On her way back to the kitchen, she went through her mental checklist. She should have written it all down; she would have been more confident if she had written it all down. What if she forgot a small item? It would ruin everything, and then he would find out and come for her. Beverly shivered, thinking about the river lying in wait just a short walk from her door.
"I'll cheat it." Her voice was a whisper. No need to hex her plan by flouting nature.
In the kitchen she went right to the stove, opening the door to the oven with a handle that dangled downward. She put out the pilot light and turned on all the knobs, releasing the gas at full force. There was the steady whish buzzing in her ears. It took a while for the odor to penetrate her withered senses, but when it did she was joyous.
One last sweep of the room with her eyes, then she retreated to the hallway, where she closed the door and spread the bundled clothes she had waiting across the threshold. Sighing, she turned and continued down the hall to the bedroom. Once there, Beverly sat on the mattress ticking, facing the French doors. She had many hours to wait before . . . She stuttered again, then caught her tongue between her teeth so sharply that the wasted tip fell off.
"Megan," she lisped out. "Megan is coming to dig."
Through the filmy curtains, Beverly was able to see the garden swing, and she knew that under it there lay a shovel. Carl's shovel. How appropriate, she thought. Perhaps it was the same one he had used for her burial. She giggled, and the dried, bitter, flattened end of her tongue pressed against what remained of her teeth.
41 - Intent
Megan couldn't sleep, and Carl never came to bed. At dawn, Megan got out of bed, found the clothes Carl had removed from her the night before, and put them on. In the bathroom Megan splashed cold water on her face, using a corner of the bath towel to dry off.
She wasn't hungry. There was no need to stop at the kitchen, and the door to the study was closed. Carl never had a chance to see her slip by on her way out.
Her eyes hardly blinked as her feet worked their way down to the middle of the path and then into the shrubbery, kicking around until she made contact with the journal. Bending down, Megan picked up the journal, stood, and continued on her way to the rowboat.
After seating herself inside the small boat, Megan rowed out into the middle of the river, laid the oars flat on the bottom of the vessel, and reread the last journal entry. The sun was full in the sky before she again lifted her head and saw that she had drifted downriver. Down to the yellow house. Down to Beverly.
Upon landing, Megan flipped the boat over. Clouds were beginning to darken the sky, and she didn't want the boat to fill with rainwater. Carl had told her that showers frequently came on heavily during the summer months, although they never lasted more than a few hours. The water-soaked wood was dark with a webbing of drips drifting down the sides. She had hidden the oars under the boat. She didn't know why. She experienced the quivery chill of danger. Was it directed at her or someone else? And what was the danger? What harm could occur in these docile woods?
Megan walked up to the house, the journal tucked under one arm. She saw that there was a light shining inside the house. The sky had darkened. When she looked up, she saw a blackness covering the sky to her left. It slinked along, creeping up on what sun was trying to radiate through the white clouds. It would definitely rain, and there was no place that offered cover except the house. Would she finally be driven inside that morgue? The porch was hooded by some cheap, painted boards; she imagined the innumerable cracks that chinked its surface. Briefly she thought about climbing the porch steps and ringing the bell like a normal neighbor, but she wasn't visiting a normal friend. She wasn't even sure that Beverly was a friend.
Megan's steps paced their way to the side of the house, where the garden gate stood closed. Her hand unlatched the catch, and she walked in, swinging the gate closed behind her.
The French doors were shut. Beverly wouldn't have expected her so early. The shovel was still beneath the swing. The hyacinths and roses bloomed together in a merry clash of colors. Her gaze went back to the French doors, reminding her that the drawing of Carl might still lie just beyond the threshold. Should she knock? Would Beverly still be sleeping? Probably not, she thought as she recalled the light that had been shining from the front room of the house. Megan knew she was procrastinating. She needed to read the excerpt from the journal once more.
She sat on the swing. The elm's branches above her would offer less protection from the rain than the cheap, painted pine shading the porch; still, this was where she felt the most comfortable, not far from the heavy scent of the hyacinths.
As she read, her stomach began a low rumble, seemingly unconcerned about the anxiety building within her mind. Once she moved her foot, hitting the shovel and stinging her toe.
"Was it really a success, Carl?" Or had Carl's own mind and determination worked a miracle?
Megan shifted on the seat, uncomfortable. She closed the book and placed it beside the shovel under the swing. That should give it some protection from the rain, she thought.
When she looked straight ahead, she saw movement against the curtains of the French doors. Undoubtedly, Beverly was peeking out at her. Megan wouldn't move. Beverly would have to come for her.
Quickly the doors were parted and the clownish ghost stood proudly at the threshold. No drawing at her feet. Obviously Beverly had found the sheet with Carl's naked image stretched across it.
"Mmmmegan," the black shawl seemed to stutter at her. There was no hint of a face, so how could there be lips? "Mmmmegan, come here, girl."
"I'm not a girl."
