The Bitter Taste Of Ash (2) I rolled onto my back, laced my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling. Plain, white and unremarkable, it brought into sharp focus the task I had to perform. My stomach suddenly lurched, and I fought down my gorge. When I'd determined it was safe to move, I sat up. And a wave of nausea swelled within me. Closing my eyes, I hung my head, allowing my stomach to settle further before attempting to stand. The room spun behind my eyelids, swirling into a vortex of distorted memories. No amount of concentration would make it stop, and I knew I was going to lose this battle. I lurched to my feet and stumbled to the adjoining bathroom and dropped to my knees near the toilet. As I leaned over the bowl, my stomach convulsed, its contents releasing in one mighty stream that seemed to last forever. When my stomach realized there was no more to give, and the heaving subsided, I sat back on my haunches, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I spit the remnants of my discharge into the bowl and flushed the evidence away, closing the lid for good measure. Out of sight, out of mind. Adra had woken early to feed the girls and, as I entered the kitchen, all three greeted me with warm smiles. My sister's eyes were puffy and swollen from grief and fatigue. I nodded to her, acknowledging that I empathized with her situation. �Breakfast is almost done,� she announced as she saw me stroll into the room, heading straight for the coffee pot. �Sleep well?� she asked, already knowing the answer. �No. You?� She shrugged, her shoulders lifting less than an inch. �Not really. The girls woke me up at 6, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I figured I'd make breakfast.� �Uh-huh.� I mumbled as I poured my coffee. I sat down across the table from my nieces who were happily making a mess of their breakfasts. They were both dressed in identical pink jumpers, little bows in their curly locks at the temples. They resembled their mother in most ways except their eyes. These were pools of liquid obsidian, like their father's, not bright, aqua hues like their mother's. Adra scooped a couple strips of bacon out of the pan, jostled them gently to dislodge any excess grease, and laid them on a plate on the nearby counter. This she brought to me. As she set it down, I saw she had already loaded it with fried potatoes, an egg (dead) and two pieces of buttered toast. �Quite the spread, sis.� I smiled at her, picked up a piece of bacon and crunched into it. �Thanks. I figured you'd need a healthy start to your day.� She shot my a glance that spoke volumes: she was none too happy about my plans. �Very thoughtful.� I replied, oozing sarcasm. �I'll be sure to clean my plate then.� �Don't be an ass,� Adra snapped, looking sheepish as soon as she said it. She glanced at her daughters, ashamed of the outburst. �Eat your breakfast, will ya.� �Yes, Mother.� I bit into another piece of crispy bacon. I mused over the fact that Adra was becoming more and more like Mom all the time. Perhaps it was having kids that made one act in a more maternal fashion. Or maybe it was inherent, a product of their genetic code. Nature versus nurture. I wondered which side of the argument on which I fell. Am I product of my nature or of my nurturing? Am I more like Dad or Mom? Or a combination of both? Is any part of me unique, wholly my own, or am I simply operating from models, mimicking the behaviors I witnessed while growing up? I wanted to say I was a product of my nature, not a clone or simulacrum of some sort; an honest individual. But, sitting in that kitchen, eating breakfast while my mother lay moldering in a funeral home, waiting to be interred, I felt a primal urge for vengeance, to right a wrong (whether perceived or real made no difference). The urge was much more powerful than anything I had ever experienced before, driving me past reason, past logic and the need for proof. �Where does Bruce live,� I asked suddenly. Adra flinched as the words registered. She turned from the sink where she was washing the dishes, regarding me with trepidation. It was a look I had seen many times as stared at my own reflection: Adra, I had been told before, was the female version of me. At the moment, I doubted it wholeheartedly. I saw fear and weakness in her at that moment, whereas I was resolute and determined. Seeing this in my face, Adra's shoulders slumped, recognizing it would be useless to try to deter me. �He lives over on Cedar, in the old Morgan place. They moved about six months ago and he bought it.