Remains

by J. Warren

  The car jolted, and I fell forward. I hit my head on the headrest of the seat in front of me. My head buzzed loud, and things seemed to be moving too fast. There was some other sound, much louder, too. As I raised my head off the seat, it came to me: a car horn. A car horn was continuously blowing. I started to wonder how long that had been going on.

  My father was staring straight ahead. His hands were still on ten and two. My mother was holding her forehead. “Is everyone alright?” I asked.

  My father didn’t say anything, my mother nodded, and looked at me with her huge eyes. “Dad?” I asked, reaching forward. The moment I put my hand on his shoulder, he jolted. He looked around, his head twitching from side to side. “Dad?” I asked. Someone knocked on my window, and I jumped. I opened my door.

  We had backed into Mrs. Dodgeson’s Buick. She stood next to her car, the driver side door open. Several of the congregation crowded around our car. The closest was Bud Gantner. He looked at me, reaching out his hand, and putting it under my elbow. “Everyone alright in there?” he asked, stooping some to look in at my parents.

  My father said “Shit,” and then his door opened. Mrs. Dodgeson was moaning and leaning against her car. When my father stood up and came around the car, I saw a large, dark patch on the crotch of his slacks; he’d wet himself in the shock. I didn’t want to think about it, tried thinking about what damage might have been done to the frames of either car. My mind kept coming back to that: he’d wet himself.

  “Gawtcherself a bit of a fender bender, huh?” the Sheriff said, strolling up to the two cars.

  “I think we’re okay,” I said to Bud, then looked at the Sheriff. Bud nodded, then walked back to Mrs. Dodgeson. My father simply stood staring at the two fenders. I looked, too.

  Neither car was damaged. I think the collision had scared us more than anything else. “I honked and honked,” Mrs. Dodgeson was saying. Dr. Gantner kept shushing her, and asking her to sit down. The Sheriff was already squatted down, looking under the rear fender of my mother’s car. Then he straightened with a grunt, and leaned over to look underneath the front of Mrs. Dodgeson’s car.

  He sat upright, again, then pushed his hat back some off of his forehead. Then he whistled. He was quiet a moment, but I could tell he was looking at my father. My father’s face seemed dead. They were staring at each other.

  “Well, now, it don’t look like there’s much,” Aiken said, putting one hand on each bumper. I saw the hat move, and I could tell he was looking at Dr. Gantner, “She alright?”

  “Yeah. She seems so. I’ve asked her to come see me in the morning,” Bud responded. The hat moved and I could tell Aiken had just nodded. It moved again, and I could tell he was looking down at the bumpers, once more. “Albert?” Aiken said. My father seemed to come back from wherever he was. The hat moved again, and I could tell he motioned toward my mother with his head, “She alright?”

  I came back, myself, and sat down in the back seat again. “Mom?” I asked.

  “Yes?” she said. Her eyes were wide and sort of like dirty glass.

  “You okay?” I asked. She nodded slowly. “You sure?” I asked. She nodded slow again. I got up out of the back seat. “She says she’s okay,” I said.

  I saw Aiken’s cheekbone and chin at this angle. He nodded to himself. I got out of the car again. “Well, now; that’ll ‘bout do ‘er,” Aiken said, standing up with a grunt. He put a hand on his lower back, and something crossed my dad’s face. I have a very clear picture in my head of that moment to this day, but have never found a word for what that emotion might have been. I don’t know what he thought at that moment, but it was strong enough to slip through his mask. “Damn,” the Sheriff said, exhaling, “Ain’t been able to get up without hemmin’ and hawin’ for a long time. Do yourself a favor, boy, don’t get old,” he said, and flashed one of those million dollar smiles. My mom always told me that he was a real looker when they were back in high school. “You folks go on home, now. Come on by tomorrow, and I’ll have you somethin’ worked up to take to your insurance company,” he turned on his heel, and walked to his car. “Bud, you make sure she calls me, now,” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he opened his car door and disappeared inside.

