Dominoes in Time

by Matthew Warner

  At last, it was time. He opened the trunk.

  Inside lay a black bodybag. He hoisted it in front of him and carried it to the edge of the pool. There, he opened it.

  Emily.

  It didn’t matter how many times he saw it. The sight of his wife’s remains always stabbed him in the heart. His lips trembled as he tried to hold it in. He imagined his eyes were like this place: an old sweet spring, ready to flow again.

  The doctors had managed to extract the baby’s body from her, but because the child was so premature, he hadn’t dug it up like Emily. Once Emily was alive again, they would make more… wouldn’t they?

  But if this didn’t work, he was through. One way or another, he vowed this would be the last night he endured life without his wife.

  Emily still smelled like the formaldehyde they used to embalm her, but after a whole year, her body had still deteriorated. He thought he’d been good with her. He took so many pains to keep her dry and refrigerated. He touched her no more than necessary. But still, his wife now was just papery skin stretched tight over bone.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll still love you.”

  Carefully, he lifted her from the bag and lowered her into the pool. His hands immediately went numb in the freezing water.

  Gases no longer remained in Emily’s body to keep her buoyant, so he stayed crouched by the pool, holding her afloat. A burning sensation replaced the numb feeling. He prayed, dear God, that it was the water’s magic at work and not just his blood solidifying in the cold.

  Minutes ticked by. Emily’s fragile, parchment-like skin began to slough away from her neck, revealing the hump of a vertebrae. A cloud of skin cells formed around her and floated toward the drainage ditch.

  “No. Oh God, no.”

  His tears dripped into the water.

  “I tried. Emily, I tried. How can I go on without you?”

  Reluctantly, he began hauling her out. But everything had gone clumsy in the cold. He lost his grip and dropped her into the water.

  “No!”

  His wife sank to the bottom like a stone. John sobbed as he lost sight of her. The only thing left of her was a growing cloud of deterioration on the surface. If he could swim, he would risk hypothermia to rescue her, but now it was hopeless.

  “That damn book. That damn book!”

  It lied to him. They were all liars. Old Sweet Spring couldn’t bring the dead back to life. It wasn’t the Fountain of Youth.

  Screw it. He would jump in after her anyway. There was no point in going on.

  The moon stared impassively as John stood up and spread his arms. He threw his head back and allowed himself to fall into the water.

  The shock of cold momentarily robbed him of the ability to breathe, but when he regained it, he found he couldn’t bring himself to inhale. The survival instinct was too strong. With his eyes pressed tightly shut, he slowly exhaled bubbles and allowed himself to sink. The freezing water poked icy fingers through his clothes and body.

  When he could resist it no longer, he inhaled.

  Water tasting of soil and stone filled his lungs—and he immediately coughed and choked. He spasmodically inhaled again, and he was drowning, oh God, he was drowning, and his arms and legs wouldn’t obey his will, instead trying to swim to the surface as he inhaled again and choked some more. Bright lights appeared behind his eyes, and he lost consciousness.

  Sometime later, he awoke on the bottom of the pool.

  He was still numb. Water squished in his lungs. But he was alive.

  The spring. The damn spring. It couldn’t bring the dead back to life, as he’d hoped, but it could indefinitely sustain the living.

  No. No.

  It meant he would live without her. Forever.

  Cocktail Party of the Dead

  Two weeks after Mom died, I had a dream where she sat with me in the kitchen, catching up on recent events. There was much to tell her about: the stress of her funeral, the reading of her will, the struggle not to sob at inappropriate times. The other boys in my tenth grade gym class already called me a faggot for being fair-skinned and hairless, and crying would make it worse.

  In my dream, I also told her about Dad—about how he hadn’t returned to work. He spent his time sitting in Mom’s home office, just staring at her unfinished painting or at the wall.

  It comforted me to talk to her again, but when I woke up, I knew it was only a dream. A harmless fantasy.

  Or so I thought.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  That evening, Dad left for a couple hours. I didn’t ask where he was going. I was just happy he was out of the house for the first time since the funeral. Hopefully he was headed to the grocery store.

  When he got home, Dad wore a huge smile. I was so startled that I turned off the TV and stood up from the couch. “Dad?”

  He drew me into a fierce embrace. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”

  He went upstairs to bed without another word.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The next morning, it was like the old Dad had returned. He made pancakes and brewed coffee. He pointed at the newspaper and chatted about the arrest of a local restaurateur for tax evasion. He said he might return to the office that afternoon.

  “Where did you go last night, Dad?”

  He avoided my gaze as he ate. “A grief support group I found online. It’s called New Growth. They meet in an old house on B Street.”

  “It’s nice to see you smile.”

  “They make me…” He looked away again. It was strange to see him acting shy.

  “Make you what?”

  “Nothing. Eat up before it gets cold.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  New Growth met three times a week, usually in the early evening, when the sun hung low in the sky. Sunsets now depressed me because they symbolized endings, but New Growth must not have minded.

