Wavedancer, part five
May. 6th, 2009 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read with the commentary
I couldn't sleep, and Mike shrugged all of my attempts at making conversation, so I had to be content with mentally mapping out the rest of my week and the numerous things I had to take care of before I could be satisfied that we could face winter. Soon enough we were approaching the outskirts of Detroit. The traffic became heavier, and Mike became more aggressive, passing cars with abandon and making a mockery of the speed limit. He seemed oblivious to the glares he received from his fellow drivers. I became worried as I covertly watch the speedometer approach ninety.
I was hesitant to say anything, but when he recklessly cut in front of another car I had to speak up. "You're going to get a ticket."
He didn't respond, but he did slow down a little. It was a good thing, too, as there was a state trooper on the side of the road after the next curve.
We still ended up being early for the service. I noticed a distinct lack of cars in the lot. The funeral parlor itself was not very well-lit, and it was even smaller than the Stapleton Funeral Home in Moray. We found the appropriate room--it was easy, as there were only two to choose from--and I was surprised at the complete lack of flowers. At the end of the room was a grouping next to an urn. "I didn't think she'd be cremated," I whispered to Mike, who didn't answer.
The room was empty except for a middle-aged couple and a man attired in a black suit, who walked forward to meet us. He carried a small leather briefcase.
"You must be Mr. St. James," he said, shaking Mike's hand. He turned to me and shook mine as well. He introduced himself as the executor of the will and set about explaining that she had left everything to the church except a photo album, which was left to any next-of-kin. "But, as I discovered, you are the only next-of-kin she had left," he added, picking a large cloth photo album up off one of the folding chairs. "The will was very old, but very clear. If you'd like..." His voice trailed off as they walked off a short distance to confer.
The middle-aged couple approached me and introduced themselves, and I was immediately uncomfortable. I had nothing to say to them. They didn't seem to care, actually; they talked enough for four people.
"It's such a shame," said the woman, dabbling at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her name was Tilly, and she explained that they had lived next door to the old woman for almost five years.
"We almost never saw her," added her husband, who was named Jack. "She never had a visitor, and never left the house, except for groceries."
Tilly dabbed at her eyes again. "She never talked to anybody. I don't know how anyone could live that way."
I refrained from pointing out that talking was not one of the main requirements for existence.
"I found her, only because I noticed that she hadn't gone out for a while," he said, looking upset. "I knocked, and I knocked, but there was no answer--"
"So he called the police," interrupted Tilly. A pain squeezed my heart when I suddenly remembered how I'd found my own father. I wondered for a moment if either of them had ever been face to face with death. I was willing to bet that the only experiences they'd had were a funeral homes. What were the odds of someone actually encountering someone who had passed away shortly before? They were apparently high in my favor, because I had found Mike's father as well.
"She never talked to anybody." Tilly's makeup was smeared.
"You already said that," said Jack, elbowing her. "I tried talking her into getting a burglar alarm," he added.
Tilly looked at him. "She had a heart attack, dearie. A burglar alarm wouldn't have helped."
"I was just trying to point out how stubborn she was." He adjusted his glasses. "An elderly woman, living alone...it just invites disaster. You can't be too careful."
"She was definitely stubborn," said Tilly, lowering her voice. "She stopped going to church."
"Really," I said.
"Said she didn't approve of the new pastor." She nodded conspiratorially towards me. I laughed inwardly. I'd never gone to church in my life.
"Do you have an alarm system installed?" asked Jack, a little too brightly.
"No, I do not," I said, wishing I was somewhere else. I really hated salespitches.
"You should definitely think about installing one," he said. It had the tone of a phrase often used, and I nearly groaned in frustration.
Tilly looked at me closer. "How did you say you were related, dearie?"
"I'm not," I said. "Mike is--was her grand-nephew."
"Have you been married long?" she asked, a little too innocently.
"I--we're not married," I stammered. "He's my--I work with him."
"Very kind of you to accompany him," smiled Jack. "What exactly do you do for a living anyways?"
"I own a charter fishing company," I said, trying to smile.
"Which supermarkets do you sell your fish at?" asked Tilly.
"Uh--actually, we take people out and let them fish with our equipment and tackle," I said. "Either Mike or I guide the boat, and then the customer reels in the fish."
"Oh," said Tilly, looking unimpressed.
"A small business can always benefit from an alarm system," intoned Jack.