  We all moved back to our cars dazed. I felt like I’d been burned out inside and I had no idea why. My father got back behind the wheel. I closed the passenger door too hard and we all jumped. “Sorry,” I said to no one in particular.

  “Come drive,” my father said, opening up his door and getting out. I felt lost and confused. I was starting to reach for the door handle when he opened it on his own. I got out, and looked at him. I couldn’t tell because it was dark, but I think he was shaking. As I got behind the wheel, I noticed I was, too.

  The drive home was quiet. I remember thinking I don’t know if I’ve ever heard the wind this loud, before. I thought that if I had ever designed a car, I’d try to make one that cut down on wind noise so much. I knew that turning on the radio would be a bad idea. Dad would insist on some talk show station, and mom would want country. Instead, I just kept my mouth shut and concentrated on the road.

  The whole time, dad was staring out his window. He had his hand up, and he kept tapping a knuckle against the glass. I’d snatch quick glimpses at him from time to time. I could feel the anger coming off of him, and something else. To this day, I can’t tell what the other thing I felt was, but it was strong.

  We pulled up in the driveway as the sun was going down. Everything had that golden glow about it. Susan once told me that the Scottish had a name for that, but I can’t remember what it is. The word started with a ‘G’, I think. I’ve never been so good at remembering stuff like that. I thought about asking Sarah.

  Dad was out of the car before I could even shut it off. Mom’s mask was still in place, though. “Thank you for driving for your father, dear,” mom said. She opened her own door and stepped out. I watched, painfully aware of how she struggled, of how thin her arms were. I got out, and cringed at how lightly she closed the door compared to the look of concentration on her face. I could tell even something as simple as closing a car door was getting hard for her. ‘When did she get so old?’ I asked myself, and found I had no answer.

  Sarah came out of the hall just as I shut the front door. “Susan called,” she said, “she wants you to call her back.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. I hadn’t called her to say I’d gotten in like she’d wanted me to. She was probably upset. I stood there, between the front door and the rest of the house, wondering what to do.

  “Are you going to call her?” my sister asked, cocking her head forward. She always had that expression when she assumed I was stalling.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I guess I should.”

  She was just behind me as I walked into the kitchen. I picked up the phone and dialed the number. I walked over to the kitchen window, and pulled a small dent into the blind. I looked out into the backyard at the sliver of sun disappearing behind the other houses. I felt odd for a moment, remembering being much shorter than this and doing the same thing.

  “Do you and she ever fuck, Michael?” Sarah asked. I gripped the receiver tightly and, in my ear, it began to ring. She grinned like a shark.

  “What?” I asked, trying not to show how off-guard she’d just caught me.

  Sarah smiled, “Susan,” she said, gesturing toward the phone, “Do you two ever fuck?”

  “Why do you—ahem—why do you ask?” Fourth ring.

  “I dunno,” she said, turning away. “I guess because I just always thought you were gay.”

  “What? Why would you—?” I started to say after her, but then the phone picked up.

  “Hello?” Susan said, her voice sleep-muffled.

  “Hi,” I said, “I didn’t mean to—you know—wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” she mumbled, “I sat down to watch TV and fell asleep.”

  “Oh,” I said after a few moments. I thought about telling her about meeting
Dr. Gantner, and about the accident. I thought about telling her about Sarah. My head filled up with all kinds of stuff to tell her, but then I started thinking about how much I’d have to tell her just for her to understand each thing. Instead, I stood silent for a while.

  “If you’re busy—?” she said.

  “No,” I replied, looking over at Sarah. My sister pretended to read one of the junk mail catalogues that had come in. She was listening in. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry I—you know—didn’t call.”

  “Yeah, I thought you might have, but you didn’t,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I replied. Mom was moving around the kitchen, water running, pots clanking. At one point, several cookie sheets fell out of a cupboard she was using. The clatter made Sarah jump.

  “What’s that?” Susan asked.

  “My mother. It’s almost supper time,” I said, watching my mom slowly crouch down to pick the sheets up. Every time her knee popped, I flinched.

