Mrs. Hagan never received many visitors, mostly because of the secluded place she lived. It was a small, ranch style house, along a windy country road with few neighbors. A widow, whose children moved away when bands like Poison were still around, lived humbly alone. That is why she was surprised to hear a knock on her door that Sunday afternoon.

She shuffled across her burgundy carpet ever so gracefully to greet her visitor. She opened the door leading to her front porch and was surprised by what she saw. A man, no older than thirty, wearing an odd suit, similar pattern to that of a picnic table, stood before her with a large grin that spread from ear to ear.

“Hello ma’am,” he said smugly, “My name is Walter Lime, salesman by trade, family man all the same.” His smile seemed to grow larger as his emerald green eyes prodded away at his surroundings.

“What are you selling, if I may ask?” Mrs. Hagan replied almost as quiet as church mouse. The man’s confidence and demeanor brought back memories of her husband. She shook out of her delusion quickly however, and guided the gentleman inside.

“Knives,” he said, “I sell the highest quality of knifes in the area, Bosnick Knives. Only made from the finest quality of metal and ivory to meet an eager customer’s need; too often today people are swindled by false promises of quality, but I assure you Bosnick Knives are the best money can buy.”

He ran his fingers through his slicked back hair as he spoke, pushing it back even farther past his scalp. He talked quickly and without hesitation, it made a better selling point if the salesman was confident. His father had always taught him that from the beginning. Be as believable as you can, and come away with as much cash as possible. In the end that was all that mattered anyway. As long as he came away with any profit at all, Walter always considered his operation a success.

They sat down together in Mrs. Hagan’s living room on her old wicker couch. As he peered around the room, Walter got the sense he was in an old home, crossed somewhere between a beach villa and a hunting camp. Yes, just about everything in this house was old including the lady. I wonder if anything in here is worth the trouble, he thought to himself as Mrs. Hagan observed his product. It didn’t matter what he was selling that day, knives, wrist watches, shoes, lamps, tires, or any other item that was easy to hide the true quality, Walter had learned it was always easy to let the customer decide with their senses.

He turned his attention towards Mrs. Hagan, whose silver hair gleamed in the sunlight coming in from the front window of the house. She couldn’t be any older than eighty, and had a slight limp in her left leg. He knew she had been beautiful when she was younger partly because of her gentle smile but also because of a picture of her and her husband sitting on her coffee table in the far corner of the room.

“How do I know that these are really high qu-“

He cut her off saying, “Is that your husband?” He crossed the room with a slight smirk, knowing he had avoided talking the true details of his product. Truthfully, the “high quality” was what looked like metal screws holding what looked like ivory around what was truly the cheapest metal that looked like steel that he and his cronies could find. Plus, small talk was always key to getting them to see you not as a stranger, but someone you would even confide in when they “need” something.

“Yes,” she said, “he passed away six years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, how long were you married?”

“Sixty four years, sixty five if you count the courtship.” She smiled brightly, but it soon faded to a somber looking frown.

Walter saw his opportunity, “I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sure he’s in a better place now.”

He had played this game so many times before. Walter knew he must attempt to tightrope in between consoling and invading his client’s personal life. That was something else that his dad had taught him. His thoughts drifted a little towards his father as Mrs. Hagan rambled about times she had with her husband. He was only pretending to listen, something he did with women a lot and was very good at. A few head nods here, a smile there, a hand on the shoulder, really quite convincing.

Walter was now fixated on his memory of his father. How long has it been since he was alive? he wondered. He had loved his father, so he in a sense became him. Crime was a family business for the Limes. He recalled times at the age of four when his father would bring him along on one of his “jobs”. Watch and learn, he’d say, with a strange sense of accomplishment, as if he coined the phrase. But he didn’t care, he loved his dad dearly and pretty much bought whatever he sa-

“Walter? Is something wrong?” asked Mrs. Hagan in a concerned, mother like voice.

Not realizing he had spaced out during their conversation, he responded quickly, “No, I was just thinking about my grandfather. Your husband reminds me of him. And also, don’t call me Walter, my friends call me Wally.”

Again he flashed his ear to ear smile, looking in her old, tired eyes as if to say, you can trust me, I’m your friend. Mrs. Hagan returned a smile and asked him to follow her to the kitchen. Pleased that he avoided any problems, Walter picked up his knife set and followed her, confident as could be.

“Do you want anything to drink?” she asked, “I have a lemon tree out back that I use to make fresh lemonade.” She smiled sweetly as the sun shone on her from the kitchen window looking out in to her back yard.

“Yes I would love some.” Walter peered out the rear window as he spoke. The tree was massive. It nearly blocked the sunlight, which managed to ever so slightly to slip in between its dense branches. Even from twenty yards away he could see names carved into the tree. Its massive trunk indicated it was very old, probably older than the Mrs. Hagan and he combined. It must be nice to live so peacefully he thought. Walter didn’t like his way of living, but how was he supposed to feed his family? Walter chuckled at that thought for moment; he had been married once but it didn’t last and produced no children. He carried a picture of his ex-wife with him along with one of his two nephews, if anyone asked about his family. Aside from his father and distant mother, Walter never had much of a family to call his own. That’s why he only looked out for number one.

Almost right on cue, Mrs. Hagan interjected his thoughts once more, “ Wally, you said you were a family man, but I know no wife would ever let their husband go out wearing a suit like that.” They shared a laugh at this as Walter showed her the pictures of his ex and his nephews, once again letting Mrs. Hagan decide with her eyes the truth in Walter’s word.

