How Old Widowers Die

According to a study, in elderly married couples, when the husband dies first, it has no effect on the lifespan of the wife. She could go on living for decades, sometimes quite a bit happier.

On the other hand, when the wife dies first, the husband usually doesn't last more two years. The authors of the study didn’t say exactly why, only that the correlation was there and robust.

Fred knew why.

Since Nancy died, he had stopped taking his morning walks, stopped shaving regularly. His diet became sporadic.

Decades of gentle nagging had left Fred unable to run his own life without guidance. Her death had taken the training wheels off, and Fred was heading for a crash. More than that, he was desperately lonely.

He walked into the kitchen one Tuesday morning in a stained bathrobe and opened his refrigerator. Nothing edible but half a chocolate cake, an old chocolate cake. He tried to remember where it even came from.

Ted's birthday party at the nursing home? Yeah, that made sense. No one could eat it thanks to the cocktail of medications each nursing home resident took, so Fred left with half a cake. Ted was dead now. The funeral was months ago. The birthday before that, obviously.

Which left the question: how old was this cake?

Whatever the case, Fred knew that it was either eating a slice for breakfast or getting some actual groceries.

And so, Fred sat in his old reclining chair with the plate of chocolate cake in his lap and turned on the local news. He ate a bite. Not bad. But he didn't make it to the second bite before a sudden nap set in.

He woke up about an hour later. The plate was gone. Fred heard gnawing noises from the corner of the living room.

It was a mutant. That was Fred's first thought. A mutated little boy was eating his chocolate cake. The boy had a hunched back. His left arm looked distended. Half his face appeared to have melted. He had curled himself into a corner and was devouring the cake as if someone were about to steal it back.

But Fred wasn't scared. Startled maybe, but not scared. The boy seemed so meek and small. A scrawny thing who appreciated the cake more than Fred ever could.

"Hello?" Fred finally said.

The little boy's eyes widened. The boy dropped the plate and crawled back. Fred held out his hands.

"No, no. I'm not going to hurt you," Fred said. The boy ran as fast as his malformed legs could take him. "Wait!" Fred called out, “I have more cake.” The boy stopped.

"I don't need food," the boy said.

"Maybe not, but you sure seem to like it," Fred said.

The boy came closer. "I didn't eat for a long time," he said.

"You don't say," Fred said, "Now, I'm not angry, but how did you get in here?"

"I come in from below. I live near the pipes. Sewers," the boy said.

That didn't track in Fred's mind. It’s not like there was a door connecting his basement to the sewers. Maybe he'd been living there, near the boiler. It's not like he ever went down there. But Fred had so many other questions.

"What's your name?"

"Wilbur. You?"

"Fred. Are you all alone?"

"Yes. My family died."

"Mine too."

The boy looked over to the wall at the pictures of Fred and his wife.

"Her name was Nancy," Fred said.

"You said you had more cake?" the boy asked.

Fred and Wilbur watched the local news and ate cake. Fred in his reclining chair, and Wilbur on the ground. Fred invited the boy to sit on the couch, but he seemed to be more comfortable on the floor.

They both ate slowly. Wilbur thought once he finished the cake the old man would kick him out. And Fred thought once the cake was done the little boy would leave, and he’d be alone again.

When they were done, they sat in silence for a long time.

"Do you like playing sports?" Fred asked.

"I don't think so."

"What do you do for fun?"

"I don't know."

"Huh, do you go to school?"

"I used to."

They sat in silence.

"Is this what you do all day?" Wilbur asked.

Fred had to think about that for a long time. What did he do every day? Time goes faster for older people. New experiences become fewer and fewer. Routine sets in. Then you wake up as a 75-year-old man and wonder what happened to all the time.

"Well, yeah, this is kind of a lot of it," Fred says, "I wake up, go downstairs and eat some cereal or something. Then, I watch the news. Get the mail. Take a nap. And that's most of the day, I guess," Fred said.

"Do you have to work?"

"No, I'm retired."

"What is retired?"

"It means, I've made enough money and worked enough, so now I can do whatever I want."

"This is what you like to do?"

"I guess it was Nancy who'd always get us out of the house."

"To do what?”

Nancy liked to be outside. They lived in a beach town wrapped with large forests, and Nancy would drag Fred from the house every other day. He'd complain, but, in the end, he'd be glad he went out.

He got in the car with Wilbur. The little boy looked a little worried. He was getting into a car with an elderly stranger after all.

"It's alright if you want me to just drive you home," Fred said.

"I'm just worried, I don't like it when people see me."

"Don't you worry about that. If anyone stares at you, I'll pop 'em one."

Fred drove them to the beach. It was empty. It was a weekday, Fred thought to himself. All the better. Just being there made him feel healthy for once.

He taught Wilbur how to make a sandcastle. They ran away from the crashing waves. Collected seashells. Fred normally felt pain in his lower back and legs, even from grocery shopping. But not that day. His body was rallying to keep his new, young friend entertained.

They went up the hill to the forest and found bird feathers and pinecones. The small boy started to smile. "Where should we go next?" Fred asked, "the mall?"

The boy cringed. "No."

"I told ya, you don't have to care about the looks..."

"No, take me home."

"Who cares what those..."

"Home. Please."

"I suppose it is getting late," Fred conceded.

He didn't know exactly where he'd drop off the little deformed boy. Wilbur said he lived alone. He followed the boy's instructions into an area of beat-up mobile homes and trailer parks. "Here," the boy said, pointing at nothing.

Fred stopped the car. Wilbur got out. At first, Fred thought the lot was empty, but there was once a house there. Fred got out of his car and saw the burnt out remains of a foundation. In the back of the lot was a pit, the basement. That's where Wilbur had been living.

People walked past on the street. They all turned away from the empty lot and ignored the deformed child who called it home.

"Hey!" Fred yelled, but they wouldn’t even glance at the old man. What neighborhood could allow a child to live here like this?

Fred found Wilbur on the remains of a mattress.

"Do you want to stay with me?" He asked.

They came back together, but it wasn't the same house as when Fred left. It was dusty. Forgotten. He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It wasn't working. The chocolate cake that seemed fine in the morning was now old and moldy.

He came back out to see Wilbur standing in the living room.

Wilbur looked at the reclining chair. Fred turned it around and came face to face with himself. The body was starting to rot.

"We're dead, aren't we?" Fred asked.

"I don't know what that means."

"It means we don't have anything left to do here," Fred said.

“Like being retired?” Wilbur asked.

“Pretty much,” Fred said, “Thank you for reminding me what it's like to be alive... even if it was too late. But it’s time for us to move on.”

He should have known. His wife died over two years ago. He read the study. Old widowers don't last long.