I am ... Not

The balloons at George's retirement party were red, white, and blue even though the company colors were green and yellow. He wiped at the tears in his eyes and squeezed his wife's hand. Her head was bent slightly with a little deference directed toward him. He could see the meekness in her face. It was the way she looked up to meet his eye, in the downward turn of the heavy wrinkles on her forehead. That was the same look she gave the dead when they'd gone to funerals. At their age funerals were becoming more common than birthday parties.

~~OOO~~

"How'd you like the party, George?" his wife asked as he helped her out of her coat. He cast a look around their home, ignoring her for just a moment as he hung her coat on the nearby coat rack. The couch was coarse green, well worn, and rough fibered. The carpet was thin and brown; the cheapest shag he could buy twenty years ago. The walls were painted cinderblocks he and his brother had got from a railway depot forty years ago. Books littered everywhere, piled up around his chair, overfilling the numerous bookshelves.

"The balloons were nice." "Yes" she answered and teetered off toward her bedroom with her cane. "It felt like Bill was there with us."

Everything looked old and out of date: The wood burning stove, the dusty family pictures hanging

on the wall, the dirty cream colored drapes. Ever since their Grandson Bill had died overseas in the war, the boy they'd raised after their daughter had drunk herself to death. Ever since then everything looked different. It all looked old. He felt old. He rubbed at his eyes trying to get the perpetual fog to lift, if even just for a second.

Their washing machine dinged though there weren't any clothes in it. The washer was the last thing Bill had bought for them. He'd paid for it with his "War money." The damn thing had a gremlin or the old wiring in the house didn't mesh with the new "smart technology" that was supposed to have energy saving sensors of some sort.

He growled to clear his throat and took off toward the machine. "Your appointment with the eye doctor is in an hour," his wife called from the bedroom. Dam his glaucoma. It wouldn't be long before he'd have to have someone read to him. The thought of it made him grit his teeth. The washer beeped again, a different sort of beep. He growled again.

His hands trembled when he tried to do anything particular with his hands. One of the doctors called it a "terminal tremor." They'd taken his blood, said they had to run some tests.

Well, this didn't need care. He pulled the washer out from the wall. He wrenched his back and let loose a yelp. "Honey, you alright?" asked his wife. He ignored her and eased the machine out more. It didn't belong here. It was too new, too good for this place. The damn thing was broken anyway. It beeped all the time

like it was trying to talk to him. It was Bills. The stupid machine reminded him of Bill--so new, so ready to live and serve. It deserved a better home. He reached for the plug, grabbed it, gave it a tug. His whole body wrenched toward the outlet. He smelled something burning. He tasted something like rusty metal. Then everything stopped, went black. He swore he heard popping in his ears, but it could have been a "ding, ding, ding." That was the sound the machine made when the load was finished.

~~OOO~~

"Millie, you sure you're alright?" asked Rose. "Yes, just tired." Rose pouted a little, but went away. It was a funny look for an old woman to do. She hadn't pouted since she was a schoolgirl. Rose meant well, she surely did. Since George had died from being electrocuted all those months ago, every lady in the land thought it necessary to check up on her day in and day out. She couldn't blame them. She'd quit the luncheons at the nutrition center. She'd stopped the book club. She'd dropped out of bridge with the girls. They worried. She could understand that.

Her new passion was computers though, and today was going to be the day. Rose's visit had almost been too much. The washer dinged and did a few cycles with its wheel. "I'm coming. I know you're excited. Hold on. My knees aren't what they used to be." She'd connected the cameras up to the washer, outside and inside. She setup televisions so she could see what the washer saw. She'd added a port to the washer's computer, and linked a laptop to it so maybe the washer could type a message. She'd already

downloaded all George and Bill's favorite books up to a Kindle. All she had to do was turn it all on.

"Are you ready?" she asked. She felt like a little girl again with her heart aflutter and both hands to her mouth. "Ding"--she flipped switches fast and turned things on quick--like it all needed to be done at the same time and she didn't have enough fingers.

Then she waited, watching the screens intensely. "Are you there?" On one of the screens a nearly transparent figure walked by reading a book.

"Bill?"

The laptop came to life. "I am not he." scrolled across the screen.

"George?"

The laptop whirred like a cat purring and some other program opened on the screen. "I am not he." A voice said from its little speaker. It sounded like a little girl.

"Who...?" "I am... NOT."

She backed away from the washer.