Out of the Box

I lay in bed that night with Mac’s gun box heavy on my chest, the frayed strips of old percale sheets still intact, a cloth cross over my heart. I picked a spot on the ceiling and addressed it.
            “Help. Please.”

            Remarkably, I got a few hours sleep. The green numbers on my clock radio glowed 2:36 when I heard a door open slowly, carefully, somewhere in the house. Inside me, my heart bulged, made my skin feel tight. My eyes stung. Dang it! I need more time! 

            I heaved myself up, the gun case solid against me. I peeked out the window beside my bed. My eyes bridged the seven feet between my house and the Macs.’ I squinted at their Venetian blinds. They formed a solid white wall. I whimpered.

            Nothing stirred outside except the rain that was starting to fall. It had been so long since we’d had rain. A stair creaked and I clenched every part of me. I let go of the box and winced as it thudded against my thighs. I picked it up and shook it close to my ear. Felt and heard the weapon’s weight slide left, then right, inside the box. 
            In the moonlight I focused on the cloth bow and whispered. 
            “Maybe just seeing the gun’ll make him stop. I mean really, I don’t have to kill him. I can just point it at him. Shoot him in the leg if I have to.” The thought of his maroon blood creeping across my beloved pink and green tulip-basket quilt, staining it forever, gave me pause. “Or, I can do what I always do. Roll on my side. Squeeze my eyes shut. Pretend to sleep.”

            I gulped nothing and rapid-blinked tears. Wished tonight was tomorrow. Then it occurred to me: if I don’t stop it this time, the bad thing’ll go on forever and I—

            I gritted my teeth. Balanced the box on my knees, pinched the end of one of the strips. Waited. I focused on my doorknob. The shine of the moon was so bright, surely I’d be able to see the knob twist. Then I'd yank the cloth strip. Flip the latch, fling the box open. Ready, aim—

            I held my hand in front of my face. Even in the half light, I could see my fingers were a blur. Oh, no! What if my gun hand shakes so bad I miss his leg and kill him? Think! What else? What else can I do? I tore at my thumb nail with my teeth. Then I knew. 

          I shoved the gun box off my lap. Tossed back the covers and tiptoe-ran the eight or nine feet to my parents’ bedroom. I barreled through the door and bent over their bed. Pounded the mattress between them.

            “Wake up! Make him stop! Now!”

            As I watched my parents climb out of their separate slumbers, somewhere in the house I heard a door shut slowly, carefully.

~~~

Gracie's eyes never left my face as I told my story. Tears leapt from her chin to her lap where her hands worried a hankie.

            “You did wonderfully, Pet," she said when I finished. She gathered me into her arms and spoke against my shoulder. "I’m so proud of you, so glad for you.”

            I melted against her and wept for what seemed like forever. All the while, she poked through my hair with her age-dry fingers, releasing every tangle.

            “Go home and fetch the box,” she said finally. “We’ll have pie when you get back.”

            After we ate, licked our plates, and put our dishes in the sink, Gracie led the way to the living room. She patted the spot beside her on the sofa.

            “Have a seat,” she said. “Bring the box.”

            After I settled beside her she told me to open it. I tugged at the rag ribbon and drew it away. Undid the little brass latch. When I lifted the lid, I gasped. There was no gun. Instead, there was a glass pie plate and an index card that turned out to be Gracie’s secret recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie. Underneath that was my dresser cloth, the one she said I’d need some day.

            I shut my mouth and faced Gracie, eyes wide. “It’s not a . . . ”

            Gracie nodded, smiled slightly. “I know. Mac came up with the plan. I hoped it might work, prayed it would. Oh, how I prayed. Thank God it did.”

            I held my ribs tight and grinned. “Mac saved me,” I said. “I thought it would be you, but him saving me from beyond the grave? That’s really cool, don’t you think?”   

Black Lungs

I’m dying.  The doctor said it, standing there in the hall with my x-ray films, so it must be true.  Now the kids crouch beside me and talk loud, as if I’m deaf.  Coddle me.  Bring me cases of Ensure.  Their whispers are like buzzing flies when they think I’m asleep.

The grandkids beg me to give up cigarettes.  “So you’ll live longer, Gramps,” they say.  “We want you with us forever.”

They don’t know what it’s like to only have one comfort left in the world.  Well, maybe two.  My easy chair in front of the big screen tv consoles me.  Sometimes.  I bought it with money I won gambling.  They tell me to give that up too.  They probably think I'll blow their inheritance on a slot machine.  What?  Do they think I have piles of gold somewhere?  Ha!

~~~

My oldest boy, his wife hired some gals, not much younger’n me, to come and scrub a lifetime of smoke—mine and hers—off the windows.  I tried to tell ‘em—the kids, the gals--I like it there.  Sometimes I press my hand to the coolness.  This was in her body.  Write her name on the glass with my pointer finger.  This grey veil came out of the mouth she kissed me with.