� Taking a drink of my coffee, I thought about this information. I attended Elementary School and Junior High with Sarah Morgan. She had always been a bit of a snob because her father was a former baseball player, a celebrity. I never cared much for the sport myself so I wasn't impressed. And her mother was a raging alcoholic. Everyone knew this but were discreet about it . . . except me. Sarah resented me for bringing their business out into the open. Now Mr. And Mrs. Morgan had moved away, leaving their home open for a potential killer to move in and murder my mother. Pushing my chair back from the table, I stood, gathered my plate, still laden with food I couldn't eat, and set it on the counter near the sink. I took another sip of coffee and set the cup on the plate. �Thanks, sis.� I gave Adra a quick hug and walked away before she could make another attempt to divert me. I ruffled the twins' hair as I passed them, eliciting a squeal of delight. �Bye, girls.� The air was crisp, invigorating, and it helped to shake off the fog of emotions that clouded my thoughts. Yes, my mother was dead, but perhaps she won't have died in vain if I could coerce some information out of Bruce. Though I'd never met him, just the idea that he had spent time with my mother, in her house, the house that had once been my home, and might have been responsible for her death, infuriated me. How dare he! What audacity! What unmitigated gall! For that, I would show him no mercy . . . if he was responsible. The streets passed without my notice: my legs were carrying me of their own volition, as familiar with the streets of this sleepy little town as the mind that drove them on. I stopped to allow a car to pass down a narrow side street before crossing to a two-story brick Colonial with green shudders and an wrap-around porch. An old Ford pickup sat in the driveway, its rusted panels reminding me of open sores. The truck had been mistreated over the years, either by its owner of by the elements. Maybe both. In my admittedly biased opinion, their presence indicated their owner was a callous man, indifferent to his surroundings. Such a man was capable of anything. I halted my progress on the sidewalk before the house, staring up at the house. The windows were dark; not even the faintest trace that life continued could be seen within. That fact caused a shiver to sprint down my spine. If he was asleep, would I persist until I roused him? Or would I allow reason to override my growing sense of determination and retreat to the caf� for another cup of courage and a slice of sanity? No, I decided. I haven't the stomach for the bitter taste of ash this morning. I tromped up the front stairs, making as much noise as possible in an attempt to ensure the man would be awake when I rang the doorbell. I knew from experience the doorbell was a loud, obnoxious thing, designed to rouse even Mrs. Morgan from a drunken stupor. All I had to do was press it. For some reason I hesitated. Whether out of courtesy for a fellow human being's need for rest or because the big house, with its joyless memories evoked dread within some primal part of my psyche, I couldn't be certain. I did know, however that I had come here for a reason, for a purpose, and I wouldn't be denied. I rang the doorbell and stepped back a pace, enough room for Bruce to open the screen door without hitting me. The chime rang with remarkable clarity even through the closed door. The sound brought back a memory from my childhood. I was thirteen and, as a class assignment, was forced to participate in a charity walk-a-thon. Every student was expected to solicit sponsorships from their neighbors. I went directly to the caf� to charm a few sponsorships out of Mom's coworkers. They obliged, and I considered myself very clever for having thought of it. In one fell swoop, I nearly met my sponsorship quota. As I ventured home, having eaten my fill of apple pie, I passed by the Morgan residence and, recalling Mr. Morgan's celebrity status, decided to attempt a solicitation from the former athlete. I climbed the steps and rang the doorbell without the slightest hesitation, fixing my most charming smile in place. There was no answer to the first summons, so I pressed it again. Seconds later, an angry Mrs. Morgan jerked the door open and leveled a bleary-eyed stare at me. �What do you want?� she asked in an acid tone. My confidence shaken, my smile slipped somewhat, but I plowed ahead nonetheless. �Good afternoon, Mrs. Morgan. My name is . . . .� �I know what your name is, boy,� she interrupted. �You're in Sarah's class, aren't you?� I nodded. �What do you want?� she repeated. �We're participating in a walk-a-thon,� I said, my voice quavering with adolescent anxiety, �to help fund a cure for heart disease. Would you . . . ?