The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  “Ah, screw it,” I said, and proceeded to do it anyways. If I lost my balance and went tumbling ass over teakettle with mom landing on me, so be it. I had thought about just dropping her out of my bedroom window, but knew I could never do it. I can be practical and unsentimental to a fault, but there was no way my mother was going to be tossed out like a duffel bag from a rail car. As far as I’m concerned she was past the point of caring, and I don’t believe she’s looking down on me now from on high with the ability to judge or guide me. Life may have treated her indifferently at best, so I’d be damned if I would treat her that way in death.

  And so we went creeping down the stairs, my mother slung over my shoulder. I held her legs tight with my right arm as I backed down the stairs, my left hand clutching the banister. One step at a time. I stumbled a bit at the bottom, but we were down, and I hustled into the kitchen to ease her down by the back door. My back was grateful for the release, but now I had some decisions to make. I had boarded up the windows so I had no clue what lay beyond the door. I could gaze out from the upstairs all I wanted, but that didn’t help me see the immediate area beyond that door.

  “Screw it,” I said again, and pried a two-by-four from the doorway as quietly as I could. I waited, but no moans greeted me, or a mad scrabbling on the doorknob. So I flipped the deadbolts and opened the door a crack.

  Nothing…

  I couldn’t hear the back gate rattling so I opened the door wider, and waited.

  Nothing.

  I pushed open the screen door, and peeked around to the north side of the house and towards the gate then scanned the backyard. It appeared to be empty, so I stepped onto the porch and peeked around the side of the house. The gate was closed, and Jesse still lay on his back with a pool of congealed blood under his neck.

  I walked over to the tool shed and unlocked it, then spent an agonizing amount of time sliding open the door – it would screech like a banshee as rusty metal ground against rusty metal. That’s all I would need to attract attention back to me. At least it didn’t stick, and I was able to open it far enough to slip inside and get a pickaxe and shovel. Exiting the shed without banging the metal sides or knocking anything over, I walked across the yard to where my mother had a garden. Not a very productive garden – producing anemic tomatoes for the most part. I had built her the raised garden bed back when I was in high school, and while she was delighted with it and tried her best, she was about as good at cultivating vegetables as she was friends. Still, she had enjoyed it and was proud of her meager harvest each summer. I won’t pretend that I thought this was a fitting burial spot for her more than that it was the easiest spot in the yard to dig a grave. I was confident I would hit no rocks, and while I would only be able to dig down about three feet with ease, I could pile leftover concrete blocks and bricks from a barbecue I had built not long after the garden bed.

  And so I set to work. I had hours of daylight left in the midsummer, and it wasn’t too hot. It was still overcast, but we had seen no rain yet. I had no clue if we would get any either. I would have given my left foot just to hear an annoying little shit of a weather man blasting from a TV. Hell, I would buy the guy a beer and toast to his health and long life if we had power and our toys once again.

  Digging the grave didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I wasn’t sure if the noise would carry far, or the thumps in the soil would attract the dead like sandworms on Arrakis. I would stop, look, and listen often, but I was unmolested. The digging was easy, and within an hour I thought I had a hole large enough for my mother to fit in comfortably. Until I dragged her out to it, and decided I would try it a little deeper. By then I had hit the original compacted earth and it was harder to dig. I excavated another foot or so over all, judged it deep enough, and lowered mom into it. Back went the dirt, with blocks and bricks piled neatly on the hump of soil.

  I stepped off the garden into the brittle, dying grass and sat, drained of energy. It was safe to say I had never had an afternoon as eventful as that one before. I stared at the mound of earth with a weird feeling of satisfaction – like a project that was finished and you were a little bit proud of. Not like it was a work of art, but kind of like when you finished washing your car and had to admire it for a bit.