  “Oh,” she said, then said something that sounded like “I fish juice,” but I couldn’t hear it. My mom tried to shove the sheets back in the cupboard they came from, and they fell again. When she started to fall, herself, she reached toward the counter to hold on. Not only did she miss, though, and fall, but she also managed to pull down some of the pots she’d sat on the counter, as well. The clatter was deafening.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Susan said.

  Mom lay on the floor, and Sarah watched her with a blank expression. I started to put the phone down to go help my mother, but remembered Susan was on the other end. “Umm—my mom just—dropped some stuff. Can I—can I call you—maybe back?” I asked, staring. My mother floundered on the floor, trying to get a grip on something to pick herself up.

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll talk to you later, then,” she said, and hung up. I set the phone down. I put my arm under my mother’s, and pulled her to her feet. Her knees gave one last almost deafening pop. I was sure she’d just broken something. “Here, mom,” I said, moving her step by slow step to one of the chairs. When I had her comfortable, I turned to Sarah. She was still flipping through pages.

  “Sarah,” I hissed.

  She looked at me with an eyebrow cocked.

  “Help,” I whispered.

  She rolled her eyes, and closed the catalogue. She got up and we started to straighten the mess. Neither of us even wondered where dad was; we knew he wouldn’t come in until long after everything was cleaned up. Then, we’d have to listen to him criticize the whole thing, from start to finish: ‘Why didn’t you ask one of the kids to get it for you in the first place?’ all the way through ‘Most likely it was that piss poor stacking job one of you kids did that caused it in the first place’.

  “So, do you?” she whispered.

  I stopped and looked up at her. She wasn’t looking at me, only stacking pots on the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Why not?” she asked, still not looking.

  “Because I don’t,” I said.

  “Is she too much for you in bed, Michael?” Sarah asked, grinning.

  “No, that’s not it—,” I started.

  “Does she stay too quiet for you?”

  “Sarah, stop—,”

  “I just want to know if she—,”

  “GOD DAMMIT!!” I said, standing up. I threw down the pan I was holding. It clattered loud on the floor, and rang out like a bell. She looked up at me, frozen. Mom’s back went stiff at the table. Silence fell. “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I said through clenched teeth, “and I fucking meant it.” I grabbed the phone off the counter and walked out into the back yard. No one followed me.

  I dialed the number to Susan’s apartment. It was busy. I hung up and stared out the window at the horizon for a while. I dialed the number again and it was busy. I hung up and noticed how I was shaking. I dialed the number again and got the answering machine: the phone was off, now. I sat down on the back porch, the concrete cold through my jeans.

  The truth was that for the past two months or so, Susan and I hadn’t had sex. I watched the wind moving the blades of grass back and forth and I thought about what it’d be like to be a blade of grass. The truth was that for the past two months, I’d been unable to think about sex with Susan. I watched the grass, just swaying back and forth, unconcerned with the world around itself. The truth was that for the past two months I’d been thinking about something else a lot.

  I dialed the apartment one more time, and when the answering machine kicked on, I said “Susan, it’s—umm—it’s me. Listen, I’m—I’m really sorry about—you know—about how things went, earlier tonight. I just—things here are—complex.” The machine beeped just then to let me know I’d gone on too long, and that it wasn’t recording anymore. I hung up. I stood up. I watched the grass for a few minutes more, and looked up at the first star glaring out against the horizon. Night was coming. I thought I should go inside, but didn’t want to.

  I thought about how I’d never been to thanksgiving at anyone else’s house. Back before things got weird, I’d wanted to go to Randy’s. I never got up the nerve to invite myself, though, and then he was gone. “Happy thanksgiving,” I said out loud. I thought that most people wouldn’t do something like that, because it sounded stupid, but I did it anyway.

  I must not have realized how long I’d been outside, because when I came back in, dinner was almost done. I hadn’t realized how cold my skin had gotten until the heat hit it. Suddenly, it felt brittle. I got goosebumps, and my chest hurt. I put the phone down on its cradle and walked up to my old room.

