The Last Anatomical Chart

It had been 8 years since Mrs. Havershaw had seen Charles. He had been a man of many words, not too many of which had sent Havershaw into great flushes, but many words nonetheless, nonetheless. Charles had spent the last 17 years of his life designing office chairs. "Comfort," he always declared with great pride, "is the absolute key to success. Indirectly I am responsible for the likes of the toaster, Flannery O'Connor's Everything That Rises Must Converge, and the nuclear bomb." (All of which were lies; the toaster was invented in 1872, long before his work in chairs had begun; the nuclear bomb was invented by scientists who sat only on stacked milk crates, as everybody knows; and Flannery O'Connor was said to have written her stories while standing below a small pear tree her father had planted in her honor when she was born.) Regardless of his flawed imagination, Mrs. Havershaw had loved Charles with a deep sincerity, and it had taken her several years to work up the strength to end their love affair. She had later married a poor farmer by the name of Adolph (a somewhat unfortunate name,) and opened a goat cheese business out of their home. It was a on a late harsh winter's evening that she received a call about Charles. Two days later she was on a train to the city morgue where his body was being held. His wife had died not too long after Mrs. Havershaw had left him and, with no progenies of his own, Mrs. Havershaw was one of the few living people who could surely identify his body. The morgue was a dim place, as one might expect, and she was brought to the table where Charles was blanketed. The attendant looked to Mrs. Havershaw, and she nodded to unveil him. As the blanket was pulled back, Mrs. Havershaw's hands shook with great force as she lifted them to her mouth. A piercing scream tore through the morgue as she fell to the ground. She would not be taking the train home that night. She would never be taking the train again.