"The Trade-Ins" (On Love)
by The Eye-Dancers in Quantum Mechanics and the Metaphysical, Twilight Zone Tags: classics, death, family, life, Love, nostalgia, reading, sci-fi, TV, writing, YA
Mitchell Brant has a problem. Five years have elapsed between the end of The Eye-Dancers and the start of The Singularity Wheel, and numerous life events have taken place in the interim, but for Mitchell, there is still only one girl he longs to be with, one girl who has captured the secret inner chambers of his heart. Heather. The girl he met, five years ago, in the alternate town of Colbyville, the girl from a thousand universes away. His friends tell him to let her go. What's the point of wishing you could be with someone so unattainable, so far away the mind cannot even begin to comprehend the distance?
But logic, practicality, reason cannot cut through. Mitchell thinks of her all the time, imagines she is right there beside him, a smile on her face. He cannot turn off his feelings, tell his soul to forget what it yearns for.
Love is like that.
In a third-season Twilight Zone episode called "The Trade-Ins," a similar dilemma presents itself. John and Marie Holt are an elderly couple–he is 79; she is 74. What's more, Mr. Holt is in declining health, often wracked by intense and ever-increasing bouts of pain. But a new hope exists in the futuristic world where they find themselves. The New Life Corporation shines like a beacon on a cold, dark night.
The New Life Corporation specializes in "youth, new life, rebirth," the salesman at the office, a Mr. Vance, explains to the Holts. They have the technology to switch an elderly person's body, or a sick person's body, with a new body, a body that is "perfect in composition, concept, and construction." All the while, the person who makes this anatomical switch will retain all of their memories, personality, and emotions. As Mr. Vance tells the Holts, even after the switch, physiologically and psychologically they will be exactly the same. The only difference will be that each of them will be placed in a younger body, "in the prime of health." They are told the average life span of a New Life body is 112 years.
And then he shows them the models. All are attractive, in perfect physical condition. But the Holts decide on the bodies of a young couple–a couple that, following the procedure, will be them. Mr. Vance tells them they will have an entire new life before them–they will return to the beginning, in the full flower of youth. Old age will be but a memory.
But then the price comes up. Mr. Vance explains the model couple comes as a package deal of $10,000, surely a bargain, he says, considering all the Holts will gain. Perhaps. The Holts, however, only have $5,000. And Mr. Vance will not accept it as a down payment. There are rules, he says, government-mandated, that require the full payment, up front.
Mr. Vance then pitches a half-deal. "One of you could get it," he says. The $5,000 the Holts have is enough for John or Marie to switch into a youthful, healthy body. Marie encourages John to do it–he will be free of his pain, and she assures him, "I can wait"–until they can scrounge up the remaining $5,000 for her switch.
John does not commit, though. "We can't be separated," he says. "We're no good without each other."
Desperate, his pain worsening, John later locates a back room in a bar, where a high-stakes poker game is under way. He has the $5,000, hoping he can gamble his way to the $10,000 he and his wife would need to acquire new bodies as a couple. But John is out of practice, a naive and woeful poker player. It is only the compassion and empathy of the gamblers he goes up against that saves him. Observing the pain John is in, listening to his story, the gamblers allow him to leave with his $5,000, choosing not to "clean him out," as they assure him they could.
His pain continuing to escalate, John decides to undergo the switch, by himself, with his wife's blessing. "Yes, yes, yes," she tells him, over and over when they return to the New Life Corporation. She wants him to be pain-free, to go through with the procedure.
And when he emerges hours later a young man, running and doing various calithsenics, amazed at how energetic and strong he feels, he joyfully tells Marie, "Do you know what happens now? . . . We'll do everything we haven't been able to do. The big things, the little things, the crazy, illogical things that we were too old, too sick, and too tired to do. Every day is going to be a wedding, every afternoon a reception, and every evening a honeymoon. Marie, my darling, you and I are going to begin to live! We're going to–"
But here, Marie steps away, covers her face with her hands, looks at this strange young man in horror. He is her husband, and yet . . . he is not. Not anymore. Their eyes meet. She is 74. He is 22. They no longer match, no longer a unit, a team, lifetime partners. The procedure has created a gulf between them, unspoken but undeniable. John's eyes are just as wide, just as understanding as his wife's.
Mr. Vance tells John to come with him to sign some papers. They leave. And when, later, John reemerges, he is old again, the young body gone, the tired, pain-riddled body returned.
"Marie, my darling," he says. "If I have to have occasion of pain, so be it. I wouldn't want it any other way, darling."
When she protests, he stops her with a Robert Browning quote she herself had uttered earlier in the episode.
"Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made."
And then they walk off . . . together.
Rod Serling's closing narration sums it up tenderly:
"From Khalil Gibran's The Prophet: 'Love gives not but itself and takes not from itself, love possesses not nor would it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love.' Not a lesson, just a reminder, from all the sentimentalists–in The Twilight Zone."