  I closed the door and sat down on the bed. Then I lay back. As my skin warmed, my brain started on its old track. Had it been cold where he was? Did they hurt him before they finally killed him? I thought about the preacher’s sermon tonight; about that set of bones. I wondered how many families had ever had to go without even a set of remains to bury, like the McPherson’s had. I wondered which was worse.

  At some point I must’ve closed my eyes. When I opened them, it was Sarah crouched down near me. Her hand was on my chest, and the other was playing with my hair. She’d remembered. I didn’t realize I’d been dreaming until I woke up with a start. All I could remember of the dream was that endless row of clear plastic domes. In the dream, I’d seen someone moving around in one; the silhouette of someone short. As I got closer, I heard a little voice humming something familiar, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. Just as I’d started to unzip the plastic “door,” I’d woken up.

  “Hey,” Sarah said.

  “Mmmm,” I replied.

  “You must’ve been dreaming,” she said, her hands still moving. I nodded. “You just kept saying ‘no’ over and over again under your breath.” I wrinkled my forehead. She shrugged. “Come on, Mom’s got dinner ready.” She moved her hands, and I sat up. I didn’t try to hide it, because I knew she wouldn’t look, but I woke up hard as a rock. She stood up and left, and I waited for it to go down.

  Of course, no matter what happened, none of us ever looked at the empty chair. Katy’s chair. Funny thing about it is, I don’t remember anyone ever saying anything about her not being there, after she left, either. She just wasn’t there. We did all kinds of strange things to make sure that we didn’t even have to pass the peas over her empty space. We pretended that space had never existed at all.

  “The President will be giving a Thanksgiving address later,” dad said, cutting into his turkey. Mom made her “Oh? That’s really interesting” face and put a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth. She always did that when she didn’t want you to know she hadn’t been listening.

  “Yay,” Sarah said flatly, and I tensed. I looked down at my plate. This was why I never came home for holidays, anymore. They hadn’t even waited. I felt it building up in my bones the way you could feel a thunderstorm coming.

  “What is that supposed to mean, young lady?” my father asked. Even though Sarah was his favorite, there wer
e limits. We all remembered the conversation he’d had with Katy. We remembered being banished.

  My mother made a sound roughly like mmmm and, mouth still full of mashed potatoes, said “These are good. Albert, don’t you think they turned out very well?”

  My father turned to her, his face showing he’d been successfully derailed, “Huh? Oh. Yeah. They’re okay,” he looked down at his plate, and took a forkful, himself. Sarah reached for her wine without putting anything on her fork. My mother noted this at the same time I did. I looked back down at my plate. I felt very small, like I needed to ask someone to pass things to me.

  “Sarah, dear, you should eat something,” my mother said, hopefully.

  “I’m not really all that hungry, mother.”

  “But we fixed it for—,” mom started.

  “I said,” Sarah said, setting her wine glass down deliberately, “I’m not hungry. I will eat when I am. In the meantime,” she said, picking it back up and bringing it almost to her lips, “I just want to sit here and bask in the glow of the heady conversation.” I couldn’t help but think it was a scene from a movie. I tried to think of what was going to happen next.

  My father set his fork down and asked, “What is that supposed to mean?” I had predicted right. The sinking feeling wasn’t just in my stomach; it seemed to come from everything under my skin. I thought ‘some writer guy would be able to describe this much better’. Susan would be able to say something smart and funny about this situation. I couldn’t think of what it might be, though.

  Sarah sighed, and that’s when I knew; she was thinking of this like a scene from a movie, too. She wanted it to be this way. I didn’t know what to think about that. I thought back, trying to remember if she’d always been this way. “What it means, father,” she sipped, “is that I don’t feel like eating. Regardless of your wishes that I eat whatever is put on my plate because you’ve been told that’s what good girls do; and after all, you’re a good tax-paying Republican citizen, so why wouldn’t your girl be a good girl?, regardless of those wishes, Father,” she said, and I thought that maybe she should put more emphasis on that word. I tried not to smile thinking that we should do another take to get it right. I still felt almost sick, despite how funny it was to have figured her out. “I will not eat when I’m not hungry.” She sipped.