� Mrs, Morgan snorted. �No, I would not. Now kindly leave.� She slammed the door in my face. I wasted no time in vacating the premises, either. I scurried down the steps and race-walked the rest of the way home. I never made the mistake of visiting that house again. Until today. Bruce hadn't yet answered the door, so I pressed the doorbell again, listened to its inelegant chime once more, then decided a knock on the sturdy oak door might be in order. The ornate ovular inset had been etched with a French Provincial style border with a profusion of leaves cascading around the edges of the frosted glass. I didn't remember seeing it here the last time I was here. I laid a hand against the glass, tracing the flowing pattern with my finger and the door began to swing open. I pulled my hand back, startled by my lack of concentration. I expected to see Bruce glaring at me from across the threshold. In which case I would've lost the upper hand and would have to begin from a position of disadvantage. But Bruce wasn't there; the threshold was empty as was the foyer beyond. Empty and dark. Alarms began to ring in my head. Wasn't this guy supposed to be a contractor? Didn't contractors generally need to be to work early? But his truck was here. Unless he had another mode of transportation, in which case, I already missed him. A movement caught my eye and I peered into the gloomy interior in hopes of discerning its source. Seeing nothing, I called into the shadows. �Bruce? Are you in there?� No answer. �I'm Janet's son. I just wanted to talk to you about her if I could.� Still nothing. I ventured a step forward but stopped on the threshold, listening to the house. �Bruce?� My voice quavered like a teenager's. I took another step forward, crossing the threshold. The atmosphere of the interior of the house was radically different than that of the exterior. The air was stale, dank, and the gloom was like a physical presence: I could feel it pressing against the exposed skin of my face and arms. �Hello?� I attempted once more. If Bruce was here, he surely would have heard me and come to investigate this intrusion by now. As my eyes adjusted to the murky interior, I could see the layout of the house. Before me lay the staircase and a corridor that led to the kitchen. To my left, the dining room. To my right, the living room. I turned to scan first the dining room and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, glanced right . . . and spied the bloated corpse of who I assumed was Bruce, reclining in an easy chair in the living room. I stepped back quickly, nearly crashing into the occasional table standing sentry against opposite wall. �Good god,� I exclaimed. As I realized the man wasn't going to come after me, some of the courage I'd possessed earlier returned. I took a couple steps forward, and peered at the dead man. His eyes were horribly distended, bulging out of their sockets and his midsection had swelled to the point of bursting the buttons off his flannel work shirt. He might have been handsome in a rugged, weathered way when he was alive but in death he was hideous. His skin was purple and blotchy, his hands and face puffed up, like his stomach, until they seemed about to burst. His fingers looked like cooked blood sausages, the thin membranes of skin darkened along the insides and ready to burst. I came even closer, lowering my face to within a few feet of Bruce's. �Jesus, man. What happened to you?� His deformed features offered no reply. I directed my attention to the carnage surrounding him. They indicated signs of a struggle. Had someone done him in, too? Was there a conspiracy afoot? My imagination now loosed, I surveyed the scene immediately around the chair, looking for some clue as to what had happened. The remnants of a reading lamp lay strewn across the polished wood floor beside an end table on which � I assumed � it once rested. Amid the scattered shards of green-tinged glass, I saw a folded sheet of lined paper. Kneeling to take a closer look, I spied words, written in a flowing cursive style. Careful not to cut myself on the shrapnel surrounding it, I extracted the paper. As I unfolded it, I saw there were two pieces of paper folded together not just one. The second piece had a message typed across the page, offset from the lines. I sat this one aside for now and concentrated on the legible writing of the first page. Shock hit me like a sledgehammer as I recognized my mother's handwriting. I cast an angry glare at the corpse as tears welled in my eyes. �Bastard,� I ground out through gritted teeth. Returning my attention to the message, I began to read. Dearest Bruce, I know