For a few weeks now, I have been AWOL on WordPress. There is a reason for that. I went back home, to Rochester, New York, the city where I was born, where I grew up. But this time, I went back because someone close to me–so close to me–was, suddenly, near the end. There were endless days in the ICU, walking the long, long hallway, turning the corner, calling in, visiting, hours spent by the bedside, the machines beeping, the respirator pumping air into lungs that could no longer breathe on their own. Then there were funeral preparations, time spent with family, mourning a devastating loss, grieving. Reflecting.
There were tears, so many tears. Tender moments. Heartbreaking moments. Memories. Discussions with doctors and nurses, trying to pry an ounce of hope out of a hopeless situation, seeking some possible path, some new and groundbreaking treatment. But there was none.
And all I could do when it was over was to say–I love you, Mom. I will miss you always.
In the days leading up to this post, I had intended to end it there. But then something happened. Something remarkable.
I returned to my current home in Vermont recently, a day removed from the funeral and after being in Rochester for the better part of two weeks. I had to try to get back into a routine, to go back to work. To live and carry on. But then, first thing the following morning, I noticed something in the basement.
Let me back up. We have a walkout basement. It leads to the garage. Every time I leave the house or come back, I walk through the basement. And in the back corner, there is an old light fixture, a simple naked bulb screwed in to a socket attached to the ceiling. The thing is, last spring, the chain that turns this light on or off became stuck. The light was on, but I couldn't switch it off. I yanked on the chain–too hard. It broke, severed like a mowed grass blade, falling to the concrete floor. There was no way to turn off the light. So I unscrewed it, removed it from the socket, and replaced it with a dead, burnt-out bulb. The socket was "on," but the bulb was a dud, and so it stayed dark.
Until that morning–my first full day back in Vermont following the funeral. When I went down into the basement, I was surprised to see the bulb was lit. It had been dead when I screwed it in last May, had been dark all through the summer, fall, and winter. But now it was on. A dead bulb come to life. An oxidized, broken-apart filament burning brightly. And instantly I knew.
It was a message, a very personal one, from a mother to her son. An assurance. A comfort. A lesson and a reminder.
That of all things, and across all time and space, eternal, bridging dimensions, spanning life and death, gentle but unyielding, conquering the darkness with light, love remains.
Thank you for letting me know, Mom. Thank you for showing me.
And thank you to everyone, as always, for reading.
Nothing in the Dark
06 Aug 2015 50 Comments
by The Eye-Dancers in TV Shows, Twilight Zone Tags: classics, death, fantasy, fear, television, TV, twilight zone, writing, YA
It can be anything, really . . .
A sense of dread at the thought of standing up in front of a room full of strangers and delivering a speech.
A heavy, sickly feeling that grabs on tight and doesn't let go whenever you think of that annual performance review or that interview for a new job.
A sense of doubt so severe, it causes you to sweat and second-guess and procrastinate when confronted with a certain nausea-inducing task.
The list can go on and on, scrolling through the virtual pages of our minds, memories, and backstories.
For Mitchell Brant, it's a sensation of coming up short, a belief that he doesn't quite measure up as is, inspiring him to lie and tell tall tales about himself. For Ryan Swinton, it's the possibility that someone won't laugh at one of his jokes, or that he might inconvenience or upset a friend. For Joe Marma, it's that he will be judged as lacking, second-rate, always finishing behind his older brother in everything he does. And for Marc Kuslanski, it's the frustration of uncertainty, the specter of problems and puzzles he cannot solve, of mysteries he cannot fathom.
Rejection. Disappointment. Failure. Misunderstanding. Heartache. Loss.
We are all afraid of something. We all must wrestle with our own personal ghosts and ghouls, worries and fears.
For Wanda Dunn, an old woman we meet in a third-season Twilight Zone episode titled "Nothing in the Dark," the albatross that weighs her down is made clear from the start.
Wanda Dunn is terrified of death.
The story opens with Wanda holed up in her broken-down tenement, snow falling outside her windows. She spies someone on the step just beyond her door–a young man in uniform. She cowers in a corner, fearful of being seen. And then a whistle blows, a gunshot rings out, and the man falls.
Reluctantly, Wanda opens her door, just enough to peek outside. The man (played by a twentysomething Robert Redford) is lying in the snow.
He pleads to her, says he's a police officer and that he's been shot and needs help.
"You're lying," the old woman says. "Why can't you leave me alone? I know who you are. I know what you are."
It is here that Rod Serling provides the opening narration of the episode. In the voice-over, he tells us that Wanda Dunn thinks the man outside is, in actuality, Mr. Death in disguise.
But the police officer continues his appeal. "Unless you help me," he says, "I'm going to die. I don't think I can move." He tells her his name is Harold Beldon and asks her to call a hospital.