  If this seems callous and uncaring weighed against the situation of burying my mother, I really have no defense of my detachment. Roughly sixteen months later, and it is still something I can’t wrap my head around. It feels as surreal and abstract now as it did then. I think I should have a sense of remorse at least, and when I think of that day the most I experience is a sense of dread that clenches in my stomach and all I want to do is push the thoughts away. How do I grieve for my mother when my heart broke for her almost every day of my life, with the overwhelming feeling of relief that she didn’t have to endure the world any longer?

  If I have any excuse for my empty feelings, it may be that on that afternoon my world view was shattered and my mother died at the same time. Writing this down has been the longest space of time I’ve been allowed to reflect on those days. Also, I’m not the naïve idiot I was back then. Kind of tough to muster up the tears now, if you ask me.

  I had no intention of fashioning a cross or headstone at that point. I felt the grave should have some sort of marker, but I could think of nothing I could distinguish it with. Besides, my brain was fried and I just wanted to crash in bed and hopefully not dream. I was filthy, covered in sweaty grime, and as I climbed to my feet the thought of crawling into bed like that made me pause. I didn’t want to use any precious water rinsing off, so I stood on the porch and wondered what to do about it. The indecisive feelings began to overwhelm me again, and I dropped into a molded plastic lawn chair, weariness crushing me into the seat. It wasn’t long before I dozed off.

  I’m not sure what woke me, but it was twilight and rain was pattering down lightly on the leaves of the maple tree. It took me awhile to figure out what that sound was, but when I did I rose and shuffled out into the rain, my head turned up to catch the drops in my mouth. I imagined my taste buds swelling and absorbing the moisture like the cracked earth of a dried and dead seabed.

  The drops crawled through my hair and rolled down my neck, making me feel dirtier than I had, but I striped off my t-shirt and blue jeans and let the rain speckle my body. It wasn’t long before the drops began to increase and I was standing in a steady downpour. There were no whoops of joy or dancing around with abandon. I just stood and let the rain fall on me as the sky grew darker. But not dark enough for me to miss Jesse lurching towards me.

  Aw, Shit!

  The big guy still had the gun in his hand, but it hung down useless. Seems that he had only succeeded in blowing a hole in his neck, and was unlucky enough not to damage his spinal column. I suppose in his haste to shoot himself, to do it before any second thoughts had a chance to argue with him, he could have been sloppy and just blown open his carotid artery. Thanks for trying dude...

  At that moment I’m not certain he saw me, but I backed away towards the shed. He stopped and angled his head towards me, staring dumbly. There seemed to be no question that he was dead, and I was not going to waste time trying to make sure of that. I gathered my wits, and began to circle around him to get to the shovel I had jammed upright into the garden bed.

  Jesse turned to follow me, swaying drunkenly. He seemed bewildered more than anything, but I didn’t see any point in giving him the chance to learn his new-found lot in life – or death, for that matter. I grabbed the shovel, and swung it mightily against his head. He fell, and I whacked him again. His feet and hands twisted and dug in the grass as I searched for the pickaxe. I found it on the far side of the garden, and I darted back to drive it into his head to end his struggling.

  Fuck. This. Shit, I thought. I am so done with the great outdoors for today.

  I let loose of the handle of the tool, and I heard the gate begin to rattle and shake once more. I stalked into the house, my wet feet skidding on the lino
leum. I slammed the kitchen door, and hammered the two-by-four into place. Thumps along the side of the house followed me upstairs where I quickly toweled off, and crashed into bed.

  * * *

  Sleep had been anxious and did not feel very deep. Not quite dreaming, I felt like I was missing something crucial while digging the grave of my mother, and in an endless loop I continued to do it – never seeming to dig much deeper than a foot or so. I sat up and took long gulps from a bottle of water. I had a headache and was sore all over, and decided I should probably take some aspirin or something. It was full dark, and hard to see anything. I couldn't hear rain anymore, and checked my watch. The illuminated face lit up, giving me a blue-green tinged cocoon of light. It was a little after 11:00. So I had slept some.

  Still, I was groggy and my head felt heavy. The light of my watch winked out and I was enveloped in darkness again, so I punched the button and relished the tiny bit of technology on my wrist, five seconds at a time. I decided that could lead me to the medicine cabinet in my mother's bathroom without any stubbed toes. I could have made it there in the pitch dark, but wasn't really in the mood for the amount of time it would take me.

  I jumped off my mother's bed and followed the glow of my watch to her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet above the sink, spotted some ibuprofen and decided that would do. I padded back to the bedside table and swallowed two pills, chugging down the rest of the water in the bottle. I hesitated before getting back on the bed – I could hear no thumps or the inarticulate moans the dead made.

  I stood at the window and stared out into the black night – something so devoid of shape and form it was unsettling. No stars, even. I had never been in such complete darkness that I could remember. I couldn't even see the peak of the roof next door. Absently, I pressed the light button on my watch again. The little pool of light flared and reflected into the window, and died.

  Across the way I thought I saw a brief flare of light in what should have been the room next door, where Jesse tumbled from. I wasn't sure if it had been residual spots in my eyes or a true flicker of light. I waited, but didn't see it again. I closed my eyes, lit my watch, then opened them after counting to five. A dim point of light blossomed once again next door, so I answered. And got a reply. This went on for several minutes – I'm not sure how long. You would think with a watch in my hand I would have known...

  I can't say it was a feeling of hope that flickered in my chest as I stood at the window and conversed in a sort of meaningless Morse code, but I felt a lightness in my heart and some tenseness leave my muscles. Or, it could have been the ibuprofen kicking in. At any rate the buzzing in my head lessened, and I was feeling drowsy. I leaned into the window, slipped the watch off my wrist, and held it up to my face. I pressed and held the light button, leaned my cheek against the palm of my hand and pantomimed the look of sleep. After a few moments a brief glow appeared next door – whether it was illuminating anyone or not I couldn't tell. So I shuffled to the bed and dropped onto it, and into sleep.

  I woke, wondering why I was in my mother's room. In her bed. But of course the previous day's events crashed back onto me and I groaned. My head still hurt, and I didn't feel very rested. But if I tried to go back to sleep I wouldn't, and my headache would only get worse. I was probably dehydrated. I rolled over and across my watch. I scooped it up and stared at it stupidly until I remembered standing at the window in the dark. I checked the time and it was early morning.

  I sat up, wondering if I had dreamed flashing my watch in the dark late last night. I looked out the window to gray skies, and could hear faint dripping from the eves. I decided my nighttime communication had happened, and it was the first time it occurred to me that it was probably Jesse's wife over there.

  Check on my wife?

  Not, “Check on my family?”

  I couldn't remember seeing any kids over the years he had lived next to my mom. I was out of the house by the time he had moved in. I estimated Jesse had been in his early forties. I never recall seeing his wife, and frankly don't remember any of the conversations my mom and I were sure to have had about her “new neighbors” when they moved in.

  Check on my wife?

  I sighed and stood up, almost moving to the window until I realized I was stark naked, and still streaked with dirt.

  Well that wouldn't make a very good impression, I thought. I realized I had been naked while we were blinking out our declarations of existence last night, and I flushed. Although the window sill was below waist height, I guessed she wouldn't have been able to see much. But still - not cool.

  So I rolled across the bed and walked around it, far from the window and then darted down the hall to my room and threw on a t-shirt and shorts. The house felt stuffy and humid, so I opened up my window, moved back to my mom's room and after looking out and seeing no dead roaming around I slid that window open too. The cool, wet air felt wonderful as it moved through the opening, carrying that summer rain scent and the tang of the dusty screen. I looked next door but could see nothing in the gloom past the window. So I trotted downstairs to have a tepid energy drink and power bar for breakfast.

