Gladys Purdue pads into her kitchen at the usual time, 7:15AM. She gazes out the window above her kitchen table while her herbal tea cools to a sippable temperature. Gladys avoids looking at the small calendar dangling from an old square head nail near her left temple. Her husband, Wallace, hammered that black nail straight through the pink roses and copper kettles wallpaper deep into the stucco wall over 50 years ago. She doesn’t need to look at the calendar. She knows exactly what day today is. The wallpaper is deeply faded from the passage of time and the hot caress of thousands of fragrant meals cooked in her canary yellow oven. When Wally was around, on Monday nights, they’d have fried chicken TV dinners.

Gladys lives a quiet life filled with days of gentle gardening, trips to the library and tea with neighbors. What Gladys looks forward to most are visits from her only son, Peter. A good son, who calls her frequently, inquires about her health and purchases anything she needs to keep her small world spinning. Gladys is happiest on the days she will see her son’s sparkling blue eyes. Tonight he will join her for dinner.

Peter arrives at dusk, a white orchid swaying in one arm, a bag of groceries in the other. She kisses his cheek and smiles at the brief blue flash of his wink, an endearing habit he inherited from his dad. Gladys unloads the groceries, bananas, Swiss cheese, grapefruit juice and two identical microwave dinners. Her heart springs, then sinks. Gladys closes her eyes tight to keep her memories and tears from leaking out. They are TV dinners, now made from plastic, not aluminum, but always fried chicken with mashed potatoes and peas. “Son, I don’t know how you always remember, but thank you”. Peter gives his mother a tight hug. “Let’s eat our dinner in front of the TV. Peter, would you help me move the big trunk in front of the couch? We can eat on there, it’s much bigger than my little coffee table.” Peter pushes the heavy trunk from the wall to where his mother waits with two steaming chicken dinners. She sets them down on the trunk. They eat in silence. Peter says quietly, “Happy Birthday, Dad.” Gladys smiles.

After waving goodbye to Peter at her front door, Gladys returns to the trunk gathering the empty dinner trays. Gladys lifts the big latch on the front of the trunk, then carefully hefts the heavy lid. The smell is immediate; tinny, gamey, with a burnt vinyl top note. She tosses the empty plastic trays into the trunk, bones and all. They barely make a sound as they slide in among the vast collection of empty frozen dinner trays. Gladys leans in to peek inside. She notices a chicken bone has fallen into his skeletal eye socket. She flicks it aside and whispers, “Happy Birthday, Wally.” Gladys winks at him and shuts the lid.

(*This piece recently won first round placement for the 500 word/Thriller short story challenge for NYCMidnight.com)