself sometimes.”

“Have you heard anything about Judith’s mother? Johanna?”

Chaz pivots his head from side to side.

Vince sighs. To Chaz, its sounds like Vince has been the one mowing lawns all day under the unrelenting sun of Texas.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you there much, Vince,” Chaz says. “But—”

Vince perks up.

“I have heard my mother say, once, that Mrs. Esperanza might have a whole new family somewhere out in Grand Prairie—”

“Grand Prairie? Vince asks. “That’s practically a million miles away from Thornton! Grand Prairie. . . .” He lets the city’s name roll off his tongue and disappear in the warm wind.

Vince looks at the little blades of green grass scattered across the concrete sidewalk, then shifts his legs to take another look at Judith’s old home. “Well, I’m gonna leave this letter next door for Mr. Esperanza,” he says before removing the small white envelope resting in his back pocket.

Chaz notices Vince’s eyes searching for Mr. Esperanza’s mailbox. He points it out for him.

“Thanks, Chaz,” Vince says. “I’m sorry there won’t be a normal funeral.”

Chaz nods. “It’s alright, Vince. The whole fireworks thing sounds like a better idea anyway. Sounds just like Judith.”

“But we’ll still have a eulogy, though. I’ll send you the info once me and Hank figure it all out,” he says, treading the sidewalk over to the house fading in both the sun and time. “And you should be able to see the fireworks from here.”

“Let me know before you light them,” Chaz says, grabbing the handle of his mower.

Vince gives him a thumbs-up. “Thanks,” he says again to Chaz, but the lawn mower’s engine fires up before the word reaches him.

Vince steps up onto porch and stands between the mailbox and front door. He doesn’t knock. The mailbox isn’t one set on a post. Instead, it’s one of those boxes that’s stuck up on the wall, nailed right into the siding. But when Vince raises the metal cover of the black mailbox, the front door next to him carefully cracks open. Vince turns and looks into the small opening.

A thin hand with shaky, gray knuckles grips—hangs—on a beaten brass knob. Resting against the inside of the door is the sunken eye and side of a scruffy, skinny face. . . .

My next story will be a reworking of the very first short story I ever wrote. It’ll be called: