IGMS Issue 6

by IGMS

  Nothing lasts forever. Things will get better, easier. The thought was a salve,calming.

  She tried to reapply the bandages herself, but only grew frustrated as the gauze clung awkwardly to her tender flesh.

  "Can you help me?" She finally asked, her back to her husband. Her voice was raw, cracked.

  Her husband pushed himself up from his chair. He was a big man; strong, with wide set shoulders and large hands. He was getting younger, and had just gotten his full head of black hair back. He had another twenty-five years until his birthday, until he returned to his mother, giving himself up to her pregnant embrace. Irene doubted that was what he wanted, but it would be his mother's decision.

  Resurrection always led back to the beginning, death, life, birth. She had already decided that when her son's birth came, she would take him back into her, because she couldn't bear the thought of burying him again.

  She hissed as her husband took her right arm into his rough hands and coiled the first bandage around her forearm and between her fingers. The cool, clean cloth comforted her skin.

  He dipped the second bandage into the metal basin. It was one of their few prized possessions, an artifact from the future. Metal and stone and wood from older trees were the only things that could survive their own creation, everything else rotted away at the anniversary of its making.

  Irene looked up at him, then away. "He's our son," she said, recalling their argument. She closed her eyes, How could I forget?

  "I know." His voice was quiet and firm.

  "Our baby," she added.

  "I know."

  "Then show it!" Irene turned her head up again, the muscles in her arms tensed. She wanted to lash out. "Why don't you want this?"

  "It's a hard world," he sighed. His eyes shifted right, then closed, "The pain isn't worth it. Not for us to lose him again in three years."

  "That's not an excuse! I've been waiting seventy years for this." Irene's words choked in her throat, "I need him. I need to see him again, even if it's only three years."

  Her husband shook his head and crossed his arms, "He never had a first chance at life. With only three years, he won't have a second."

  "No. No. No!" Irene wanted to hit something, to strike out at his indifference. "You don't want him back because you resent me, you resent what God has given us. You wish you had never been resurrected!"

  "I do not . . ."

  "You do," Irene continued, the heat building in her throat. "You've been miserable ever since you came back. You've been mad at me ever since I let them pull you from the ground!"

  "No, I --"

  "You --" Irene interrupted.

  "Let me finish." Her husband jutted a finger in her face. He towered over her, his cheeks flushed red. "I don't think any such thing. I love you. I love our son." His breath was heavy, his words were even.

  "Say his name," she ordered.

  "What?"

  "Say his name. It's been forty years and you have called him your kid, your boy, your son." Irene held up a fist and jutted out her fingers, counting the strikes. "You have never called him by his name. His Christian name that we gave him the day he was born. You have never said that name in this house. You've been back for forty years and you have never said his name. Not once."

  "Stop it," her husband turned away from her and clenched his fists. "I don't need this."

  "What's his name?!" Irene cried.

  "I don't need this." He stalked away. He grabbed his coat off a peg next to the stove and slammed the screen behind him, rattling the door's wooden frame.

  Run away! Irene thought, That's all you do is run!

  Irene stumbled toward the table and pulled out a chair. She collapsed on it and laid her head on their red and white checkered tablecloth. Great racking sobs constricted her lungs as she wept. He resents me, she thought.

  Do you blame him? She chided.

  Her husband had suffered through black depression since he had returned to the living. The doctor thought there was a problem when his body was regenerating, as if the brain had not wired itself back together properly.

  But that wasn't the answer. Her husband had not been happy before his death, living a life of failure and depression until he passed away in 1978. When he was reborn, it came as a shock, like a sick joke that he would have to relive his miserable life again as punishment. If anyone had wanted to remain in the ground, absent from the second chance God had given them, it was her husband, even if that meant waking up from death buried, suffocating, and dying again.

  It was a predicament Irene had no problem remembering. She bore witnessed to his bitterness every day.