At night when everyone else on the block is sleeping and I can’t, I go room to room.  Hold onto the walls for support.  I guess I’m looking for her, or a trace of who she was. 

She used to bring me coffee in here, when I shaved.  She’d sit on the commode and giggle when I dabbed her nose with shaving cream.

In here, the kitchen she had me paint the color of butter, she cooked my favorites--country ham, red-eyed gravy, fried potatoes.  Orange peel was the secret ingredient in her strawberry rhubarb pie.  I could polish one off in a day, but she never let me.  No one made stuffed pork chops like my Nancy.  No one.

This was the room where we made love and children.  Every Friday night.  She never had a headache.  Not once.  Her tinyness fit into my hands even though I’m not a big man.  Saturday mornings her face would look rashy—razzed by my whiskery, over and over kisses.  I’d brush her cheeks with my knuckles and apologize with my eyes.  I swear, she could still blush, even at 60.

Four children started out in this corner bedroom.  She called the color, Parakeet Green. Looked more like split pea soup to me.  I can still smell the Lysol she used in the diaper pail.  I hated that sharp scent.  Seemed more angry than clean to me.  If I shut my eyes and don’t move, I can hear her croon, “Rock-a-bye Baby” to each hairless, slate-eyed child.  And that one night?  Crap!  I hate this kind of remembering.  She shook me awake.  I thought her fingernails would go right through my skin. 

“Harry!  Get up!  Something’s wrong!  The baby’s not—“

I dug the grave.  Hardly bigger’n a bread box.  I knew the guys at the cemetery.  They let me go over the hill alone with a shovel, to mutilate the red, West Virginia clay.  I swore out loud.  Took the Lord’s name in vain.  Only once though.  She never let me do it at home.  After awhile, my knees hit the frozen sod.  Crushed the silvered grass.  I hollered at the clouds.

“The child was ours—mine and hers.  Yours too.  Why’d you take her?  Why?”

~~~

After we buried little Elaine, Nancy got out her baptism dress almost every day.  She’d press and press it.  Iron and iron it.  She seemed to think if she got out every last wrinkle, she’d get baby Elaine back, or maybe see her again.  Just one more time.  But that dress was Irish linen, passed down to Nancy from her older sister.  I don’t know much, but I know linen is a pain in the ass to press.

When Nancy went in the hospital, she begged me to keep ironing the dang thing.

“First thing, Harry,” she’d say.  “When you get home, try one more time.  For me.  Please?”

So I’d get it out of the closet in the baby room.  Take it down to the basement and try to get it as smooth as when it left Ireland.  Crazy cloth.  I’d get one wrinkle out and wind up with two more.  There at the end though, I got it perfect.  Made every single line go away.  I hung it on its padded, satin hanger and laid it on the back seat of my Buick.  When I showed her, her face became radiant, like--  Like she was already gone.  Somewhere else. 

I felt my face collapse in on itself.  Oh, no!  What have I done?  I jerked it from the hanger.  Balled it up.  Squeezed it smaller, tighter.  Punched it.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  She tried to yell, but her voice came out sounding like a baby bird’s.  She acted like she was gonna come after me, after the dress, but she couldn’t lift herself more than a couple inches.  Dehydrated as she was, her tears were a flood. 

The doctor called that night, right after I brushed my teeth.  I knew before I answered the phone.  Before I left the hospital really.

~~~

Every Sunday I drive out to the graveyard.  Take her daisies from the fancy new grocery store out that way.  Sometimes I get our little Elaine a sucker.  I unwrap it and stick it in the ground by the bronze Beloved Child marker.  The candy’s always gone the next time I go.

The kids got me some kinda folding chair contraption to take to the cemetery, so I don’t sit on the ground.  My knees lock up these days if I get down low.  Sometimes I do it anyway, ‘cause it feels closer.  To her.  To them.

I don’t smoke when I go to see her.  When she was . . .   There at the end, she made me promise to stop.  It’s the only promise to her I didn’t keep.  The thing is, I want to die.  The living, the young, think dying’s a bad thing.  Not me.  I’m ready right now, this very minute.  So at home, I sit in my easy chair and light up, over and over.  Try to smoke more today than yesterday.  Newsflash, grandkids.  I don’t want to live forever.  The way I see it, the sooner I die, the quicker I’ll be with my two little gals.

The Dead Raiser--Part IV

No one spoke as we walked the five blocks to the graveyard. The night was silent. Almost. I could hear the Dobie Brothers howl, even though they lived two miles away. When we got to the cemetery, we climbed the low stone wall and squatted on the other side. I flipped my flashlight on and pointed it in the direction of Mama’s grave. The beam lit up tons of tiny water particles.