She tells him she has no telephone, and cannot call anyone.
When he asks if he can come inside, out of the cold, she balks. "I'd have to unlock the door," she says. "I can't do that. I don't want to die. I know who you are."
He grimaces, clearly in pain, and tells her as much.
Eventually, and grudgingly, she opens the door and lets Officer Harold Beldon into her home . . .
Later, we see her tending to him, as he lies in a bed. She brews him some tea, not as afraid of him now, apparently comforted by the belief that he is who he says he is–just a police officer injured in the line of duty, and not the angel of death come to snatch her away.
As they talk, we learn that Wanda Dunn lives alone. There are no neighbors. They've all moved away. And she can't open the door, seek out a telephone to call a doctor, even if there still were a neighbor.
"I can't let him in," she says.
"Mr. Death . . ." Officer Harold Beldon replies, catching on.
"I know he's out there," Wanda says. "He's trying to get in. He comes to the door and knocks. He begs me to let him in. Last week he said he came from the gas company. Oh, he's clever. After that, he claimed to be a contractor hired by the city." He'd told her the building had been condemned and she had to leave. But "I kept the door locked, and he went away."
The officer objects, pointing out that people all over the world die every day. How can one man, a single Mr. Death, be in all those places at once?
She says she doesn't know, but she has seen him before. Every time someone she knew died, he was there. She admits, others don't seem to see him, but she thinks she does because she's old, and because her "time is coming."
"I could see clearer than younger people could," she says. And yet–his face is always different. She can never be sure it's him at first glance, and that's why she hides, shuts herself in, not allowing herself to venture outside.
"How can you live like this?" Officer Beldon asks.
To which she responds, "But if I don't live like this, I won't live at all. If I let down, even for a moment, he'll get in."
Suddenly there's a knock. She doesn't want to answer, but the officer urges her to. She opens the door a crack. A burly workman is there.
"I'm sorry, lady," he says, "but I've got my orders. I can't fool around any longer."
The man forces his way in, and Wanda Dunn is certain it's Mr. Death.
The man assures her he's just a worker arriving to warn her that she needs to move out immediately. His crew is set to begin demolishing the tenement in one hour's time.
"I'm surprised anyone still lives here," he says. Hasn't she read the notices, opened her mail? It's an old building, he explains, dangerous. It's got to come down.
"That's life, lady," he goes on. "People get the idea I'm some sort of destroyer . . . I just clear the ground so other people can build . . . It's just the way things are . . . Old animals die, and young ones take their places. Even people step aside when it's time."
"I won't," she says, and implores Officer Beldon to help, explain to the man that she can't leave. But the man asks who she's talking to. There isn't anyone else in the room but the two of them.
Pressed for time, ready to coordinate the demolition, the workman leaves, again issuing a warning that she needs to leave the building immediately.
But Wanda Dunn is no longer concerned about the workman or the tenement.
"He didn't see you," she says to the officer when they are once again alone. Officer Beldon tells her to look in the mirror. When she does, she can only see herself. The police officer has no reflection.
Finally realizing what has happened, Wanda exclaims, "You tricked me! It was you all the time! But why? You could've taken me anytime. You were nice. You made me trust you."
He gets out of bed, asks, "Am I really so bad?" And tells her she's not afraid of him, of death, but of the unknown. "Don't be afraid," he says. "The running's over. It's time to rest."
He offers her his hand.
"I don't want to die," she says.
But he encourages her, softly, gently, and they touch.
"You see?" Mr. Death says with a smile. "No shock. No engulfment. No tearing asunder. What you feared would come like an explosion . . . is like a whisper. What you thought was the end . . . is the beginning."
"When will it happen?" she wants to know. "When will we go?"
But they already have. He tells her to look at the bed. She sees herself lying there, lifeless.
Understanding at last, fearing no longer, she smiles, and, arm in arm, they walk out the door.
In the closing narration, Rod Serling sums it up like this:
"There was an old woman who lived in a room and, like all of us, was frightened of the dark, but who discovered in a minute last fragment of her life, that there was nothing in the dark that wasn't there when the lights were on."
A Passage for Trumpet
by The Eye-Dancers in Twilight Zone Tags: beauty, classics, death, fantasy, ghosts, inspiration, life, music, trumpet, TV, twilight zone, writing
We've all been there, at one time or another. Everything seems to be going wrong, the world, gray, dark, and bare, as if by some perverse design, conspiring against us and keeping us down.
The main characters in The Eye-Dancers all struggle with this as well, feeling that life, in one way or another, has dealt them a bad hand, that they have too many obstacles to overcome, too many pitfalls littered along their path. Over the course of the novel, however, they must learn to view things differently. Their very survival depends on it.