  He thought it was a better alternative for him, thought it was best for their son. He can say what he wants, about pain, about how hard the world is, but in the end, he's afraid. He's afraid of being hurt again.

  Aren't you afraid? She argued.

  Irene didn't let her husband stay in the ground, when his time came she had the diggers uncover his grave. She needed him, to share the burden she carried, to help her life feel normal again.

  And he has resented it ever since.

  What her husband wanted for their son was horrible. She couldn't stand to imagine it: her son, waking up from his resurrection in his coffin, buried alive. He would survive for hours, in the dark, in the heat, alone, before he would succumb to death again.

  Irene wept at the thought, and imagined what it would be like to have six feet of dirt separating her from her resurrected son, to hear his muffled cries, to claw at the red ground until her fingers were nothing but wells of blood.

  She had failed him once, and couldn't fail him again.

  The kitchen was dark when her husband returned, scraping the metal screen against the wood door. Outside, the crickets sang in the green of late morning.

  Irene had fallen asleep at the table, her head cradled in her arms, her chin resting on the tablecloth. She woke up when her husband entered.

  "Back already?" She yawned, stretching her sore arms across the table, their fight almost forgotten. She shook herself and grimaced. She hated that, when the passage of time made her forget.

  "Bar was closed. Dick had an accident or something." He hung his coat up on its peg and tossed his billfold onto the counter.

  "Is he alright?" Her husband had found a bottle somewhere. The stench of scotch clung to him, and permeated the tight kitchen air.

  "I don't know," he coughed, "they were closed." He crossed to the other side of the table and collapsed into the chair opposite her. When he was sitting at their table he always looked like a giant, with his shoulders towering above the surface and his knees packed in tight underneath. He placed his head in his hands.

  "I'm sorry," she said, without meaning it.

  "He's been gone a long time," he said.

  "I need this, Del, more than anything. I miss him."

  Her husband rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I'm sorry." He grimaced.

  They looked at each other, silent.

  "Please?" Irene asked. "Please?"

  The quiet stretched, and Irene knew not to interrupt again. She kept her eyes on the tablecloth, focusing on a yellow stain near the table's edge. Her husband couldn't stop her, but she wanted him there, needed him. Their son was coming home.

  April 6, 1936

  The wind was blowing again like the day before, pushing Irene's skirt hard against her knees, shaking the tall tree that stood sentinel over her son's grave. The high grass of the plain was flat from the wind. In the distance, a farmer trawled his field for seeds to use the next fall, to resurrect the wheat.

  The morning was hot for late spring. The cemetery wasn't far from town, but the heat and the dirt road made the journey difficult. Thick beads of sweat coated Irene's neck and daubed at the armpits of her dress. She waved her thin hands at her face absently, using the motion to settle the nervousness boiling in her belly. Her arms had been stiff and sore all afternoon, and the motion loosened them. The bu
rning sensation had worsened through the night, waking her up several times from her shallow sleep.

  Her husband was next to her, dressed for the occasion. He had slicked his hair back with leftover cooking fat, and he was wearing his only suit, the one he wore on their wedding day. The hem was ragged, and two of the buttons on his three-button coat bent at odd angles. He muttered and took a draw from his flask. They had stopped at Dick's that afternoon to fill it up. She could smell the heavy scotch on his breath. His walk was stuttering and uneven, so bad that Irene had to push the buggy they had brought for their son half of the way.

  They both stepped near the edge of the grave. Her son's coffin was at the bottom, and while the laborers had cleaned and polished the surface of the lid, a light dusting of red dirt had settled on it overnight. The casket itself was a plain wood, stained a dark brown. To Irene, It looked too small.

  "When are they coming?" Her husband asked, uncomfortable.

  "Soon. Any minute," she replied, adjusting her hat. Her dress was a simple black. She could not remember, but imagined she wore it during her son's funeral. The thought lashed at Irene, but she pushed it down. It'll be over soon. My baby is coming home.

