Death of Aaron

Aaron had not been well for some time, and Florence was distraught. In both August and September he spent a week in the hospital, but after his second stay, the doctors told Florence that all they could do was try to keep him comfortable. She took him home, armed with morphine. At the time, they lived in a single story two-bedroom house. It was quite easy for her to set him up in one of the bedrooms. She rarely left his side, day or night. He mostly slept, subsisting in a medically induced state of peace.

However, he was not entirely at peace. At any time, day or night, he would begin moaning. The moaning would escalate into cries and then downright screams of agony. It was painful to hear. Florence held his hand, stood over him and whispered soothing words of love in his ear. Sometimes he squeezed her hand. Mostly, it was cold and limp. As he was very weak, he would not move much, but once in a while during his bouts of agony, he would begin gesticulate, and once, when Florence was leaning in close, he raised his head quickly and knocked her in the face, chipping a tooth and causing her lips to bruise and swell for several days.

Leta visited every day, preparing meals for Florence and making her eat, cleaning, managing the household, and relieving Florence at her post beside Aaron as needed. In the morning, she had her husband Claud drive her. She would spend the better part of the day there. He would join them for supper. In the evenings, one or both of Aaron and Florence’s daughters would replace her in the vigil, but not every evening and sometimes not for very long. Both had young children that needed to be fed, bathed and put to bed.

Ironically, Lucille, the older child, was more frequently available. For much of her adult life, she had been estranged from her father. When she was a girl, she had a secret relationship with an older man who was already married. She became pregnant, and the boyfriend abandoned her to her fate. Both of her parents were ashamed; neither wanted this kind of situation for either of their children. As was believed to be proper in the 1930s, they made preparations for Lucille to have her baby quietly, away from the community. Lucille miscarried in her third month, and the public shame never surfaced. However, Aaron struggled with his feelings toward his daughter for the rest of his life. He was always cordial to the girl, he was polite to her husband, and he liked his granddaughters. He never spoke about it, but it was obvious that Lucille’s behavior and the result hurt him to the core of his being.

For her part, Lucille never brought up the situation. She was a stubborn woman, and while she felt regret about her choices, she would not feel ashamed of herself. All she ever admitted was that in her youth, she liked boys. Even then, she only provided this information when asked.

Still, she loved her father. She telephoned at least once a day, and three or four days per week, she would spend several hours with her parents.

Sometimes, Leta felt anger simmering inside of her. Aaron was in bed. Florence was beside him. She stood in the doorway, an observer of the scene. She felt a great desire to be the person at her brother’s side, that this was her place. Florence should be doing the dishes or preparing the meal. In the evenings, when she was sitting at home with her bourbon and cigarette, she sometimes felt as though she should still be with her brother. This embarrassed her. After all, Florence was his wife; she was only his sister. She kept these feelings to herself. She was with them. They had been good to her when she was in need, and now she was with them during their need.

There were a few days in mid-November when Aaron became lucid and seemingly better. He would sit in a chair and participate in conversation. Mostly, he listened, but he was still very present. One November morning when he struggled to breathe, Leta called for an ambulance, and he was taken once again to the hospital.

They didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving that year. Aaron was in the hospital, and none of them felt very thankful. Florence remained at his side most of the day. She could barely be coaxed to get some fresh air or drink a cup of coffee. She was afraid that he would awaken if she left him, and she was determined to be there if he did. Leta fetched her a plate of food from the hospital cafeteria, but Florence barely touched it. In the evening, Lucille and June arrived, so Leta and Claud went to her daughter Vivian’s, where they had turkey sandwiches and pie, remnants from the earlier meal.

Leta and Claud picked up Florence early the next morning for them to resume their vigil. It was a cool morning. There was rain the previous night that had frozen in places on the sidewalk and street. Lucille and June met them at the hospital. They had been encouraged to come. Vivian arrived a short time later, having taken her six-year-old to his other grandparents’ home for the day. Claud stayed until lunchtime, and then left for the afternoon.

All five women were in Aaron’s room when his breathing slowed to a stop. Lucille realized that he had gone first, and turned from where she was talking to Vivian on the far side of the room to face her father. Florence gasped, and June quickly put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. Vivian quietly and quickly left the room to fetch a nurse.

But they knew. Aaron Scott, beloved husband, father and brother, had died.