So does Joey Crown's. In a first-season Twilight Zone episode titled "A Passage for Trumpet," Crown, a down-on-his-luck trumpet player, is at the very end of his frayed and thinning rope.
As the story begins, we see Crown in an alley behind a club, listening to the performers inside, wishing he could join them.
"Joey Crown, musician with an odd, intense face," Rod Serling tells us in a voice-over, "whose life is a quest for impossible things like flowers in concrete or like trying to pluck a note of music out of the air and put it under glass to treasure."
Indeed, this is a man with a keen sense of beauty, of the delicate, silk-like strands that hold life together, but who has been battered and shaken by circumstance and a string of bad choices.
As he loiters in the alley, the club manager steps outside and sees him. It is clear the men know each other. Crown has played at the club before.
"I brought along my baby," Crown says, flashing his trumpet. "I thought you might need somebody with a horn."
"Not tonight," the manager says. "Last time you played trumpet for me, you loused it up. I had to share you with a bottle."
Crown assures him he's sober now, that he's "forgotten what the stuff tastes like." But when he picks up his case, he knocks over a hidden bottle of whiskey. It falls to the ground and shatters.
"Why, Joey, why?" the club manager asks. "You had it!" Why has he thrown it all away–the talent, the career–with alcohol? Why did he always have to get drunk?
Looking the manager in the eye, Crown says, "Because I'm sad. Because I'm nothin'. Because I'll live and die in a crumby one-roomer with dirty walls and cracked pipes . . . I don't even have a girl. . . . But when I'm drunk–oh, when I'm drunk, boy, I don't see the dirty walls or the cracked pipes. I don't know the clock's goin', that the hours are goin' by . . . 'cause then I'm Gabriel. I'm Gabriel with the golden horn. And when I put it to my lips, it comes out jewels. It comes out a symphony. It comes out the smell of fresh flowers in summer. It comes out beauty. Beauty."
He turns, ready to leave. "When I'm drunk," he says. "Only when I'm drunk." He walks off, tosses his case aside in disgust.
"Man, I'm tired of hangin' around," he says to nobody in particular.
The next morning, Crown sells his trumpet at a pawnshop. Reluctantly, he accepts the proprietor's offer of $8.50. Later, he returns, half-drunk, and sees the proprietor placing his trumpet in the window with a price tag of $25. Crown mashes his face against the glass and taps.
"Don't worry, I ain't gonna get that price," the pawnshop owner shouts through the window. "I got an overhead, too, you know. Guys like you, you don't understand that. What kind of responsibilities someone like you got, huh? Nothin'. Nothin' at all!"
Crown turns away from the window. "Yeah," says. "Nothin'. Nothin' at all. No responsibilities. No nothin'."
Without hesitating, Crown steps off the sidewalk, in front of a passing truck. A woman nearby shrieks, Crown falls to the pavement, not moving, not breathing.
The screen fades to black.
Night has fallen, and Crown stirs, gets up. As he soon discovers, though, things are not as they were. He talks to a policeman, who ignores him. He asks a man for a light, but he ignores him. He approaches a woman working at a ticket booth, asks her for a light, and she ignores him, too. It is as if he doesn't exist.
"Look at me!" he screams at her. But she doesn't.
Finally, he concludes that he's dead, his suicide attempt a success. That's why no one can see or hear him.
He returns to the alley he visited the previous night, behind the club. From somewhere further up the alley, he hears someone playing the trumpet. He seeks out the source, intrigued.
"Don't stop," he says, when the trumpet player looks at him. "It's comin' out beautiful."
"Thanks," the man with the trumpet replies.
Crown is shocked he can hear him, see him, when nobody else has been able to. "You're a ghost, too, huh?" he says, explaining that he stepped in front of a truck earlier and must be dead.
The man offers Crown his trumpet. "Wanna blow on this awhile, Joey?" he asks.
Again Crown is taken aback. How does this stranger know his name?
The man smiles. "I know who you are. You play a nice trumpet. I know. I'm an expert on trumpets."
After Crown plays a short tune, the man tells him he isn't dead. Crown protests. What about all those people who didn't see or hear him?
The stranger tells Crown it is they who are dead. "They're the ghosts, Joey, they just don't know it yet, that's all. . . . You're the one that's alive." He explains that Crown is in a kind of limbo, "neither here nor there." He is "in the middle, between the two. The real and the shadow. Which do you prefer, Joey?"
Crown says maybe he just forgot how much there was for him, about the music in his horn and how nice it sounded. "Yeah," he says. "Somewhere along the line, I just forgot all the good things. That's what happened, you know. I just forgot."
The mysterious stranger tells Crown there is still time. He still has a choice . . .
Crown, animated, without a shred of doubt, says if there's a choice, then, "I wanna go back!"