"Got foggy all of a sudden,” Tabby said.

I tried to talk, but nothing came out, so I cleared my throat.

“When we get there, I’ll do my thing. Then we’ll wait and see what happens.”

Tabby looked at Miss Sandy. “Maybe you should say a little prayer for us. For her,” she said.

I tilted my head. For me, or Mama?

Vince nodded.

Miss Sandy stood, Bible tucked under her arm. “Everyone up. Let’s hold hands.”

I stood and turned my flashlight off. Put it in the back pocket of my jeans.

Vince’s hand was sweaty. Miss Sandy’s felt clammy. She lowered her head. We did the same.

“Dear Father God. Your word says where two or more are gathered, you are there. We’re so glad you’re here. I’m kind of freaked out and I’m a grown up, so I’m guessing these kids are scared too. Lord, you know what these kids want, and you know what’s best. That’s what I want. What’s best.”

I started to let go of her hand, but she started talking again.

“And Lord? Please protect us from the evil one. And all the people said—“

Tabby and I knew this part from VBS. “Amen.”

After we dropped hands, everyone just stood there. I figured they were waiting on me.

“Just my light,” I said.

I got it out and flipped it on again. Pointed the beam at our feet. We found the road and followed it to the top of the hill. I looked back at the group and saw Vince pointing.

“There it is,” he said. “There’s Mama’s grave.”

We lined up in front of it. I put my flashlight at my feet. It flickered a few times then died.

I huffed. “Aw, man!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Miss Sandy said.

Vince and Tabby stood to my right. Miss Sandy put her arm around me on my left. I looked at the sky. There was no moon. No light at all now. Miss Sandy squeezed my shoulder.

“Go on,” she said.

I shut my eyes. Hey. Jesus. I guess it’s you I’m talking to. You know what me and Vince want—“

All of a sudden something screamed. Goosebumps exploded on my arms. I opened my eyes and spun around. Couldn’t see a thing. We all huddled together.

"What was that?” Vince said.

“I think it was a cat,” Miss Sandy said. “I'm pretty sure it was.”

I felt her gaze on me. “Keep going, Kat.”

I bowed my head again. Tried to remember where I left off.  Like I was saying, sir. You know what me and Vince want. This is the last time I’ll do this. Promise. And, sir? Just so you know--

My eyes flew open when I heard the first growl. It was low. Guttural. Vince yelled. I heard him hit the ground. Hard. He yelped. I heard thrashing  in the grass.

I stumbled around, my arms straight out in front of me.

“Vince! Where are you?”

“It got me!” he said. “In the chest."

He was crying for real now.  "I think I’m dying.”

I dropped on all fours and started crawling around. Ignored the pain from landing on gravel.

“Vince? Say something!”

The growling never stopped, 'cept for an occasional snap of teeth. And some weird grinding noise. Or is it chewing?

I sat on my heels. “Vince, you gotta talk to me. Otherwise I can’t find you.”

Finally he spoke. His voice sounded weak.  Hopeless.

“I can’t . . . breathe.”

I turned toward his voice.

“Vince! What? What’s got you? Talk to--”

I heard thumps. What? Is he hitting it? My wrist brushed against something. I pulled it back, then reached out again.  Fingers splayed. Touched it. Whatever it was, it felt sleek. Powerful. I screamed when it turned on me. Its exhale smelled like a garden.  Of death.

Waves of heat came at me. Jaws snapped inches from my face. Spit splashed in my eye. I swiped my face with my forearm.  My hands balled into fists.  Stupid, freak! Messing with my little--

I launched myself at the thing. Flailing.  Thrashing. Pounding.

“Get off my little brother, you gosh darned varmint!”

All of a sudden, there was another one.  I heard it.  Behind me. I arched my back to get away.  It snarled.  The vibrations rattled my ribs.

Tabs was yelling now. I finally figured out what she was saying. “Dobies! Kat! It’s the Dobie Brothers!”

And then, quiet. As fast as the fuss started, it was over. I couldn’t hear Vince rolling around anymore. He just whimpered.

A weak light caught my eye. It was my flashlight. On the ground where I'd left it.  It flickered and came back on. I picked it up and aimed it at the group. Everyone was hunkered down, their eyes wide.

“What happened?” I said.

Tabby shushed me. Pointed at Miss Sandy. She stood slowly, holding her Bible up in the air. I followed her gaze. She was staring at the Dobermans. I thought they’d left, but there they were. Not even ten feet away from us. They looked frozen.

When Miss Sandy spoke, hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I’d never heard her talk like that. Her voice was low.  Stern.

"This is the word of God, you hell hounds,” she said. “And I will use it. You and I know it’s sharper than any double-edged sword. It will slice you up.”