  Dad attended every meeting over the next month. Each time, he returned even happier than before. That worried me; I wondered if they were giving him drugs. But I didn’t seriously consider that until I noticed his salt-and-pepper hair had become noticeably thinner. After a few days, much of it was gone entirely, leaving a half-tire shape around the back of his head.

  The lines between his nose and the corners of his mouth also deepened. His skin looked paler and began to hang off his skull.

  Before he left for one night for a meeting, I asked if I could go with him.

  He looked at me strangely, like I’d suggested I might teach the dog next door to talk. “No, I don’t think that’s good idea. You should stay here and do your homework.”

  The next day while dressing for gym class, I remembered the sound of Mom’s laughter, and I burst into tears. The boy with the locker next to mine called me a faggot.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The Internet didn’t shed much light on New Growth, not even a weak sunset. So I searched through the trash in Dad’s bedroom. Maybe he had a calendar or brochure from them.

  All I found were wads of bloody tissues where he’d been wiping his nose. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  “I’m off to my meeting,” Dad called from downstairs.

  I stepped soundlessly back into my own room before answering. “Okay. See you later.”

  After he shut the front door behind him, I tore downstairs with my car keys.

  Following him was the first fun thing I’d done since Mom died.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  I’d been down B Street recently but hadn’t found any signs for the New Growth grief support group. So all I really needed was to identify the right house.

  I spotted Dad’s car in the driveway of a Victorian with a wraparound porch. Lots of other cars were parked nearby, presumably for the support group. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  What was unusual was the house itself. Not just old but dilapidated. Peeling paint. Sagging porch roof. Rotted wood that buckled alarmingly underfoot as I approached the front door. Through a broken window, I saw three middle-aged wh
ite men milling around the foyer, chatting in happy voices. I grasped the rust-covered doorknob and went in.

  … And found myself somewhere else.

  Or somewhen else, I’m not sure. It was the same house, I realized. But as I stepped inside, it changed. The walls now showed a fresh coat of white paint. Polished wooden bannisters hugged an ascending staircase on my right. A tall entryway led into a drawing room on my left. The hardwood floors gleamed as if recently polished. Large red rugs covered them here and there.

  Untitled by Philip Geiger

  I now saw that the three men each talked to attractive young women. They all drank wine and ate cheese from clean white plates they must have acquired from the buffet in the drawing room, where the tables were covered with white tablecloths. Classical music played from a stereo.

  No one paid me any attention.

  The grayhaired man on my right leaned toward his companion. “Georgina is doing so well in school. You would be proud of her.”

  “I miss her. And how are you today, my love?”

  Where was Dad?

  Remembering him brought on a wave of queasiness. I shut my eyes. When I opened them, the house had changed again. The young women talking to the three men had vanished—and so had the men’s food. The grayhaired man ate from an empty plate. The mustachioed man by the stairs talked to empty space, and so did the man drinking red wine on my left. As I watched, the wine in his glass appeared and reappeared.

  “Work is work, just the same as always,” the wine drinker said to the empty space beside him. “The only bright spot in my day is seeing you again.”

  I noticed now that he wore bathroom slippers, and the crotch of his pants was soaked with urine. His skin was as gray as Dad’s.

  “Dad? Where are you?”

  I ran into the drawing room.

  The classical music, which had momentarily faded, swelled up again as I entered. More couples of men and women—older men with young women, older women with young men—socialized on couches and in corners.

  I found Dad sitting on one of these couches with a beautiful young woman I didn’t recognize at first.

  My mother—my dead, sweet, loving mother—smiled up at me as I approached on rubbery legs.

  “Speak of the devil,” she said. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

  She wore some kind of yellow cocktail dress from the 1960s that showed off her youthful figure. It was sleeveless to bare strong, toned arms. Nothing like the fluid-swollen slabs of meat I’d last seen folded across a hospital gown. She had cherry blonde hair—her natural color—which I’d only seen in photographs. Ever since I could remember, Mom had worn wigs to conceal the damage caused by chemotherapy.

  Dad didn’t notice me, as far as I could tell. He didn’t even look away from Mom as she stood up and opened her arms to hug me.

  I backed away in a hurry. “Don’t touch me.”

  Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t step any closer.

  “Dad. Dad! Wake up.”

  Dad blinked and looked at me. “What… what are you doing here?”

  “Come here. Come with me.”

  “Go home. Do your homework.”

  Mom shook her head sadly. “Honey, I’m here now. Why don’t you just give me a hug, and everything will be all right?”

  “Dad. Now. Come with me.”

  The classical music kept playing, but everyone in the room stopped talking to stare at me.

  Dad stood up uncertainly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but…”

  He took a step closer, and I seized his hand.

  “No,” Mom said. “Please.”

  At my touch, Dad blinked and shook his head as if I’d flashed a camera in his face. I knew he was seeing what I did when I first arrived: a room full of aging, deteriorating widows and widowers, standing alone, eating from empty plates and drinking from empty glasses, chatting with empty air. I couldn’t see it anymore—only this cocktail party of grief.

  His eyes filled with tears. “No. Oh, no.”

  My mother stood a few feet away with her arms still open to me. “Honey. Please hug me. I’ve missed you so. I can’t take this anymore, not touching my baby ever again.”