"Sorry." The mask giggled. "I have a request to make. That shovel." The black-gloved hand waved spastically. "Pick it up."
"Why?"
"I . . . I have a plant. A big plant, really a small tree. I need you to dig a hole for it. It must be buried today. There isn't much time left."
No, Megan thought, this is not Carl's mother. This is one of the women with the unconnected limbs contained within the sketch pads, boxed away inside that closet. This is the hyacinth girl.
Megan bent over and lifted the shovel. It was not very heavy. She stood.
"Where do you want me to dig, Beverly?"
"Anywhere. There." Beverly pointed to a spot that was heavily shaded by hyacinth plants.
Megan approached the spot. She struck the ground with a violent push. The dirt loosened easily, filling the spade with brown earth and green grass. She kept digging.
"Make it wider, Mmmegan. Wider."
Big enough for an eleven-by-seventeen sheet, Megan thought. She dug the hole broader. Broader and deeper.
It grew darker. One would have mistaken it for twilight, but Megan knew it couldn't be more than nine A.M. when she turned to Beverly.
"Is that enough?"
"Widen it, Mmmegan. Make it big enough so that you can fit inside, and deepen it."
"I think I need a rest."
"Not too long. We must finish. It's going to rain. Must be completed before the rain."
Yes, thought Megan, the rain could cause the drawing to run; it would mar its perfection. Megan hefted the shovel up, and with aching arms she began again.
By noon it was wide enough and deep enough, and Megan was stiff enough to have a great deal of difficulty climbing out of the hole.
"Quickly, you clumsy girl. Quickly!"
"Who are you, Beverly?" breathed Megan as her body rose up and out of the mouth of the grave.
"Me? I'm Beverly," she said with a giggle. "You're Mmmegan. See, I remember."
"How are you related to Carl?"
"Related? I'm his ghost. Yes, that's what I am. His spirit, suffering the tortures of a hideously long death."
"You were one of his lovers, weren't you?"
Beverly came out of the house, moving toward Megan. The sky was almost black with the watery weight of the clouds. Megan squatted next to the grave, for she no longer had any doubt about what she had
been digging. Carl's final home, but he would never rest in peace there under the pungent scent of the hyacinths. Megan didn't care.
Beverly stood inches from Megan, forcing her to slip from a squat to a sitting position. Beverly bent down toward Megan. The shawl-covered head slowly shook back and forth.
"Who are you, then?"
Megan watched Beverly's right hand reach inside the left sleeve. She saw the leather glove jerk in a strong yank, but Megan was blinded by the shock of the blade appearing from out of the sleeve.
"I'm his murderer!" Beverly screamed as she stabbed down into Megan's chest.
"No!" Megan cried; then she felt the cold steel slide back out. Again she saw the knife plunge down, the pain leaving her breathless for a second. The knife was free again and held high. Beyond the blade, she saw Death, a mottled scab of dripping flesh with sockets loosely holding the brown jelly orbs. The shawl fell off of a bald pate that was covered with opened sores. Maggots dropped from widely flared nostrils. The blade fell; Megan was almost beyond the pain. Death had come personally for her, and she saw it use a short, gristled tongue to lap at the dangling skin on its lips, sucking up the purplish, chapped flesh with one last powerful lick.
Megan fell back on the ground. She was alone. The sky, on the verge of tears, muffled the lightning that hit in the distance.
Death was back with its clownish garb, rolling Megan over toward the grave. She thought that she was about to be dropped in when the drawing was placed in her hands. Megan took it. Death stretched Megan's elbows out, so that her hands hung above the grave. Megan let go of the drawing. She couldn't see it fall, because Death had already started putting clumps of earth in her fists.
''Throw it in, child. Hurry!"
Megan sprinkled a few handfuls, but was too weak to close her hand anymore.
"Push, then, Mmmegan. Push!"
Her hands fell on the loose soil and tried to brush it back into the grave.
"You've covered the drawing, Mmmegan. That will have to do. I'll finish."
Death picked up the shovel and scooped the earth up, throwing back into the hole what Megan had dug up. Megan winced as she tried to roll away from the bizarre tableau. Eventually she lay still, staring at the sky, waiting to be washed away into the dirt.
Death was finished. It knelt next to her. She smelled the fetid breath, a mingling of vermin and rot. That's how she would smell.
"Relax, Mmmegan. I have taken care of everything. Rest."
"The jour" Megan started to say, but Death placed two black leather fingers on her lips.
"I must go. I can't be here when he finds out what I've done." Death giggled like a child, giggled with a raspy hoarseness that denied its youth.
The fingers left Megan's lips and reached inside the pocket of the robe. Megan saw it pull something out of its pocket. Matches. Death was delighted and returned to the house, leaving Megan alone.
Nature stood silenced by the scene. Megan began to cry in the solitude of her demise. She never had wanted to die alone. She never considered Death to be so close.
A roar in her ears. A clap of thunder before the storm?