The man pats Crown on the shoulder. "All right," he says. "You go back. But, Joey, no more stepping off curves. You take what you get and you live with it. Sometimes it's sweet frosting, nice gravy. Sometimes it's sour and goes down hard, but you live with it, Joey. It's a nice talent you got. To make music. Move people. Make 'em wanna laugh. Make 'em wanna cry. Make 'em tap their feet. Make 'em wanna dance. That's an exceptional talent, Joey. Don't waste it."
He walks away, but Crown shouts after him. "I never got your name!"
"Call me Gabe," the stranger says. "Short for Gabriel." He smiles again, disappears into the night.
Suddenly, Crown is returned to that morning, stepping in front of the truck. The same woman screams. Crown falls to the pavement, but he immediately gets up, only grazed. The driver of the truck, worried, jumps out of the vehicle and hands Crown a handful of bills, hoping that will persuade him to keep the doctors and insurance companies out of it. "Be a nice guy, huh, pal?" he says.
Crown immediately puts the money to use, buying his old horn back from the pawnshop.
That night, as Crown plays the trumpet while relaxing on the roof of his apartment building, a young woman approaches. She tells him he plays beautifully, and introduces herself. She is new to the city, just moved in. "I've never even been to New York before," she says.
"It's not such a bad town," Crown says. "You'll like it here."
The woman smiles, asks him if he might be willing to show her some of the sights.
Crown smiles in wonderment. "Me?" he says. And then, his confidence boosted, his spirits lifted as high as they've been in ages, he excitedly tells her all the places they can visit.
When we are adrift, lost at sea, a thousand miles from the nearest coastline, even then, there is still a song to be sung, lyrics to compose, and a life to live.
Perhaps Rod Serling says it best, in the episode's closing narration . . .
"Joey Crown, who makes music, and who discovered something about life; that it can be rich and rewarding and full of beauty, just like the music he played, if a person would only pause to look and to listen . . ."
Short Story — "Cemetery"
18 Oct 2013 37 Comments
by The Eye-Dancers in Short Stories Tags: cemeteries, children, death, fiction, life, literary, literature, Love, mainstream, parenting, short stories, short story, writing
There are moments in The Eye-Dancers when the main characters, particularly Ryan Swinton, wrestle with the concept of growing up. Ryan especially sometimes wishes things could be simpler again, the way they used to be when he was seven, his little brother Tyler's age. But now, on the cusp of being a teenager, he feels the pressure to fit in, to make people laugh at his jokes, to be liked. He is all too aware that as we grow up, even as things are gained and learned, other things are lost.
"Cemetery" is a short story I wrote several years ago. And while the point-of-view character is a grown man, the story does also deal with childhood, and the things we love, learn, and lose.
I hope you will enjoy "Cemetery" . . .
Copyright 2013 by Michael S. Fedison
The squirrel was crushed, stuck to the pavement as if glued. It had been run over so many times, it was now flat, looking like a two-dimensional cutout from a children's coloring book. In the distance, Jerry heard another car approaching.
"C'mon, Bak," he said. "We better get out of the road for a minute."
He took his daughter by the hand and retreated to the base of their driveway. The car sped past, leaving a plume of dry dust in its wake. A truck carrying loose earth had come through a little while ago, dropping some of its load as it went.
"He didn't go over the squirrel, too, did he, Daddy?" Bak asked, peering through the dust. Hot June sunshine struck her in the face.
Jerry looked at her and smiled. Bak. Seven years old. His pride and joy. She was so sweet, she had to be Bak. They had named her Jennifer, but that wouldn't do. She was too special for that. Jerry had thought about the sweetest thing he knew, and, after spending more time on the subject than he would admit, came up with baklava, his favorite dessert. Ever since, his little girl was Bak.
"I don't know, Bak," he said. "I think he might have missed it."
They went back into the road. Bak bent down over the squirrel.
"Did it hurt, Daddy?" she asked. "Did getting flat hurt the squirrel?"
"Probably not," Jerry said. "It would've been so fast, so instantaneous, probably not."
Bak squinted up at him. "What's insta-taneous mean?"
He snapped his fingers. "Like that," he said, and snapped them again.
Bak nodded and looked solemnly at the squirrel.
"Can you take him out of the street, Daddy?" she asked.
"Sure, honey, I guess so, but why?"
"So we can bury him. Like they did with Mommy."
Jerry nodded. Yes, they could bury the squirrel.
Lisa had been twenty-eight. They had just moved into a small apartment, with leaky faucets, too many cockroaches, and a heating system that was, to put it mildly, temperamental. But they tried to focus on tomorrow. He had recently been promoted at work. They would live in this apartment for a while (it came cheap, if nothing else) and then they'd buy a home in the country, where they would grow a garden, play Frisbee, and sled down the hills made slippery and white with snow. They'd have two more children, maybe three, and they'd have their cat, Mitsie, whom they had adopted from the Humane Society shortly after their wedding. They would live well, they would watch their children mature, and they would grow old together. Once the kids all left, it would be just the two of them again, their hair graying, their faces wrinkling, their eyesight clouding over with age. They'd have each other, though, and they would be happy.