  She kept her eyes on the casket, until the Reverend and the laborers arrived, and relaxed a little. Patience, she reminded herself.

  The Reverend was the youngest of them. He was a little boy, with rosy cheeks and sandy hair, his priest's collar loose on his thin neck. Irene didn't know how much longer he had, but guessed it was less than a decade. He was one of the few children that had not retired, and Irene admired him for it.

  "Irene, Delbert." The Reverend spoke with a child's falsetto and offered up a hand to her husband. "We've been waiting for this one." Behind him, the workers filed past. The men were familiar, and Irene imagined that they had been the ones who helped uncover her son tomorrow.

  Irene didn't answer the Reverend, but instead turned her attention back to the coffin. Two of the workers jumped down into the hole. They worked a little space for themselves, bent down and lifted the coffin up with ease.

  The casket crested the grave's edge, where the remaining two laborers picked it up and moved it to the side, setting it down next to the large pile of dirt they had dug. Irene had tensed when they brought the coffin up, worrying that the men might jostle her son. Most times, people left the casket in the ground to prevent such problems, but her son's casket was so small that lifting it out would make his recovery easier.

  "How much time do we have?" The Reverend asked.

  "A few minutes." Irene replied.

  "Best hurry, then." The Reverend smiled. Irene's stomach gurgled. A few more minutes and her son's wait would be over. Her wait would be over. The pain in her arms intensified. She could feel it in the tips of her fingers.

  The Reverend opened his bible. Behind him, the laborers removed their denim caps and stuffed them into empty pockets. Irene moved closer to her husband and clutched his arm. Her knees felt weak and her nose was growing numb.

  "You okay?" her husband asked. "You're breathing hard."

  "I'm fine." She tightened her grip. The skin of her arms felt as though it were on fire. Was this what my son felt? She hissed at the pain in her arms and closed her eyes. She had forgotten how much it hurt. It would be worse for her son, she realized. The scalding water had covered his entire body.

  The Reverend began his prayer, and Irene could not focus on his words. Her breath came in short, rapid spurts. She would catch snippets, "Blessed us with his soul . . . new life . . . in resurrection . . . happy moments to cherish . . . serve out your plan . . . repentance for sins . . ." The words held little meaning for her. She tried focusing her mind, but her eyes kept wandering to the casket.

  The Reverend clasped his bible shut when he finished. "The lord gives his blessing," he smiled at Irene.

  Irene nodded and turned her attention to the setting sun on the Eastern horizon. Soon her son would be back. The workers moved to the large pile of dirt, and began to shovel it back into the empty grave. The Reverend stepped up to the coffin and flashed the sign of the cross in blessing, then moved away to make room for Irene and her husband.

  She blinked and her vision blurred with tears. Everything was quiet, save her husband's steady breathing and the scrape of shovels against the ground. Her husband placed an arm over her shoulder and gripped her tight.

  THUMP

  The sound came from the coffin, shaking loose some of the dirt.

  THUMP

  THUMP

  THUMP

  Irene shuttered each time, her heart skipping a beat.

  "Momma!" A muffled voice coughed through the thick wood. It was hoarse, edged with pain. "Momma! I hurt!"

  Irene screamed and fell before her husband could catch her. Her knees sank into the dry grass as she wailed, placing her head in both bandaged hands as fire burned up her arms. She had forgotten how bad the pain was, the burning so hot that it washed her vision white. She knew it would hurt, but thought her joy would push it down, make it smaller.

  But the pain cut both ways, she realized, as her son's scream echoed hers. What kind of mother am I?

  "MOMMA!" Her little boy wailed again.

  "Irene." Her husband was crouched next to her, his voice was thick. He stuck an arm underneath her to help her to her feet.

  She looked at him, and saw the worry in the lines of his face. He remembers. Is three years worth it?

