Time Travel Omnibus, page 974
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 witness 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 burning 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. It 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.”
“. . . kill . . . him,” Irene screamed through labored breath.
“No.” The Reverend followed them, staying beyond Irene’s kicking legs. His black slacks were stained dirt red and a few wisps of hair were out of place. “No.”
“I will!”
“I know.” He held up a hand, and the laborer loosened his grip and set her feet on the ground. His arms still locked around her waist. “What good will come of it?”
“He killed my son!” Irene drove against the worker’s arms. He stumbled, but did not break.
“Your son is alive.” The Reverend pointed at the casket. “In time, he will forget. You will forget.”
“No! I will never forget.” Irene scratched at the worker’s arms. He released her and Irene fell forward, to her knees. Pain shot through her arms as she landed on her wounded hands.
The Reverend forced a smile and placed his hands on her shoulders. A dimple formed against his young cheek. “That is the promise of resurrection. That is the gift the Lord has given us, why he resurrected us, to wipe the slate clean. All of our sins will be forgiven. Forgotten. As our lives roll back, all the things we have done, will be undone. In a few hours, a day, you will forget. It will be as if it never happened.”
Irene did not want to forget.
“I am sorry.” The Reverend’s high voice broke for a moment, and he wiped away tears of his own. “In resurrection all things, all of life’s mysteries, become clear. I will speak to your husband. I think it is best for you to spend this first day away from your son. By yesterday, he will be fine, and this horrible memory will be gone.”
Irene screamed and lunged to her feet, only to fall flat in the dust as the laborer forced her back down by her shoulders. The remaining three diggers gathered around the casket.
The Reverend took Irene by her tender hands, and guided her to her feet. Standing, Irene was a head taller than he.
Her son was still in his casket, his eyes closed. He tossed his head and murmured something against the soft lining of his coffin. Her husband was still on his knees, his head held tight in his thick hands.
He looked up. “Please,” he begged. “Please?”
Irene shook her head, bit her lip. The pain cut through her consciousness.
The Reverend broke the intervening silence. “In our lives we all do things that we regret. Monstrous things. It pays nothing to dwell on them. I want you, Irene, and you, Delbert, to spend the night here, contemplating this.”
“What about my son?”
“I will take him. In a few hours, his wounds will heal. He will remember nothing of this tragedy. Neither will you.”
“I need him,” Irene shook her head. “I don’t want to forget!”
“Irene. Please.” The Reverend spread his arms. “This is for the best.”
The Reverend turned to the four laborers and pointed to Irene’s husband. “Bind his hands and feet. He will spend the night here, by his son’s grave.” He looked sideways at Irene. “Lock her in the caretaker’s home.”
Irene watched as the men lifted her wounded son out of his coffin and into his buggy. He did not stir. Moments later the Reverend pushed her son away, across the uneven field, toward the setting sun.
“Will you come with me, ma’am?” The worker that held her back asked. “Please?”
She nodded her head, and watched as her husband’s feet and hands were bound with hemp.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be led away by the digger’s hard, calloused hand. I will not forget, she swore to herself. I will not forget. She repeated the mantra over and over. Your husband did this . . . he took your son away from you.
Irene waited until dark before breaking out. The caretaker’s house was little more than a shanty, four walls cobbled together by spare pieces of wood, stone and metal. The walls had many soft spots. Irene spent a few minutes working on one, pushing on loose stones, pulling rotted wood, until she formed a space wide enough to squeeze her thin body out of the house, dragging her torso and legs against the ground. The laborers had left long before. The night was silent, dry, without wind.