  “Mom.” My voice broke. If Dad didn’t do something soon, I would have to go to her. It hurt too much not to.

  Thankfully, Dad did move. Just a step at first, and then he grabbed my elbow and hauled me toward the door. I turned and hurried with him. We passed the three men in the foyer, who stared at us with dumb and forlorn eyes.

  The grayhaired man dropped his empty plate. It shattered at his feet. “What’s happening? Where’s Georgina?”

  Screams and cries rose from the house as we stumbled down its broken steps back into the street. I thought the people were being butchered and mutilated.

  I leaned against a parked car, gasping and crying. “Should we go back? Help them?”

  Dad stared at the shattered windows. From inside came the sounds of sobbing. He shook his head. “No. Only a part of them is dying. Only a part.”

  He looked at me and then buried his face in his hands.

  Life Insurance

  In the weeks that followed the dividing line in her life that was Hurricane Katrina, Tayla kept remembering the day her husband came home from work with the pygmy pumpkin and a new Band-Aid.

  It happened in late August, a few days before the hurricane’s forecasted collision with Louisiana. Everyone in New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward was staggering through the day under a yoke of worry forged during previous hurricanes when the low-lying area had been flooded. “We goin’ to the shelter tomorrow,” Tayla’s girlfriends said that afternoon as they watched over their kids at the playground. “How ’bout you?”

  “I’ll ask Jackson tonight,” she answered as she repositioned her daughter Rachel on her lap. “They’re letting him off early from the docks. Maybe we pack up and go after supper.”

  Except Jackson didn’t arrive home at their tiny apartment until after dark. He couldn’t meet her gaze, instead playing with Rachel and ruffling their boy Steven’s hair, saying, “What a big boy you are. I got something for you today.”

  Tayla stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed. “Where you been? I thought they let you off early.”

  “They did.”

  “Well?”

  Jackson watched their three-year-old son half-walk and half-crawl to the sofa, where he collapsed giggling into the tattered cushions. “Went to Bourbon Street and got presents for everyone.”

  “What? People talkin’ about evacuation, and you’re off buying presents? With what money?”

  That’s when she noticed the Band-Aid on the inside of his left wrist. It looked small and out of place on the muscular arm. As always, the arm trembled from a hard day spent lifting heavy items into the backs of trucks. He was holding some kind of small, white vegetable in his hand, about the size of a tennis ball. Its stem was nearly as big as the rest of it.

  “The hell is that?”

  “A pumpkin.” Crouching, Jackson beckoned to their son. “Steven, this is for you. Now can you take care of it and love on it and not break it? It’ll take care of you when I’m gone.”

  Strange thing to say, Tayla thought. She watched as Steven approached his father and solemnly accepted the gift. He took it back to the couch, where Rachel whined until he showed it to her.

  “That ain’t no pumpkin,” Tayla said. “Where you get it?”

  “Madam Bovard’s.” He stood back up, wincing like he always did when straightening his back. He withdrew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Now I know you crazy, buying pumpkins from some voodoo fortune teller.”

  “She’s more than a fortune teller.”

  “She’s a fraud,” Tayla said as she opened the envelope. “What the—? Life insurance policy?”

  Jackson nodded and looked at his toes. “Like I said, got presents for everyone.”

  Behind him, Rachel
cried when Steven yanked the pygmy pumpkin from her hands. It slipped and landed on the floor like a stone, thunking solidly on the cheap tile but not breaking as it rolled against Jackson’s foot. Jackson picked it up and returned it to the boy’s hands with a command to play nice.

  “This a policy for fifteen thousand dollars?” Tayla read. “How much you pay for this?”

  He told her.

  “Oh, Jesus. I was gonna ask you if we could use that money to get out of town till this hurricane blows over.”

  “It’s better this way, Tayla.” He dropped onto the sofa next to their kids in that bone-tired way he always had at the end of the day.

  She threw the policy at him. “You planning on killing yourself soon or something?”

  Jackson struggled back onto his feet so he could return the document to her hand. He did it with a weariness that made her feel guilty. “Can’t kill myself to collect the money. It’s a—what you call an exclusion. Please just take it. It’ll take care of you when I’m gone.”

  “Like that pumpkin over there?”

  He didn’t answer, just returned to the sofa and ran a hand through his son’s hair.

  “Stupid man. How’d you cut yourself?”

  “What?” He blinked at her like he was drugged.

  So distracted. She tried again, softer this time: “Your Band-Aid.”

  He glanced at his wrist. “Scraped it on a box.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Tayla didn’t give the bizarre events much more thought as the hurricane slammed into New Orleans that weekend. Even if Jackson hadn’t spent their pin money on some life insurance policy, they wouldn’t have had time to buy bus tickets out of town. They had no choice but to hunker down.

  Briefly, they considered sheltering at the Superdome, but dropped that idea when they heard priority was being given to the elderly and handicapped, of which they were neither, and that there were entry lines going on for blocks as National Guardsmen searched people for weapons and drugs. No, thank you. They’d just stick it out in their building—maybe hole up at the church if it got bad.