My mouth hung open as the dogs cringed and started backing away. Their heads turned at odd angles.  They whined as if they were in pain. I blinked.  They were gone.

I heard Tabby’s breath come out in a rush. “Holy cow!” she said. “That was awesome, Miss Sandy.”

Miss Sandy glanced over at us then up at the sky. “Thank you, Jesus.”

I knelt beside Vince. He clutched his little boy chest.

I brushed hair out of his eyes. “You okay, little buddy?” I said. “Let me see your--”

I bit my lip and pointed the light at him. Shone it on his chest, then face, then legs. Not a scratch. I gently lifted his hands from over his heart. There was no blood. His shirt wasn’t even torn. I looked at Miss Sandy and shook my head.

“There’s nothing,” I said. “No marks or anything.”

She shrugged. “Jesus probably healed him,” she said. “Vince, honey.  Does it hurt?”

Vince pounced his chest with his fingertips. “Nope. Not at all.”

Miss Sandy reached out a hand to help him up. Then she motioned for us to make a circle.

“Okay, then. Where were we?”

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. Again. Wow, Jesus! Sir. That was epic. Now I believe. I mean, I’ve been believing, bit by bit, all week, but after what just happened? I really believe now.

I snuck a look at the sky, grinned, and rolled my fingers. I put my hands back together and bowed my head.

"So. Where was I? Oh, yeah. In case you need reminding, sir, Mama was just 34 when she . . . you know. Don’t you think she should have more—She should have another—“

“Shhh! You’re supposed to be praying.”

I opened my eyes. Tabby’s pointer finger was in front of her lips.

“What?” I said.

“You’re talking out loud.”

“I am?”

Vince gasped. “Look!”

He pointed to Mama’s headstone. A silvery mist covered the dark granite. It seemed as if the night itself had exhaled onto the stone.  My eyes felt like they were drying out, but I didn’t dare blink. A hand, almost see-through, materialized to the right of the monument. It flowed over and wrote something. On Mama’s grave.

No one spoke. None of us moved. I couldn’t hear anyone breathe for what seemed like forever.

Miss Sandy leaned over and whispered in my ear. “It’s like in the book of Daniel.”

“What is?”

“The hand writing.”

“What’s it say?” Vince said. His voice cracked.

“Tetelestai,” Miss Sandy said, after the hand disappeared.

“Te-tell-a-what??” I said. “That’s not English.”

“No,” Miss Sandy said. “It’s Greek.”

“What’s it mean?” I said.

Miss Sandy pulled her jacket closer around her.

“It’s the last thing Jesus said. From the cross. It means, ‘It is finished.’”

I huffed. “What do you mean--” I said. “What does the hand mean, ‘it is finished?’”

“I have no idea. Let’s wait and see if anything . . .”

We sat cross-legged in the grass. We stared at Mama’s grave even though the writing was gone now. I put my head on Miss Sandy’s shoulder. That’s the last thing I remember.


I woke first. I looked around, then tapped Miss Sandy on the leg.

“The sun’s coming up,” I said. “Mama didn’t come. It didn’t work.”

I pinched the inside corners of my eyes. They burned.

Miss Sandy looked down at me. Her face looked like it was melting again.

“I’m sorry, Kat,” she said. “I think . . . maybe Tetelestai meant your dead raising days are over. You know, like they’re finished.”

My voice sounded loud when I finally found it. “But I believed. Really hard. Way more than the other times.”

I stood and put my hands on my hips. I looked at Miss Sandy.  I knew my voice sounded harsh, like she was to blame, but I didn't stop.

“Isn’t that why you said God raised people from the dead? So that folks who don’t believe, would start?”

Miss Sandy stood and came over and put her arm around my waist. “I’m sure you—“

I squirmed out of her grip. “This isn’t fair! I was so—“

Miss Sandy reached for my shoulder. “I know, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I looked down at Tabby. She was focused on the ground in front of her.

I glanced at Vince. Tears ran down his cheeks and polka-dotted his t-shirt.

Miss Sandy brushed the seat of her pants. “Come on, kids,” she said. “I have to get you home.”


Saturday

Tetelestai. That was the first thing I thought when I woke up. I looked over at the clock. It was eleven. I’ve never slept this late.

“Katherine! Vincent! Get down here. Right now! Your breakfast is getting cold! I swear. Getting you two up in the summer is like trying to raise the dead.”

I threw back the covers and ran for the stairs. Vince and I almost collided. He rubbed his eyes and looked at me. Did it again.

I shook my head. “I know what you’re thinking, little buddy,” I said.

“We’re awake.” I poked him in the side. “See? It’s not a dream. It’s a miracle.”

And with that, we tore down the steps.

“Mama!”