But on a mild, overcast winter evening, when Bak was just two, Lisa died. She was sitting at the table eating supper, listening to Jerry as he shared his day with her. As he was talking about a difficult co-worker ("He never lets me get a word in! He's just looking for a fight, I know it, and, you know, I just might give it to him!"), she suddenly grabbed her head, gasped, and fell off her chair.
"Lisa?" he asked, his voice so soft, so weak in his ears. "Lisa?" He couldn't grasp what he had just seen.
Time seemed to have stopped. Everything was locked in place, as if the earth had fallen out of orbit and was floating in the cold depths of space, farther and farther away from the sun, a frozen shell of a world.
He stood up on wobbly legs, looked at the floor. She was lying there on her back, perfectly still, her mouth open, her eyes staring up at him. They're not blinking, he thought. Her eyes. Not blinking. Time was no longer stopped; it moved mercilessly on—tick tock, tick tock, the clock over the sink mocked—and Jerry wished he could grab that clock, turn its hands back three minutes, and start over.
He went to his wife, got on his knees, calling her name, over and over, louder and louder. She didn't answer, didn't stir. Swallowing, blinking, he checked her pulse. There wasn't one. What was going on? How could this be? He was just talking to her about Chuck at work. He had just complimented her on the lasagna she'd made. They were going to stay up late after putting Bak to bed and watch Notorious, an old Cary Grant-Ingrid Bergman movie. She loved Cary Grant. They were going to eat popcorn, drink hot chocolate, and wrap themselves in a crocheted blanket his mother had made for them as a wedding present.
He shook her, gently at first, then more frantic, hoping it would revive her. It didn't. He called 911, barely able to get the words out. The ambulence arrived within minutes, waking up Bak. She had played hard that day and was tired, taking a nap in her room.
No. It was the only word that came to mind, the only thing he could think. No.
Later, an autopsy revealed that Lisa had died of a ruptured brain aneurysm. No one knew she had been living with an aneurysm, all those years. She had never had any significant problems—a few migraines every now and again, but nothing that would have caused any alarm. She died quickly, instantaneously, the doctor told him. She probably didn't even know it happened. By the time she had hit the floor, she was gone.
Jerry hadn't eaten lasagna since.
During a break in the traffic, he scraped under the squirrel with an old putty knife. He knew he needed to work fast, as they were on the main road, and hundreds of cars and trucks whipped past every day, going sixty, often seventy, miles per hour. He and Bak had just moved here three days ago. Lisa would have loved it, the traffic notwithstanding. It was an old cape, and it needed a lot of work it was true, but the land! Ten acres of meadow and woods, with hills and perennials, a fully-stocked fishing pond, an old barn that had been converted into a garage, a garden shed, and maple trees near the house that would turn red and gold in the fall.
He finally pried the squirrel loose from the pavement. For some reason, its crushed, flattened body brought to mind the pressed leaf collection Lisa used to keep. Elm leaves, maple leaves, poplar leaves, every leaf she could get her hands on. She would gather them in the fall, after they had turned color, press them, and place them in a photo album, where they would stay, preserved, like trinkets in a time capsule.
He balanced the remains of the squirrel on the fat blade of the putty knife and walked to the driveway, where Bak waited.
"You know where you want to bury him?" he asked her.
"Then lead the way, Bak," he said.
She led him to a shady corner of the yard, nestled between two maples and backing up against a stand of sumac and wild burdock, and the remnants of an old stone wall that had deteriorated into a state of disrepair.
"Here," she said. "This'll be our cemetery."
"Our cemetery?"
"He won't be the only one, will he?" She pointed at the dead squirrel.
"No," Jerry said. "No, Bak. He won't be. A lot of animals will get hit in that road, I'm afraid."
"Then this is the place we'll bury them," Bak said.
This was more than he had bargained for. One squirrel, sure. But every animal that got hit in front of their home? That would add up, and all too quickly. In the road, an eighteen-wheeler sped by, adding emphasis. But Jerry figured it was okay. They had ten acres, after all. What was one small parcel tucked away in a corner?
"Okay," he said. "We'll need to prepare it then. Let me dig all the grass up over here and make this a real plot. Then, when I'm done with that, you can bury this squirrel. How's that sound, Bak?"
"Will you make the cemetery big enough?" she asked skeptically.
Smiling, Jerry said, "It'll be the biggest one of its kind in all the county." Then, thinking it might be the only one of its kind anywhere, Jerry expanded that. "It'll be the biggest one in the whole state, Bak."
"I hope," was all she said.