  Feeling a little better, I went back upstairs and spent a long, frustrating time trying to run a comb through my gritty and tangled hair. After restoring a bit of order to it, I grabbed a wash cloth and went down to my room and stuck my arm out the window into the rain to soak the cloth. I then ran it over my face and behind my ears, across my neck then rinsed it out the window, and washed again. A light beard had been sprouting from me the last few weeks, and I had no intention of shaving. I figured I was as presentable as I was likely to ever be.

  Understand that I was only trying to not look very scroungy – it's not like I was expecting to hook up with Jesse's wife or anything. Thoughts like that just didn't occur to me. This was no end of the world pulp tale where we were the last man and woman on Earth, thrust together to battle the murdering hordes of the dead! I just didn't want to look like the creepy next door neighbor she was stuck with, is all. My assumption was I could only be a disappointment, especially compared to her bear of a husband.

  So I moved back to my mom's room, and stood in front of the window. The rain was slowing, but I could hear a rumble of distant thunder. I vowed if we got a good, strong storm I would go out and shower in it. I craned my neck to see if any of the dead were out and around, but I could see none. I tried to get a sense of the sky, to see if it was any darker to the east or west. As my gaze flickered back to the house next door, there she was.

  She stood close to the window, with her arms folded across her chest, staring at me with dark eyes. They were red-rimmed and wide, and looked like they had seen more than what they had wanted to lately. Her dark shoulder-length hair was slicked back, and she had a fresh-scrubbed look, without makeup. I guessed she was in her late thirties, early forties, trim in a gray tank top and cut-offs.

  I blinked, and stared stupidly at her for a moment. I raised a hand tentatively in a wave.

  She stared back, and I realized she had the posture of a deer about to bolt. I slowly lowered my hand, and waited. After awhile, she shivered and brought what looked like a drawing pad from her side and wrote on it with a marker. She then held the pad up to the window.

  Is Jesse dead?

  Well that was an ice-breaker. I didn't know how to respond, and my mouth worked silently as I gave a curt nod of my head. Her lips trembled and fat tears coursed down her cheeks. I held up a finger – one moment – and I ran downstairs to the kitchen, rummaged through a drawer to find a pad of lined paper and a Sharpie. I bolted back upstairs, kind of expecting her to be gone but she was still there, and still crying. I scribbled hastily on the pad.

  I'm sorry. He got bit.

  I paused – do I tell her he shot himself? I decided I would not get too wordy at this time, and held the pad up to the window.

  Her eyes tightened in anguish, and her shoulders shook as she dropped to the floor and out of view and I felt jus
t about as stupid as I ever had. She had to have known something had happened to him since he didn't come back home. Jesus, he fell out a second story window! He was lucky he didn't break his neck right then. Trying to put myself in her shoes, I imagined what she could have been thinking all night. Maybe he was hurt, but next door with the neighbors. Maybe they were tending to him. Maybe that was him flashing his watch light at me last night! Holding out hope that it would be okay, Jesse would come back, and things would get better. Yet knowing that probably wasn't the case. But hoping, hoping, hoping...

  I had no idea of how much she knew or had seen when her husband died. I didn't remember seeing her behind him as he tumbled out the window, but then I wasn't exactly focused on the room so much as the big guy taking a dive. I think the maple tree's branches probably blocked her view into our backyard where he had shot himself. Maybe she could have seen me digging my mom's grave from a different window, but that was close to the fence on their side. All I could do is be honest, I supposed. I was twisting the cap on the Sharpie, feeling miserable when I noticed she had stood up again and had the pad pressed to the window.

  Did you bury him?

  I flipped over to a clean page and wrote:

  No, I'm sorry. I buried my mother – heart attack, I think.

  Her shoulders slumped as she read that, and tilted her head the way people do when they're feeling sorry for you. The marker squeaked across the paper as I wrote:

  I will bury him today, promise. Yesterday was too much.

  She nodded, attempted a smile. We stared at each other for some time, then she closed her eyes, folded her hands together and rested her face against them. I smiled, and as she opened her eyes I gave her a thumbs up. She moved away from the window and faded into the dark of the room.