Agatha Lancaster

A Short Story

Mrs. Agatha Lancaster did not put much stock in material things. In fact, she quite despised material things, viewing them as both the gateway into, and the epitome of,
“Worldliness.” She owned very few physical possessions. She ate just as much as needed, drank nothing but water and herbal tea (when she was younger she also drank milk, but was later convicted) and owned only three outfits. One for church, one for weddings and funerals, and one for daily life. Nothing that befell her body seemed to faze her, and she claimed that this was due to the fact that she kept her eyes on spiritual things. (Others claimed that it was because not much had befallen her body in her seventy-three years on earth.) She had obviously forgotten that God created dirt and called it “good.” Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and after death no need to bother with “physicality.”

Mrs. Lancaster had very few friends, and the friends she did have avoided her. It was inevitable that if you were going through some sort of trial, Mrs. Lancaster would arrive on your doorstep with a few Bible verses and an exhortation to look to heavenly things. She viewed this as the most biblical form of hospitality, and believed her words were a balm for the weary soul. She had not delivered a meal in over forty years. But that was alright, because the soul was what mattered.

Many wondered how on earth such a woman had gotten married. For she was, in fact, married, and quite happily. (Assuming Mrs. Lancaster experienced happiness.)

At least, Mrs. Lancaster had been married until a year and a half ago.

Mr. Nolan Lancaster had been a landscaper. He loved everything about his job, and was often willing to work overtime. (Though people joked that his willingness to work overtime was due only to the fact that he happened to have married Agatha Lancaster.)

On that fateful summer day, Mr. Lancaster had gone to prune some pine trees for a family just a few miles from his own home. The family was not at home for a few days, as they were attending a wedding out of state. Mr. Lancaster went about his business as he usually did, but somehow or another, managed to fall into the pig pen.

And that was that.

Pigs devour whatever they can get their teeth on and in a pen of twenty or so pigs, Mr. Lancaster didn’t last long. By the time the police were called by Mrs. Lancaster that evening, and the search commenced, all that was left to find were Mr. Lancaster’s teeth. The town sheriff, who knew Mr. Lancaster personally, (as did most everyone in town) returned the teeth to Mrs. Lancaster a few days later, with the permission of the forensics examiner, tucked away in a small wooden box from Hobby Lobby with a bit of pink felt placed in the bottom to keep them from rattling about.

The sheriff didn’t know Agatha Lancaster well, but he gave his condolences as best he could. “If you need any help around here in the next few weeks, just let me and my wife know.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Lancaster replied stiffly. “I doubt that will be necessary, but I appreciate the gesture. What I would appreciate even more is prayer.”

“Of course, of course we’re praying, but if you need anything else, a meal, or-”

Mrs. Lancaster shut the door before he had finished speaking.

The sheriff was taken aback, though unsurprised, and unoffended. He was well aware of Mrs. Lancaster’s reputation (which accounted for the lack of surprise) and was a gracious, understanding, and sympathetic man (which accounted for the lack of offence.)

Upon relating the events to his wife, however, she exclaimed, “That woman! I wonder if she’ll be convinced to let go of her high and mighty ideas after experiencing some grief of her own.” The sheriff’s wife did not, perhaps, possess her husband’s character traits to the same degree. She also still struggled to forget about the time that Mrs. Lancaster came over to “help” after her shoulder surgery…The woman had come and spoken to her of contentment and endurance for the better part of an hour, then read a couple Bible verses, and left!

Mrs. Lancaster, by all appearances, did not let go of her “high and mighty” ideas. In fact, it seemed she doubled-down. She did not cry at the funeral. She did not even frown, but kept her lips pressed into a tight, thin crease the entire time. She thanked the pastor for his words, but also, it was said, told him that she wished he had not “indulged so much in sorrow” as her husband was “in a much better place, and we ought only to rejoice in his departure.” She added lastly, and even curtly, that she “did not appreciate being bombarded (through his words) by the temptations to weep and feel sorry for herself.”

The pastor bore her criticism valiantly and joyfully, and then went home and drank a large cup of coffee while he considered and prayed over how on earth best to minister to such a woman in this time of sorrow.

Mrs. Lancaster returned home and drank three cups of bitter herbal tea to calm her nerves.

Some had expected Agatha Lancaster to break down eventually. Others did not expect her to break down, but at least to slow down, or act…well, at least a bit different, in some way. Everyone expected that at some point she would show her grief.

She did not.

In fact, she donated all of her husband’s things to Goodwill almost immediately.

Agatha Lancaster continued life as usual. She woke up, read her Bible, prayed, ate breakfast and drank some tea, and commenced whatever the task at hand was. Day in. Day out. Every day the same. “It is odd,” she admitted to herself, “That he isn’t here. It’s odd cooking for only one person. But no need to fret. He’s free of this earth and its petty material worries.” But he did love his job. He loved the trees. The quiet thought wormed its way into her mind. She knew there were trees in heaven, better trees, she was certain, but still the thought bothered her.

She knew what people said. She knew they wondered if she even truly loved him, and their whispers made her indignant. Of course I loved him! He was my husband.

Sometimes she wished she’d kept just one of his shirts. Just one. But whenever the thought popped into her head, she violently thrust it out again. Such sentimentality was foolish, and wholly material. She didn’t need one of her husband’s shirts.

Day in. Day out. Every trace of her husband disappeared quite quickly. Nothing around the house, (except a couple pictures) to remind her of him. Not that I need to be reminded. He was my husband. It’s not as if I’d forget him. To “need” some sort of material, sentimental item is mere worldliness.

Day in. Day out. Every trace disappeared. Every single trace. She lay awake one night, very aware that the scent of her husband had entirely dissipated. If only I’d kept one of his shirts. She quickly pushed the thought away.

But it kept returning. If only. If only. Mrs. Lancaster gazed into the dresser drawer. If only she’d kept his baseball cap. A shirt. A tie. A pair of shoes, even. His watch. But it was gone. Completely gone. His physical presence doesn’t matter. Not really. Not as much as his soul, which lives on.

And then that Sunday arrived. The Sunday that Mrs. Agatha Lancaster was not in church. As she had not missed church in over 60 years (as far as anybody was aware) this was a legitimate reason to worry. After the service, the sheriff, his wife, and the pastor hurried over to the Lancaster house to check on Agatha.

They found her in her bed, recently passed away. She was wearing her church outfit. Apparently, she had gotten up that morning, as usual, and then decided to lie down again, rather than head to church.

The dresser drawer hung open, empty, except for the small wooden Hobby Lobby box. The sheriff remembered it well, and found himself drawn to open it. It was empty.

Agatha Lancaster was clutching her husband’s teeth quite tightly in her cold, stiff hand.

***

“Broken heart syndrome” the doctor who did the autopsy called it. “Nobody’s entirely sure why it happens, but it’s caused by a surge in the stress hormones. Affects women more than men, and often occurs after a traumatic event or grief. The apex of the heart swells up and blocks the blood from getting where it needs to.”

And thus, Agatha Lancaster died of a broken heart.