Elly

By James Nuzzo

George Wright is a motorcycle enthusiast and a devoted husband to a woman who is terminally ill. To help his wife, George must challenge the ethical norms of the culture he lives in. He squares off against two popular politicians, a prominent medical doctor, a highly-touted federal prosecutor, and his own conflicted conscience. Elly is more than a story about man’s fight for freedom; it is a tribute to romantic love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716628078

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Chapter 1

George Wright was sitting at the end of a brown sofa. His legs were crossed and his right elbow was resting at the sofa’s edge. Grasped between his fingers was the front page of a newspaper.

Senate-Approved! Benjamin Sikes Becomes Youngest Federal Prosecutor in Country’s History.

Benjamin Sikes’ broad shoulders obscured much of the flag that served as his backdrop. His hair was spiked and formed an apex to a long, thin face. His smile was large and unforced, suggesting a childhood free from discomfort.

Next to the sofa were a small table and a recliner chair. Resting at the table’s edge was a bowl of cold soup. Lying supine in the chair was a limp and motionless body.

Sikes, the President’s top choice, is a recent graduate of Kelso Law School. At Kelso, the young attorney earned high honors and served as the head of the Justice Fraternity – a student organization dedicated to ending social injustices and advancing the role of religion in law.

The body in the chair was old and frail. Its muscles were atrophied and covered by a pale, inelastic skin. The body was neither dead nor comatose. It was a conscious woman. It was Laura Wright.

Oh! Laura moaned in discomfort. Oh!

Sikes’ academic achievements should come as no surprise. They’re in his genes, after all. He is the son of retired politician and long-time friend of the President, Mr. Harold Sikes.

Laura’s head was stable, but the room was moving. Oh! Laura moaned. Oh!

According to experts in our nation’s capital, Sikes’ most outstanding virtue is his intellectual plasticity and his ability to represent the rule of law from various political voices. Apparently, he counters arguments like a gymnast moves about the training floor – with style and grace. One trusted source even said Sikes’ rhetorical skills are fun to watch. Now, if there was only a case for him to work…

Laura coughed several times. Her efforts were weak and sounded more like snickers – as if her body was laughing at the ineffectiveness of its own protective reflexes.

George closed the newspaper. He watched Laura’s head bounce up and down from the chair. He did not speak. He only stared.

Laura’s coughs subsided, and she took a big breath to release the tension from her body. It’s over, she thought to herself. Thank goodness, it’s over.

George mistakenly re-opened the newspaper to a full-page advertisement devoid of color.

"Federal Bureau of Transportation Safety, in accordance with the Citizen Safety Law, is hiring 500 MORE Street-Camera Operators. Minimal qualifications required. Good salary. Job-for-life guarantee."

Laura was exhausted. Today, like every day over the past two years, had been filled with pain. Her throat was sore from coughing, her hands were paralyzed from nerve deterioration, and her back was red from copious amounts of time spent lying in the recliner chair. With every cough, the friction between her back and the chair ignited a torch that set her spine on fire. Laura had tried to learn how to let all of her pain imprint onto her body – to accept it, not as a passing symptom, but as a permanent feature of her identity. She gazed at the front of the room. She thought about how she wished the blank television screen were lit. She wanted the screen to project a certain combination of words and actions – the kind that could provide her the emotional fuel necessary to fight her current state of being. Art, she thought, is the best cure for this misery. But the longer Laura looked at the screen, the more she remembered she was peering into a dark abyss – a void where society’s romantic soul used to be. She knew why the television was off. She wanted it off. She had requested it. Then, the television screen began to move. Please not again, she begged.

Laura dug the side of her face into the chair’s headrest. Her eyes were closed, but she could see the television spinning. The spin became fast and unpredictable. Then, in a faint and desperate tone, she uttered the name of her husband: George?

George’s eyes remained focused on the newspaper. Yes? he replied.

The buck—

Before Laura finished, George slammed the newspaper shut. He quickly grabbed a small bucket from the floor and shoved it under Laura’s jaw. Laura’s mouth opened, and a yellow liquid oozed over her lip, onto her chin, and into the pail. George held the bucket steady. He did not look away.

Oh! Laura moaned. Oh!

George grabbed a white towel that was neatly folded over the arm of the chair. He wiped Laura’s chin. All finished? he asked.

Laura rested her head back on the chair. Yes, I think so.

With a limp, yet steady gait, George carried the dirty towel and the bucket into a nearby bathroom. He tossed the towel into the corner, emptied the bucket into the toilet, and flushed twice. He placed the bucket into the sink, twisted the hot water knob forty-five degrees to the left, and swirled five times before dumping the water down the drain. He grabbed a clean towel from the rack above the sink, limped back into the living room, and folded the towel over the chair’s armrest. He identified a circular imprint in the carpet and placed the base of the bucket back into it.

George?

Yes?

The—

George quickly reached for the bucket.

No, Laura moaned.

George looked up at his wife and pulled his hand away from the bucket.

Not the bucket, George. The clock. It’s time.

George stood and turned toward a clock on the wall. His motion was awkward. The two sides of his body seemed to be pulling his gaze in opposite directions.

It’s eight o’clock, Laura said. It’s time, George. It’s time.

George’s eyes narrowed. But he was not attempting to read the clock’s dials. He was peering into the future, looking at a tall building and a large watercolor painting of a human brain.

It’s eight o’clock, Laura repeated. It’s time, George. It’s time.

George placed his hand on his chin and began picking at his unkempt beard. The newspaper had not been a source of pleasure or inspiration. It had been serving as a distraction from something more significant, something unresolved.

Are you sure this is what you want? he asked.

Laura found the question strange. She started to nod but then coughed strongly. The rash on her back rubbed against the chair. Oh! she cried out. Oh!

George stiffened his shoulders, and in the tone of a military officer said, I’ll leave shortly.

#

George was standing in he and Laura’s en-suite bathroom. His hands were clutching the edge of the countertop. He was looking at the reflection of his green, contemplative eyes.

Is this really what I want? he thought. Is this really what I want to do?

George’s flannel shirt was unbuttoned. The opening exposed a small patch of white hair on his chest. He slid his hand through the opening, across his chest, and up to the side of his neck. Deep within his shoulder was a dull ache.

Can I even do it? he asked himself. Do I even have the strength?

George’s angular cheekbones were masked by his bushy beard. He pointed his chin to the ceiling and began to shave. His strokes were strong and precise – characteristic of a man well-versed with a knife and its interaction with human flesh.

Should I do it? he thought. Is it right?

After he rinsed, George went into the bedroom and grabbed a box from underneath the bed. He pulled from the box a black leather jacket and an overstuffed envelope.

Will I do it? he thought. Will I actually go through with it?

Laura’s old diary was on a nightstand next to the bed. George tore out a blank page from the back. He wrote on it for several minutes then wedged it in the overstuffed envelope.

As he stood over his wife’s fragile body in the living room, he tugged on the hem of his jacket. He had not worn the jacket in many years. It fit just as he remembered: square across the shoulders and slim through the waist. The envelope was projecting from the jacket’s inside pocket. George quickly pulled up the zipper so the envelope could not be seen.

It’s time for me to go, Laura. Are you sure you want me to go?

Laura brushed her cheek up and down against the chair’s soft fabric. She then requested George play her favorite album.

George turned from Laura and walked toward