Mrs. Hagan turned to extract the lemon juice by hand, working hastily to please her guest. Walter appreciated her hospitality, and for a brief moment felt bad about what he was about to do. A sweet old lady such as her surely doesn’t deserve to be conned out by a rat like me. But then again, how would I feed my family? Another wry smile crossed Walter’s face, maybe he should try stand-up.

“But back to the knives Mrs. Hagan,” said Walter, now eager to make his sale. He would get his money, enjoy a cool drink, and be out the door in ten minutes flat if all went smoothly. In case things did not Walter always kept a revolver strapped to the inside of his thigh. He never had to use it, and hoped he never would. Walter always thought he didn’t have it in him to kill another person, no matter if it was over money or not. Something his father never cared for, the endpoint to him was the only thing that was important anyway. I didn’t bother him in the slightest that he killed two men in front of Walter’s young eyes. Perhaps that was the main difference between him and his father, at least I have some morals, he thought.

“They’re lovely!” exclaimed Mrs. Hagan, “I want a full set; luxury is something an old lady like me deserves.” She said this with an upward inflection of both sarcasm and confidence, as a slight smirk grew over her wrinkled cheeks.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Walter, trying to hide his elation at such a good sale, “I have some paper work that you need to sign, formalities really. Thank you for choosing Bosnick Knives; we really appreciate your business.”

“Trust me when I say that you have a repeat customer in me; if all the salesmen are like you I may go broke!” They shared a laugh at this as flattery and dollar signs danced in Walter’s mind. The papers were signed quickly, Walter observing like a kid in a candy store. He closed his briefcase and began exiting towards the living room.

“Thanks again Mrs. Hagan, hopefully we’ll see mo-“

“You forgot your lemonade!” she interjected. She was holding a pitcher in one hand and a tall glass in the other. “You must let me show my appreciation for being such a fine young man.”

Walter hesitated; he never stayed after making a sale before. The longer you stayed the greater chance of you being found out. But Mrs. Hagan was so kind, he decided he owed her some company after the way he had conned her out of some cash. An old lady living alone like he surely deserved some companionship, if not for a little while; “Alright, but only for a little, I must be off to sell more units.”

“But of course, I’ll just put the glass in a thermos for you. Don’t worry about returning it, my treat.” Her demeanor was so sweet it nearly brought a tear to Walter’s eye. It’s not too late, he thought, I could still tell her the truth. No, it is too late. She wouldn’t forgive me at this point. Walter adjusted his tie, took a deep swallow of what he felt was left of his pride, and followed Mrs. Hagan back to the kitchen.

She handed him the thermos and hugged him, kissing him on the cheek and saying, “I wish there were more nice gentlemen like you. We would live in a much better world than we do in the present day.”

Walter was doing everything he could not to cry. What am I doing? What sort of monster have I become?

“Me too, Mrs. Hagan, me too.” The shame in Walter’s face was clearly visible now so he turned quickly to avert eye contact. This was a walk that Walter had never taken before. The melancholy feeling radiated throughout his body, his feet, like cinder blocks dragging along the out dated carpet. His hands, perspiring as he grasped tightly to his briefcase and his new thermos, felt as though they were bearing the weight of his many misdeeds not on that day but every day in his life.

Walter brought the thermos to his lips about five feet in front of the doorway, the cool liquid running down his now dry throat. The sweet taste of the fresh squeezed lemons was evident, enough to bring one more smile over Walter’s face. He turned to speak to Mrs. Hagan, “I’m so-“

No more words came out.

Walter collapsed to the floor, his brief case flying out of his hand. He hit hard, a thud echoing as he bounced off the ground in a violent contortion of his body. He struggled to turn on his back, still shaking, reaching for anything nearby but to no avail.

Mrs. Hagan calmly walked up to his convulsing body and stood over his gaze, making it impossible for him not to look at her now cold, unforgiving eyes. “Look at me,” she demanded, “ I want you to see me before you die.”

“You . . . bu- . . .you . . .” That was all Walter could muster, as it became harder and harder to breath.

“Don’t bother, it’s almost over anyway.” She kneeled down and grabbed his hand. It shook violently in her grasp. He turned to try and meet her gaze, but his eyes moved fervently, in panicked matter.

“You see, I’ve had trouble with men like you my whole life.” She said this with the utmost calmness, without so much as a stutter. She had been here before. “Scumbags, crooks, and cowards all the same; I’ve disposed of them all, including that prick in the picture over there.”

Walter’s concentration faded, still squirming on the carpet, but now at a much slower rate. He could feel his body begin to shut down, his breaths shorten, his heart beat become slower.

“No, this world had no place for a man like my husband, and none for a man like you either. You are a liar and a crook who was about to walk away, even in good conscious, with an old lady’s cash. You sicken me Walter, you really make me sick.”

At this Walter gave one last heaving effort and speaking, reaching out towards Mrs. Hagan as his other hand clenched his chest. Despite this all that came out was a low gurgling noise. His head dropped back to the floor, and rolled slightly away from her gaze. She moved his head so his eyes met hers. His once piercing, emerald green eyes were now fogged and locked in a blank stare. It was over, Walter Lime was dead.

Mrs. Hagan gingerly stood up and began walking towards her kitchen as she saw something in the corner of her eye. She stooped down and picked it up, and, in her sweet old voice said, “Wally, I said you didn’t have to return my thermos. Really dear, you’re too kind.”