Jerry placed the putty knife on the ground, went to the garden shed, and grabbed a spade that had been left behind by the previous owner. He hurried back to the corner Bak had chosen for the cemetery, and, under her watchful eye, began to dig.
When he was finished, he gave Bak a small potting shovel, which she used to dig a hole. Jerry reached for the squirrel, but Bak stopped him.
"Let me do it, Daddy," she said.
"Okay, Bak."
She gently picked up the squirrel and placed it in the hole. Then she folded her hands and bowed her head.
"Bak?" Jerry said.
"I'm praying for him, Daddy," she said. "You pray, too."
Feeling a little silly, Jerry knelt down and prayed with his daughter over the remains of the nameless squirrel. But it didn't remain nameless for long.
"He's Charlie," Bak said.
"Who? The squirrel?"
"Uh-huh. His name is Charlie." As she spoke, she covered the squirrel with the soft earth she had dug, the calligraphy of her handprints like a personal signature of her work. When she was finished, she stood up, examining the makeshift grave.
"We need a marker now," she said.
Jerry hadn't thought of that. But there were small pieces of pine wood in the shed. They could use one of those.
"This'll be okay, I guess," she said once he'd returned with a piece of the wood. It was short and wide, easy to write on. And Bak wanted to write on it.
"But it'll wash off, honey," he said. "If the rain doesn't do it, the snow sure will."
"Then cut letters in it," she said. "Can't you cut them in it, Daddy, like they do at Mommy's cemetery?"
Jerry had a Bowie knife his father had given to him when he was fifteen. It was the first time his dad had given him a grown-up present; he remembered it well. The Bowie knife's tip would do the trick.
She wanted him to engrave the following: "Here lies Charlie. He was just a squirrel. But a good one." He finished quickly, and the grave was complete. They went to the edge of their new cemetery and looked at it. Jerry thought the single wooden marker looked lonesome, but he knew it wouldn't be for long. The road would take care of that.
"Why did you want to bury him, Bak?" he asked her.
She squinted up at him. Sunshine filtered through the maple trees, kissing her long red hair and making it look two shades lighter than it was.
"Charlie musta had a family," she said. "He woulda had a mommy and a daddy, maybe even a wife. They miss him now, I guess. Like you miss Mommy. And you go visit her in the cemetery, so maybe Charlie's family will visit him here, too. Maybe his friends will come. Like Mommy's."
She looked at the single grave again, using her hand to shield the sun from her eyes.
Jerry wanted to say something, to respond to his daughter in some way, but she had rendered him speechless.
Early the next morning, they stood by Lisa's grave. The cemetery was gloomy, inhabited by hundreds of pine, oak, and maple trees, which stood over the tombstones like watchful sentries. It was windy this morning, and cloudy, a chill in the air that would have seemed inconceivable in yesterday's hot sunshine. Bak had a hooded jacket on and Jerry a wool sweater that Lisa had bought for him as a birthday gift when they had been engaged.
He watered the flowers next to her grave. He had planted them years ago—purple and pink peonies—and he was pleased that they came back and bloomed every spring.
"Those are pretty flowers," Bak said.
"Thanks. Peonies were your mom's favorite."
They were silent then, listening to the voices in the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the echoes of the good people laid to rest here. Jerry got on his knees and touched the gravestone, gently, gently. He picked off a piece of moss that had gathered at the base.
"Daddy?"
"What color were Mommy's eyes?"
"Blue, like yours, like the clear sky in October when the humidity's gone, and you can look up forever." He closed his eyes, fought back the tears. Now wasn't the time, not here, not in front of Bak.
"Mommy musta been so nice," Bak said. "I wish I'da known her."
"Me, too, Bak. You would've loved your mommy."
"Do you think you'll get married again, Daddy? And get a new mommy for me? Like Chrissy Pitkin? Her Daddy got married again, and she doesn't like her new mommy much."
"No, Bak," he said. "I don't think that'll happen. I could never marry anyone else. Your mom was the only one for me. I hope you haven't been pining for a new mom."
"What's pining?" she asked.
"Wanting, wishing for."
"Oh. No. I guess not. I was just wonderin'. Chrissy Pitkin acts like having a second mom is the pits."
Jerry stood up and stroked his daughter's hair. "C'mon, Bak, let's go. We'll stop at McDonalds on the way." He always stopped at McDonalds with Bak on the way back from the cemetery. He figured she deserved a treat after visiting such a solemn place.
"Egg McMuffin?" she said. "Hash brown?"
"You bet," he said, and a tear did fall then, but he wiped it away before she could see.
That evening, Jerry on the sofa, Bak on his lap, she said, "It makes you sad to go visit Mommy at the cemetery, doesn't it?"
