Burnt-down coals in the firebox, but the nearest stove eye is still hot to touch. The warming oven holds a plate piled with cooked beans and rice, slices of some kind of deep-gold squash.
She’s coming back! She left herself a meal!
“Bitch went to Elkmont to buy fucking food.”
He flings his arms out, head back, grins wide at the ceiling.
Stops.
She might still be gone for good. Just up and left, like on a whim or something. Anyhow, she got away without him knowing. Can do it again, just hike out to her little pissant car, crank it up, take off. Someday soon she’ll go for good. If not today, someday.
Or maybe not.
Back in the front room, he sits down at his table, picks up her little notebook. Her handwriting’s hard to read, like it’s some foreign language that’s a lot like English. Name: Katherine Reid. “Ka-ther-ine.” He says it out loud, sounds it out, the Dead Lady’s name. Ka-ther-ine. All wrong for her. She wants a simple name. Rose, like his Memaw. Blanche, his mama’s name. “Age: 38,” same age his mama’d be. He presses the open notebook hard against his face. It smells of the cabin and the wood in his table. Smells, too, of her hands, her skin.
“Ka-ther-ine.”
In the corner, a shaft of sunlight falls across her sleeping bag. He goes to it, his bare feet on the slate floor make no sound. Kneels on the canvas, picks up her nightgown, buries his face in it. Ka-ther-ine. Keeps hold of it, traces the throat of the sleeping bag with his right index finger, stops at the zipper, works it slowly down till there is room for someone, Danny, to slide in. He zips himself inside, then curls up like a baby, clutches her thin cotton nightgown close. Her clean-washed smell is all around him till he wants to fucking weep.
Get up, Danny. You can’t feel anything for them. You’re nothing but a ghost that watches. Go put your clothes back on. Get your ass out of here. Lay her fucking nightgown down and back away.
Before he leaves, he takes a small stone from his pocket. A white oval with one deep ochre vein that sometimes means there’s gold nearby. He got it at the pond his first day in the Old Man’s house, kept it. Now he pushes it gently into the ground beside the porch step, close to her but where she’ll never find it. He has deliberately violated one more of the cardinal rules of watching: Leave nothing of yourself behind.
He laces his boots, sets out in a run, shocked back into what he has to do. Runs through the woods to where her car should be, thenon. How could she leave and him not know? He knows how she fucking breathes, for Chrissake. Running along her tire tracks now, his head large as a pumpkin, aching how it used to when some shit exploded right above him in the air. Then there’s nothing, not pain nor any sound except the wind, no thought but words that mark the cadence of his running.
Fuck you, dumb whore, fuck you
. And whatever things his eyes see do not register. His mind’s gone to some other running long ago.
Him running home from his first day of school on chubby six-year-old legs, Memaw at the door. “Your mama’s gone.” Him, sure she’s just walked into town, starts in running to catch up. Only, his Memaw ran faster, caught him, lifted him high in her old arms, his little legs still churning.
“She couldn’t stand not being with your daddy.” That was all she said.
He didn’t cry, not even at the funeral. Because the coffin had its lid on and he didn’t know it was his mama in there till days after.
Fuck you, dumb whore
. Runs like an animal, not making any nonessential sounds.
Stops, finally, at the “Elkmont, pop. 4,017” sign to get his breath. Strolls along Main Street trying to look normal. Stares up at the sky, down at the street—he’ll blow it if he meets somebody’s eyes, they’ll see him for the spook he is. Just walk around the courthouse square, past the gun-colored parking meters. And, yes, there it is, her dumbass little car. Yellow.
She’s coming back! She left herself a meal!
“Bitch went to Elkmont to buy fucking food.”
He flings his arms out, head back, grins wide at the ceiling.
Stops.
She might still be gone for good. Just up and left, like on a whim or something. Anyhow, she got away without him knowing. Can do it again, just hike out to her little pissant car, crank it up, take off. Someday soon she’ll go for good. If not today, someday.
Or maybe not.
Back in the front room, he sits down at his table, picks up her little notebook. Her handwriting’s hard to read, like it’s some foreign language that’s a lot like English. Name: Katherine Reid. “Ka-ther-ine.” He says it out loud, sounds it out, the Dead Lady’s name. Ka-ther-ine. All wrong for her. She wants a simple name. Rose, like his Memaw. Blanche, his mama’s name. “Age: 38,” same age his mama’d be. He presses the open notebook hard against his face. It smells of the cabin and the wood in his table. Smells, too, of her hands, her skin.
“Ka-ther-ine.”
In the corner, a shaft of sunlight falls across her sleeping bag. He goes to it, his bare feet on the slate floor make no sound. Kneels on the canvas, picks up her nightgown, buries his face in it. Ka-ther-ine. Keeps hold of it, traces the throat of the sleeping bag with his right index finger, stops at the zipper, works it slowly down till there is room for someone, Danny, to slide in. He zips himself inside, then curls up like a baby, clutches her thin cotton nightgown close. Her clean-washed smell is all around him till he wants to fucking weep.
Get up, Danny. You can’t feel anything for them. You’re nothing but a ghost that watches. Go put your clothes back on. Get your ass out of here. Lay her fucking nightgown down and back away.
Before he leaves, he takes a small stone from his pocket. A white oval with one deep ochre vein that sometimes means there’s gold nearby. He got it at the pond his first day in the Old Man’s house, kept it. Now he pushes it gently into the ground beside the porch step, close to her but where she’ll never find it. He has deliberately violated one more of the cardinal rules of watching: Leave nothing of yourself behind.
He laces his boots, sets out in a run, shocked back into what he has to do. Runs through the woods to where her car should be, thenon. How could she leave and him not know? He knows how she fucking breathes, for Chrissake. Running along her tire tracks now, his head large as a pumpkin, aching how it used to when some shit exploded right above him in the air. Then there’s nothing, not pain nor any sound except the wind, no thought but words that mark the cadence of his running.
Fuck you, dumb whore, fuck you
. And whatever things his eyes see do not register. His mind’s gone to some other running long ago.
Him running home from his first day of school on chubby six-year-old legs, Memaw at the door. “Your mama’s gone.” Him, sure she’s just walked into town, starts in running to catch up. Only, his Memaw ran faster, caught him, lifted him high in her old arms, his little legs still churning.
“She couldn’t stand not being with your daddy.” That was all she said.
He didn’t cry, not even at the funeral. Because the coffin had its lid on and he didn’t know it was his mama in there till days after.
Fuck you, dumb whore
. Runs like an animal, not making any nonessential sounds.
Stops, finally, at the “Elkmont, pop. 4,017” sign to get his breath. Strolls along Main Street trying to look normal. Stares up at the sky, down at the street—he’ll blow it if he meets somebody’s eyes, they’ll see him for the spook he is. Just walk around the courthouse square, past the gun-colored parking meters. And, yes, there it is, her dumbass little car. Yellow.
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