  Irene shook the thought from her head, she had made her decision. Her son needed her now, more than ever. She let her husband guide her to the edge of his coffin as she gasped between sobs. The casket rocked back and forth on the ground, sending particles of red dirt shimmering through the air. The wind picked them up and pushed them out of sight.

  "MOMMA!"

  She fell to her knees again, this time at the center of the casket. Her husband knelt beside her to work at the coffin's latch. With heavy, fumbling hands he sprung the lock and lifted the lid.

  Her son's face was still bright with the undertaker's makeup. He was in a simple black suit, with bare feet. His hands were bright red. He writhed on the ivory lining, his torso twisting back and forth like a rag wrung of all its water.

  "MOMMA!" His voice hit her unblocked and she nearly fell on her hands.

  "He will heal." The Reverend spoke up behind them, "The pain will go." His voice was calm, soothing, confident.

  Irene shut her eyes, wishing the pain would come to a quick end. She leaned into the casket, moving her hands slowly. She reached for her son's hand and gripped onto it. She gasped when she felt her son grip back, feeling the bones protruding from his sharp knuckles and the tension wrought by his thin fingers. The skin of his hands was raw and angry, and he gripped hers with a force that made her cry out through the pain.

  "Momma!" The boy cried again, weaker. His eyes were clenched shut. His head and his feet were the only parts that the water had not touched.

  "Shhh, baby. Momma's right here." His writhing slowed, his limbs slackened and his breathing evened. Irene reached out and straightened his hair, pushing a few stray hairs on his forehead up and over his ear with a bandaged finger.

  "Your father's here too," her husband croaked, fumbling the words. He leaned next to her, his knuckles bright white against the coffin's dark wood.

  Her son's eyes flashed open, searching wild. His body writhed again, until his eyes found his father.

  "Why?" Her son screamed. His eyes were wide and accusing. His body lost its tension as he passed out from the pain.

  Irene dropped his hand.

  Her husband fell away from the casket, knocking up a cloud of blood red dust.

  "What does he mean?" Irene whispered. Her husband choked out a groan. She stood up from the casket, raised her voice, "What does he mean?!"

  Looming over her husband, her mind tugged at the memory, reliving it in agonizing detail.

  It had been just like every Monday: She filled the laundry tub, heated it to scalding. I
t was early, the sun well above the horizon.

  Her husband was in bed, out of work, sleeping off the Okie scotch Dick made in his giant backyard kiln.

  Her son had been in the other room, playing with a new wooden train that his father had bought for him on a recent job scouting trip to Kingfisher. She could still hear the sound, the CLICK-CLACK of wood striking wood.

  CLICK-CLACK went the train. Irene could see him now, pushing it across the worn linoleum of their kitchen floor.

  He played there all the time.

  He knew to stay away from that awful heat.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  Irene closed her eyes, remembered the sounds. She had moved to the den, there had been a knock at the door.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  Then the hiss of water, like bacon thrown on a griddle, followed by her son's scream. So close together that they played out simultaneously in her head.

  She ran to the kitchen, her husband in the opposite doorway, three steps from their bed. She dove after her son, burning her arms as she pulled him from the water. Her husband was behind her, sober, frozen in indecision, fear. She did not remember hearing him get up.

  "Did you . . . do this?" She cried at the completion of the memory.

  Her husband's eyes shut tight, he let loose a sob.

  Irene screamed. "You whoreson!" She ran behind the casket and tore a shovel from a laborer's hands, the pain in her arms forgotten.

  She turned on her husband, the shovel held high. He had not moved. Tears ran tracks through the dirt on his face. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to."

  Irene charged him. She swung for his head, but was stopped short as a pair of hard arms wrapped round her waist. She was lifted in the air, carried off beyond the grave, beyond the sight of her husband. She screamed and kicked, dropping the shovel so she could press down on her captor's forearms.

  "Stop." The man behind her gasped. She tossed her head to see him. It was one of the diggers, caked in red dirt. He grimaced, flashing bright teeth. "Please. Stop."