He moved closer, sensing something was terribly wrong. There was a splatter pattern of blood and sputum on her pillow. He pulled back the covers and reached for her neck, to pull her up. It was too late. She was cold and blue, and as dead as a doornail. It was odd, he thought, standing there, her condition seemed neither good nor bad; dead was just what it was. Nothing more and nothing less. He wondered if he was in some egoless state of Nirvana. Beyond his mother Matthew spotted the door of the three-hundred-pound safe. Jesus H. Christ, it was wide open. He turned on the bedside lamp and pulled it to the floor for a look inside. There was another bottle of 200-count morphine tablets and an 8-by-14 canvas sack. He unzipped it and dumped the contents on the mattress. Fifty- and one-hundred-dollar bills floated to the bed. He soon counted out a sum of fourteen thousand dollars. In addition to the cash there were several stock dividend checks and a social security check, all signed and ready to be countersigned. Matthew got down on his knees to see what else was in the safe and was shocked to find a half-carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Mrs. Billis, to his knowledge, had not smoked in years. He threw the cigarettes to the floor and looked for more secrets. There were several cloth-wrapped Hummel figurines—her treasures. Crass stupid-ass junk really. As he was removing these from his safe a recent prescription for 200-count morphine fluttered to the floor. A script for morphine! Lord, have mercy! What a stellar find!

He took the cash, the pills, and the prescription back out into the kitchen and set them on the table next to the mail and the newspaper. Did she know that she was dying and leave the safe open on purpose? With all of that blood on her pillow, it was unlikely. She had simply died of natural causes.

Matthew’s initial sense of objective detachment began to deteriorate. He turned to the Rolodex and began to spin through it looking for her doctor’s number when it dawned on him that she didn’t need a doctor, not really. Not anymore. Well, who to call then? There wasn’t much family left, just cousins. Fuck them. He went back to the room and studied his mother’s body. A look of horror was affixed to her face. She had seemed to diminish in size a good 20 percent. He pushed her mouth closed. Her limbs were still pliable. He wondered how long she had been dead. She had somehow scrunched down low in the bed, and when he pulled her forward, her mouth dropped open and a gush of blood oozed out. Matthew quickly rushed out of the room and went to the kitchen sink to wash the cold and slimy blood from his hands. Suddenly he was into hand washing in a big way. Lady “Matthew” Macbeth.