I noticed the pastor taking his place. "I live on an island," I smiled, "with Mike. Even if there was a resourceful enough thief to get past a bridge that's washed out half the time, and then get past Mike, and me, they'd still have to deal with the fact that we have nothing valuable enough to steal." With that I nodded my dismissal and went to sit next to Mike, as the service was starting. I wondered if it was the same pastor she'd sought fit to dislike so intensely, and almost laughed. He seemed ill-at-ease, but he still delivered a nice, if short, service. Afterwards Tilly and Jack immediately latched onto Mike, expressing their sorrow at his great-aunt's passing, and I took this opportunity to look at the urn. Someone had placed a faded photograph of her beside it. She was looking hesitantly at the camera, her eyes narrowed. I picked up the photo album and turned the pages slowly. The first pages seemed innocent enough, with parents and siblings arrayed in various happy poses. As I turned farther the people became scarcer until the last picture--a copy of the one next to the urn--and then the rest was blank.
I felt for her suddenly. I imagined her slowly shutting everyone out of her life, and I closed the album and walked out of the parlor, back to Mike's truck. He'd left the doors unlocked and I got in and sat back, my mind seeing her life played out before me in a pattern that was too familiar for my own comfort.
The shoes hurt abominably and I kicked them off and threw them into the backseat. Seeing my jeans, I stripped off skirt and pantyhose and changed, not caring that I hadn't brought socks or another pair of shoes. My head was spinning with awful clarity. To live apart...how could she have led a happy, productive life?
The doors to the funeral parlor opened and Mike walked out, hands in his pockets and a grim expression on his face. Tucked under the crook of one arm was the photo album. I could only imagine the loss he must feel with this unexpected death.
He approached the passenger side where I was sitting and opened the door. I looked at him quizzically until I realized he wanted me to drive. I wasn't overly fond of driving barefoot but it was obvious that Mike was in pretty low spirits.
I started the truck up after he handed me the keys. After a couple attempts at making conversation failed miserably I just kept to myself and watched the freeway miles count off. Eventually he fell asleep, his head resting on the door frame, and I turned the heat up a notch. My feet were freezing. His great-aunt reminded me of Corny who had isolated himself in exactly the same manner from me. Not that I missed him or wanted him back.
A few hours had passed and I was feeling drowsy, so I pulled over at a rest station to stretch and powder my nose, so to speak. When I emerged from the rest rooms I noticed that Mike was now sitting in the driver's seat. As I got in--holding the uncomfortable dress shoes in one hand, as I had taken them off again as soon as I hit the parking lot--I had to suppress a huge yawn.
"What the hell are you doing walking around without shoes on? It's freezing out," he demanded.
Surprised, the door almost swung shut on my leg. I pulled my foot in and wiggled my toes in the heater after I shut the door. "I didn't bring any others, and these hurt too much," I answered, flinging the offending shoes into the back seat.
"You drove this whole way with bare feet?" he asked crankily.
"Is there anything I've done yet today that you haven't had a problem with?" I demanded.
He seemed ready to reply heatedly, but stopped himself. He smiled. "Sorry."
"It's okay," I said, waving it off. "When you start sounding like Lucy...then I'll throw your stuff on the lawn."
He laughed at that, and I thrilled at the sound of it. His voice really was wonderful.
"Tilly and Jack were an interesting couple," I remarked.
"I got the feeling Jack wanted to sell us a burglar alarm," he teased.
"Y'know...I got that feeling too." We were getting closer to home. Billboards for [blank] were popping up. I wanted to talk a little more to Mike, maybe ask him how he felt, but I could not cross that line. Instead I stared off into the dark, inventing new ways of dealing with an increased amount of customers.
Suddenly there was a horrible crunching noise and the pickup lurched up and over something and ground to a halt. "Flat tire, at the least," I said, trying to stay calm, but inwardly I was grinding my teeth. Another expense. I got out and surveyed the damage, noting immediately that the tire was completely shredded. I walked back to the rear of the truck--I could hear Mike cursing even outside--and cranked the spare tire down from underneath the bed. The cursing abruptly stopped and I heard the door slam, and as I was bouncing the tire up to the flat I saw Mike come around the front of the truck.
"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.
"Getting the spare," I replied evenly.
His eyes blazed. "Get in the truck!"
"I was just trying--"
"I said get in the truck!"
"Stop yelling at me!" I yelled back. "I was just trying to help!" With that I threw the tire at his feet.
"Damnit, you're not wearing any shoes!" he shouted after me as I got into the truck again, shoving my feet up into the heater to get them warm. I glanced back into the cab to see if I could find my shoes, and my eye caught sight of the jack sitting on the floor. I didn't understand why it was there--I thought he usually kept his in the big toolbox in the back of the bed--but he wasn't going to change any tires without it, so I swore profusely and hefted it out of its resting place. I slammed the truck door and saw that Mike was going through his toolbox, so I carried it up to the flat.
By the time we finished changing it we were both exhausted from yelling at each other. I had absolutely no desire to eat--in fact I felt rather sick from arguing but he insisted on stopping at Lenore's and getting carryout. When I tried handing him money for it I received such a murderous glare that I didn't even bother pressing him about it.
