Old Man Harvey lived alone in a large, dusty house on a hill. He spent his days scribbling frantically on napkins and tugging at his yellow-white crocheted drapes whenever he saw kids running around his windows. They called him crazy, and they were right--but they weren’t frightened of him. He was absolutely harmless, they said.
He kept most of the lights in the house off to save electricity, since he really only inhabited the kitchen. Crumpled napkins and loose papers cluttered the floor; old, used tea bags laid this way and that. His refrigerator was packed lightly: some cheese nearing its expiration date, a half-full gallon of 2% milk, a tupperware container of some leftover chili a neighbor had brought over.
He had bags under his eyes and dark spots speckling his soft, wrinkled face. His teeth were yellow-stained from years of drinking black coffee in the mornings and wine in the evenings. He used to be quite the looker: a jawline that was even more prominent with his hollowing cheeks, light blonde hair that had since turned white. He used to be strong, he could lift his lady into the air and spin her around. He wore his pajamas all day long, now; his bony, frail body refused anything else.
Mary-Beth Dawson was the only woman Harvey had ever loved. Mary-Beth was beautiful: she wore dresses every day, her hair a brilliant shade of red, her skin porcelain, her lips full and soft. She liked to spin around and climb trees, read books and lay in hammocks, roll down the big hill their house sat upon and dust occasionally. Mary-Beth was an amazing cook, too; she made Harvey the most delicious food. His favorite was her lasagna. They were perfect together, and everyone on the block knew it. Mary-Beth used to invite some of their neighbors over for dinner occasionally, and served her famous lasagna. She was brilliantly charming and utterly loveable. And so, so, so beautiful.
One night, Mary-Beth fell in the shower and hit her head on the way down. Just like that, the lovely and captivating Mary-Beth was gone. Something snapped in Harvey’s mind when they took Mary-Beth out of that house in a body bag. Something broke, and he hasn’t been the same since. Just like that, Harvey became Old Man Harvey, the crazy geezer living by himself in that old house on the hill.
The neighbors were sympathetic, though; they brought him meals once in a while because they knew Mary-Beth was the cook of the two. Mrs. Peterson down the street brought over some chili the night before. But never lasagna. No one brought him lasagna.
My Dearest Harvey, he wrote. It was the title of every napkin and sheet of paper littering his kitchen floor. Love, Mary-Beth, he would sign at the end. 517 love notes, 517 I miss yous, 517 I wish we could be together agains. 517 letters he had written to himself.
Harvey’s new caregiver was coming the next day; they had him on a rotation so he’s no ones problem for too long. He had no children: Mary-Beth couldn’t have kids. He didn’t care as long as he had her; he didn’t need anything else. Now he dreamed of what his children might have looked like; he dreamed of having any remnant of her.
Today was their anniversary.
Dearest Harvey,
I know you did what you had to do, my love. I know that you did it because you loved me. I know it was so that we could be together again, one day. It’s time that you join me, don’t you think? You’ve been alone for long enough, and I miss you.
With love,
Mary-Beth
Harvey folded up his latest writing and tucked it away in his sleep-shirt pocket. He rose from his crouched position on the floor, and his sleep-shirt caught on a rugged splinter of wood from the kitchen table, ripping a piece of the fabric off.
Patient at Saddlebrook Psychiatric Institution Kills Himself on the Anniversary of his Wife’s Death, the headline read.
When they found him, he was hanging from a ripped piece of his hospital gown in the center of his room. The poor guy didn’t even eat his dinner, one said, noticing the untouched glass of milk, slice of cheese, and cup of chili on a tray still sitting on the table where they put it. Go away, kids, you shouldn’t be in this wing, one said to the four frightened eyes peering through the tiny window on the door. They shook their heads, in utter disapproval of Mrs. Scott’s parenting style. She let them run around while she was visiting her sister in the women’s ward. They took Harvey down from the makeshift noose and lifted him onto a metal table that rolled out of the room. Didn’t he kill his wife? Shh, don’t speak ill of the mentally ill. And dead.
Patient at Saddlebrook Psychiatric Institution Kills Himself on the Anniversary of his Wife’s Death, by Senior Columnist David Schmidt
A familiar story, Harvey Dawson, age 65, was institutionalized after the murder of his wife, Mary-Beth Dawson, 2 years ago, February 16th, 2013. The investigation concluded that Harvey Dawson pushed Mary-Beth Dawson down while in the shower, where she had hit her head and suffered fatal damage to her brain.
“I’ve known Mary-Beth since we were kids and went to Saddlebrook Elementary School,” said former friend and neighbor of the couple, Opal Peterson. “Harvey always struggled with depression and I suspected he had other issues, but she was always so good to him, even with his outbursts. She told me--she told me that she was frightened by him and that he was not the same man that she had married. She told me she planned on leaving him, before--he killed her. She was going to be gentle, and careful of his feelings.”
Harvey Dawson was proved mentally ill and has since been in the care of Saddlebrook Psychiatric Institution, until this past February 16th, when Harvey Dawson committed suicide in his room at the institution. The nature of his death, other than the fact that it was self-inflicted, has not been released to the public yet.
Notes Dawson had written have been recovered from his room and since studied to reveal that Dawson had known that his wife was planning on leaving him, confirming his motive for killing her that had been assumed during the past investigation.