you're upset by the things we discussed last night, but believe me, you'd be doing me a favor. This life has no meaning for me any more. I've done what I needed to do. My children are grown. Adra has children of her own now. Adam will settle down, after he's done chasing his dream and start a family of his own, too. They no longer need me. I'm sorry if this hurts you, but I'm too old to start over again. I've been alone too long to give myself over to someone else. Even if that someone is as wonderful as you are. I .have nothing left for me here. So, please, do as I ask. I can't do it and hope to see my children again. God wouldn't allow it. You must, my dear friend. For me. All my love, Janet I couldn't believe what I'd just read. I reread it three times and still couldn't believe the words on the page. Mom wanted to die? She asked to be killed by this man she just met? Why? �No!� I refused to believe it at first, but then I remembered her insistence that we not talk about unpleasant things during my last visit, and I knew it was the truth. �Why, Mom. Why?� I screamed, my rage and grief combining to produce the most feral, anguished cry a human larynx could make. Tears came freely and I did nothing to stop them. I wanted to wash away the vision of those terrible words from my eyes and my mind forever. I wanted to rail at the heavens, where Mom was, watching me despair of her decision, and fret at God that he shouldn't have let her do it. That she did have something for which to continue living. But I couldn't. I knew how miserable she had been, how lonely. Despite the promise her granddaughters offered, she was unhappy, deeply and truly unhappy. She'd missed my father, the only man she'd ever truly loved, terribly since his death eighteen years previous. And she thought she found a way to be with him again. I looked at Bruce's engorged face through bleary eyes and wondered how she learned that he could give her what she desired. What was it about you that made her broach such a subject as assisted suicide? Were you a criminal? A murderer out on parole? How had she known? Then I remembered the second page of the letter I'd found amongst the pieces of broken lamp. I laid Mom's note aside and picked it up. To whom it may concern; To whoever finds my body, I would like to confess that I, Bruce Allen Dennings, am responsible for the death of Janet Harding. I administered a fatal dose of poisonous hemlock, per her insistence. She approached me about ending her life. And I loved her, despite our all-too-brief acquaintance. I couldn't refuse her. Now that she's gone, I can't bear the thought of being without her. This is my confession. Do with it what you will. Bruce Allen Dennings Dumbstruck, I sat on the floor at the feet of of Bruce's corpse for some time, weeping softly and holding the letters from these two tortured individuals. At length, when I felt able to speak without bursting into renewed sobs, I spoke to the dead man. �I'm sorry. I never even met you and I was convinced you murdered my mother in cold blood. Had I known the truth, had she talked to me about her feelings, her despair, I might've been able to help.� But I hadn't. And now it was too late . . . for both of them. Looking into the face of the man who killed my mother, I offered him my bitter thanks for his mercy before turning away to find the telephone. I located it in the far corner of the room, on the edge of a massive mahogany desk strewn with what looked like bills of lading. I picked up the receiver, dialed 9-1-1, and waited for the operator to answer. Mother's funeral was the following day. A small crowd gathered to say their farewells. Tears flowed copiously, nary an eye was dry . . . save mine. I knew the truth now, I knew what my mother had felt and why she'd done what she did. I was saddened by her departure but couldn't grieve her decision. It was her life, her choice. I only hoped she was finally at peace. I said good-bye to Adra and the girls, Uncle Cliff, Uncle Stuart and Aunt Sue and Aunt Dora the next day. I returned home weary but somehow rejuvenated. I dropped my bags at the beginning of the corridor that lead to my bedroom and tossed my keys onto the table beside the door, happy to be home. I scanned the various paintings occupying every corner of my apartment. They were my dream, my hoped-for future. I won't give up on my dream, I vowed. But perhaps I shouldn't let it consume me so completely, either. As I made my way into the kitchen for a glass of water, warm thoughts of my mother swirling through me, I noticed the message indicator light on the telephone charger was blinking.
Go to part: 1 2
Copyright © 2006 W N Dayley |