The house swam with darkness and emptiness, and I laid down on the couch, too tired to even undress. I was asleep within minutes.
On to part six
Read this section with the commentary
I couldn't sleep, and Mike shrugged all of my attempts at making conversation, so I had to be content with mentally mapping out the rest of my week and the numerous things I had to take care of before I could be satisfied that we could face winter. Soon enough we were approaching the outskirts of Detroit. The traffic became heavier, and Mike became more aggressive, passing cars with abandon and making a mockery of the speed limit. He seemed oblivious to the glares he received from his fellow drivers. I became worried as I covertly watch the speedometer approach ninety.
I was hesitant to say anything, but when he recklessly cut in front of another car I had to speak up. "You're going to get a ticket."
He didn't respond, but he did slow down a little. It was a good thing, too, as there was a state trooper on the side of the road after the next curve.
We still ended up being early for the service. I noticed a distinct lack of cars in the lot. The funeral parlor itself was not very well-lit, and it was even smaller than the Stapleton Funeral Home in Moray. We found the appropriate room--it was easy, as there were only two to choose from--and I was surprised at the complete lack of flowers. At the end of the room was a grouping next to an urn. "I didn't think she'd be cremated," I whispered to Mike, who didn't answer.
The room was empty except for a middle-aged couple and a man attired in a black suit, who walked forward to meet us. He carried a small leather briefcase.
"You must be Mr. St. James," he said, shaking Mike's hand. He turned to me and shook mine as well. He introduced himself as the executor of the will and set about explaining that she had left everything to the church except a photo album, which was left to any next-of-kin. "But, as I discovered, you are the only next-of-kin she had left," he added, picking a large cloth photo album up off one of the folding chairs. "The will was very old, but very clear. If you'd like..." His voice trailed off as they walked off a short distance to confer.
The middle-aged couple approached me and introduced themselves, and I was immediately uncomfortable. I had nothing to say to them. They didn't seem to care, actually; they talked enough for four people.
"It's such a shame," said the woman, dabbling at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her name was Tilly, and she explained that they had lived next door to the old woman for almost five years.
"We almost never saw her," added her husband, who was named Jack. "She never had a visitor, and never left the house, except for groceries."
Tilly dabbed at her eyes again. "She never talked to anybody. I don't know how anyone could live that way."
I refrained from pointing out that talking was not one of the main requirements for existence.
"I found her, only because I noticed that she hadn't gone out for a while," he said, looking upset. "I knocked, and I knocked, but there was no answer--"
"So he called the police," interrupted Tilly. A pain squeezed my heart when I suddenly remembered how I'd found my own father. I wondered for a moment if either of them had ever been face to face with death. I was willing to bet that the only experiences they'd had were a funeral homes. What were the odds of someone actually encountering someone who had passed away shortly before? They were apparently high in my favor, because I had found Mike's father as well.
"She never talked to anybody." Tilly's makeup was smeared.
"You already said that," said Jack, elbowing her. "I tried talking her into getting a burglar alarm," he added.
Tilly looked at him. "She had a heart attack, dearie. A burglar alarm wouldn't have helped."
"I was just trying to point out how stubborn she was." He adjusted his glasses. "An elderly woman, living alone...it just invites disaster. You can't be too careful."
"She was definitely stubborn," said Tilly, lowering her voice. "She stopped going to church."
"Really," I said.
"Said she didn't approve of the new pastor." She nodded conspiratorially towards me. I laughed inwardly. I'd never gone to church in my life.
"Do you have an alarm system installed?" asked Jack, a little too brightly.
"No, I do not," I said, wishing I was somewhere else. I really hated salespitches.
"You should definitely think about installing one," he said. It had the tone of a phrase often used, and I nearly groaned in frustration.
Tilly looked at me closer. "How did you say you were related, dearie?"
"I'm not," I said. "Mike is--was her grand-nephew."
"Have you been married long?" she asked, a little too innocently.
"I--we're not married," I stammered. "He's my--I work with him."
"Very kind of you to accompany him," smiled Jack. "What exactly do you do for a living anyways?"
"I own a charter fishing company," I said, trying to smile.
"Which supermarkets do you sell your fish at?" asked Tilly.
"Uh--actually, we take people out and let them fish with our equipment and tackle," I said. "Either Mike or I guide the boat, and then the customer reels in the fish."
"Oh," said Tilly, looking unimpressed.
"A small business can always benefit from an alarm system," intoned Jack.