Grayish-black smoke rose into the sky. The smell of burning debris. Painfully, Megan raised her head. The house was burning.
My God, she thought, I am absolutely alone. Even Death had abandoned her.
What had the journal said? Intent was what was most important. The desire for the impartation to take place.
"Carl, you bastard!" Her voice cried out beneath the tumble of raindrops and the rumble of the storm.
42 - Don't Let Me Die
Megan closed her eyes to the rain that was splattering her prone body. She felt the chill of her wet clothes burn her chest wounds, but she couldn't rise up to take cover. Where was the white light that was supposed to lead her to the next world? All she saw was the blackness of her rain-soaked eyelids. She squinted as a few of the drops managed to glide underneath the lids. Her chest ached with such pain that she held her breath several times. Where was the white light? Where was the peace of the next world? Megan didn't want to die, and she exalted in the shiver shaking her body, an acknowledgment of her still being alive.
A strong wind whipped across her body. Her clothes felt like a second skin, clinging to her against the elements. She started to scream out her anguish but stopped when the pain tore through her chest, sending out fingerlike waves of torture throughout her trunk, subsiding gradually into her limbs. She kept her mouth open, swallowing down big gulps of water. Gradually she raised her mouth up toward the water, capturing more of the liquid that her parched mouth craved, almost drowning herself in the rain that tumbled down into her nostrils and thus into her lungs. Convulsive coughing followed. Her chest seemed to crumple in upon the pain.
Eventually Megan stilled her freezing body. Her temperature must be way below normal, she contemplated. If she didn't die from the loss of blood, she would die of shock. No, she was going to survive. Using shallow breaths, Megan concentrated on transferring her death to the grave beside which she lay. To the grave and to the drawing. She visualized the figure of Carl. The blond hair with the sparks of gray that always captured the light indoors or out. His face, the wrinkles around the eyes, the prominent straight nose, and the swelling lips underneath. Ah, and his body tanned and hairy, the muscles contoured to make him swift and strong. She remembered watching those muscles while they made love, thrusting their power outward, collapsing back in order to replenish the juice driving them.
For a long time, Megan relived the time she had spent with Carl. His movements, his words surrounded her, warming her. The icy cold subsided into a wet summer chill.
"Take my death," she whispered as she recalled his scent and invaded his pores with her pain.
Chirps. She heard birds. The patter of the rain was gone. Instead she could sense the heat of the sun, steaming away the preceding downpour. With a deep breath, she smelled the dampness of the soil beneath her.
She realized with that lungful of air there was no pain. Nothing prevented her from moving her hands to her face. She wiped away the water that had puddled into the crevices with the back of her hands. When she opened her eyes, the glare of the sun forced her to cover them with the shading of her palms.
Megan sat up and looked at the debris in front of her. All that was left of the house was a portion of the bedroom. The French doors remained open on singed hinges. The rest of the house was a blackened heap; smoke rose lightly from some minor fires. Megan was left to assume that among the debris was Beverly.
She turned to the grave and saw the knife on top of the mound, glinting in the sun. Her blood had been washed off it by the torrent of rain that had fallen. Instinctively, Megan touched her chest, feeling several long rips in her shirt. She expected the material to be enmeshed inside her chest cavity, but, dripping wet, it only lay flatly against her breast.
Dare she look down at the damage that was done? Her torso stiffened, and her head bobbed down as she tore the holes wider. The wounds were red and crusted. Scabs were fast healing; still, she was certain they would leave scars.
Megan ripped her shirt open, pulling the material down off her shoulders, comparing one breast to the other, the left a carved, mangled chunk of meat, with ribbons of welts crisscrossing, the right still whole, untouched.
After pulling the shirt back up and folding the material delicately across, trying to cover up, she laughed. How could she worry about decency? No one around there seemed to give any thought to the word.
When she stood, she felt a little light-headed. After she took in several deep breaths, it hit her. The smell of hyacinth was gone. Megan turned around to see that the hyacinth bushes had wilted and the flowers had fallen from the stems. Petals lay scattered on the ground. The leaves were a golden brown, and the stems looked almost like dry twigs. Perhaps the storm had been too much for the plant, or perhaps lightning . . . What did rational thinking get her? She would rather believe that they died of sorrow afte
r their mistress had taken her own life. This sounded as good as anything else, after all that had happened.
Megan looked around for the journal. It was still under the garden swing beneath the elm, a bit drenched, but she hoped that the cover had managed to keep the pertinent writings dry. The shovel, which she tripped over, she would leave behind. Carl wouldn't need it anymore.
Megan was tempted to cross the threshold and enter the bedroom, but what good would it do? She would never know what Beverly had known, nor would she want to have that experience. Beverly had saved her from that, at least.
With a last lingering look at the French doors, Megan sped away from the rubble and headed down to the rowboat. She wondered whether Carl was looking for her. Would he have noticed the boat was gone? Would he have guessed where she went?
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