"I guess," he said. "But not really any more than I already am, Bak. I miss your mommy more than you can know. Always. When I'm at her grave, I guess it's harder to block it out. My missing her just hits me like a big wave in the ocean—it just swallows me up. I try to think of other things a lot, 'cause it hurts to think of your mom, but when I'm there, well . . ."
Bak nodded and buried her face in his neck. Jerry squeezed her tight, thankful he didn't have an office job anymore, didn't have a daily commute that would take him away from Bak ten hours a day. His company let him work from home now. That was one of the reasons he felt it was a good time to move out to the country.
"You won't die, Daddy, will you, and make me hafta visit you at the cemetery?" she said, his neck muffling her words.
"Not any time soon, Bak," he said, grimacing. That's what Lisa would have said the day she died, too, if someone had asked her that question.
"I . . ." Her voice trailed off, and he knew she had fallen asleep. Slowly, carefully, he got up and carried her to bed. When he tucked her in, she woke up.
"Daddy, did anyone visit Charlie today?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen anyone."
"I hope they do. I hope they know where he is, that he's here, in our cemetery. So they can visit."
"I hope so, too," he said, and kissed her forehead. "Good night, Bak."
"G'night, Daddy."
He turned to leave the room.
"Yes, Bak?"
"Why did Mommy hafta die? Why do the animals get hit in the fast road?"
"I don't know," he said. He wished he could say something to help her understand, help her make sense of it all, but he couldn't. "Go to sleep, Bak. Rest."
When he didn't hear a reply, he left.
Later that week, they buried a chipmunk. It was lying at the foot of their driveway, its body grotesquely bent and broken. The day after that, another squirrel was flattened, welded to the road. Jerry had a tougher time picking this squirrel's remains off of the hot pavement than he had the first one. Three days after that, another chipmunk. It remained that way throughout the summer, and by the first week of September, twenty-five small wooden graves stood in their cemetery, the markers set in two straight lines and half of a third. It was the day before school started, and Bak would be attending a different one this year. She was scared, but excited, too.
He watched as she dug the hole for the twenty-sixth grave. Beside her lay a crushed rock dove, run over that morning by a pickup truck. Jerry had seen it happen, had heard the sick thud on impact, and was grateful Bak had been in the house. He wondered if the pickup driver even knew he had killed a bird.
She lovingly placed the dove in the hole, then covered it with the loose dirt she had unearthed.
"What's his name, Bak?" Jerry asked, Bowie knife and wooden grave marker in hand.
"Johnny. Johnny Dove. 'A good friend to all,' that's what you should cut into it. 'Cause he looks like a good friend, so I'm sure he was."
Jerry carved the words into the wood, then handed the marker to Bak. She stuck it into the earth, just behind the spot where the bird lay. This was easy for her because Jerry had sawed the bottom of the wood, shaping it into a sharp point. He had been doing that to all of the markers since the middle of July.
Bak knelt down to pray, and asked Jerry to join her. He played the part, but he wasn't praying. He was observing, looking at his solemn daughter as she clasped her hands together, closed her eyes tightly shut, and mouthed a silent prayer for the dead rock dove. He swallowed hard, and suddenly felt a terrible sense of loss. He had been mourning Lisa for years, but now he was mourning his daughter, the little girl she was but wouldn't remain. He wondered how much longer she would dig miniature graves for animals killed in the road. He wondered how much longer she would want him to carve the names she gave them into blocks of wood and memorialize them in this small corner plot, shaded by the maple trees just now showing a hint of the color show to come. He wondered when the time might arrive when she would look at the wooden markers and shake her head, proclaiming what a silly fool she had been, what a dumb little kid. He wondered how she might react to seeing a dead animal in the road when she was fifteen. Would she walk by with some girlfriends, say "yuck," and then without a second thought, go on talking about boys and clothes and the cute math teacher? He hoped not, but it was a faint hope.
Bak unclasped her hands, opened her eyes, and stood up.
"I hope you get a visitor, Johnny Dove," she said. "I hope someone comes here, someone who knew you."
Jerry put a hand on her shoulder. "C'mon, Bak," he said. "We should go in and get ready for supper."
She put her hand in his, and they walked to the house.
"I hope you stay this way forever, Bak," he said, as they went in through the back door. "Like a little girl who thinks a dead rock dove deserves a grave."
"Johnny Dove," she said. "Not just any old dove. Johnny Dove."
"Sure," he said. "Sorry, Bak."
He squeezed her hand, tightly but gently.
"Whatcha makin', Daddy?" she asked.
"How about hot dogs and tater tots?"
"Yum!" She smacked her lips and smiled. "Hurry!"
He hugged her, then got about to making the supper. Later, as they ate, as Bak dunked her tater tots in ketchup and took bites from the hot dog that were too big for her, they talked–about graves and squirrels, speeding cars and rock doves. And about the new school year that would start tomorrow, the students she would meet, the friends she would make, the new page that was about to be turned.