I noticed the pastor taking his place. "I live on an island," I smiled, "with Mike. Even if there was a resourceful enough thief to get past a bridge that's washed out half the time, and then get past Mike, and me, they'd still have to deal with the fact that we have nothing valuable enough to steal." With that I nodded my dismissal and went to sit next to Mike, as the service was starting. I wondered if it was the same pastor she'd sought fit to dislike so intensely, and almost laughed. He seemed ill-at-ease, but he still delivered a nice, if short, service. Afterwards Tilly and Jack immediately latched onto Mike, expressing their sorrow at his great-aunt's passing, and I took this opportunity to look at the urn. Someone had placed a faded photograph of her beside it. She was looking hesitantly at the camera, her eyes narrowed. I picked up the photo album and turned the pages slowly. The first pages seemed innocent enough, with parents and siblings arrayed in various happy poses. As I turned farther the people became scarcer until the last picture--a copy of the one next to the urn--and then the rest was blank.
I felt for her suddenly. I imagined her slowly shutting everyone out of her life, and I closed the album and walked out of the parlor, back to Mike's truck. He'd left the doors unlocked and I got in and sat back, my mind seeing her life played out before me in a pattern that was too familiar for my own comfort.
The shoes hurt abominably and I kicked them off and threw them into the backseat. Seeing my jeans, I stripped off skirt and pantyhose and changed, not caring that I hadn't brought socks or another pair of shoes. My head was spinning with awful clarity. To live apart...how could she have led a happy, productive life?
The doors to the funeral parlor opened and Mike walked out, hands in his pockets and a grim expression on his face. Tucked under the crook of one arm was the photo album. I could only imagine the loss he must feel with this unexpected death.
He approached the passenger side where I was sitting and opened the door. I looked at him quizzically until I realized he wanted me to drive. I wasn't overly fond of driving barefoot but it was obvious that Mike was in pretty low spirits.
I started the truck up after he handed me the keys. After a couple attempts at making conversation failed miserably I just kept to myself and watched the freeway miles count off. Eventually he fell asleep, his head resting on the door frame, and I turned the heat up a notch. My feet were freezing. His great-aunt reminded me of Corny who had isolated himself in exactly the same manner from me. Not that I missed him or wanted him back.
A few hours had passed and I was feeling drowsy, so I pulled over at a rest station to stretch and powder my nose, so to speak. When I emerged from the rest rooms I noticed that Mike was now sitting in the driver's seat. As I got in--holding the uncomfortable dress shoes in one hand, as I had taken them off again as soon as I hit the parking lot--I had to suppress a huge yawn.
"What the hell are you doing walking around without shoes on? It's freezing out," he demanded.
Surprised, the door almost swung shut on my leg. I pulled my foot in and wiggled my toes in the heater after I shut the door. "I didn't bring any others, and these hurt too much," I answered, flinging the offending shoes into the back seat.
"You drove this whole way with bare feet?" he asked crankily.
"Is there anything I've done yet today that you haven't had a problem with?" I demanded.
He seemed ready to reply heatedly, but stopped himself. He smiled. "Sorry."
"It's okay," I said, waving it off. "When you start sounding like Lucy...then I'll throw your stuff on the lawn."
He laughed at that, and I thrilled at the sound of it. His voice really was wonderful.
"Tilly and Jack were an interesting couple," I remarked.
"I got the feeling Jack wanted to sell us a burglar alarm," he teased.
"Y'know...I got that feeling too." We were getting closer to home. Billboards for [blank] were popping up. I wanted to talk a little more to Mike, maybe ask him how he felt, but I could not cross that line. Instead I stared off into the dark, inventing new ways of dealing with an increased amount of customers.
Suddenly there was a horrible crunching noise and the pickup lurched up and over something and ground to a halt. "Flat tire, at the least," I said, trying to stay calm, but inwardly I was grinding my teeth. Another expense. I got out and surveyed the damage, noting immediately that the tire was completely shredded. I walked back to the rear of the truck--I could hear Mike cursing even outside--and cranked the spare tire down from underneath the bed. The cursing abruptly stopped and I heard the door slam, and as I was bouncing the tire up to the flat I saw Mike come around the front of the truck.
"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.
"Getting the spare," I replied evenly.
His eyes blazed. "Get in the truck!"
"I was just trying--"
"I said get in the truck!"
"Stop yelling at me!" I yelled back. "I was just trying to help!" With that I threw the tire at his feet.
"Damnit, you're not wearing any shoes!" he shouted after me as I got into the truck again, shoving my feet up into the heater to get them warm. I glanced back into the cab to see if I could find my shoes, and my eye caught sight of the jack sitting on the floor. I didn't understand why it was there--I thought he usually kept his in the big toolbox in the back of the bed--but he wasn't going to change any tires without it, so I swore profusely and hefted it out of its resting place. I slammed the truck door and saw that Mike was going through his toolbox, so I carried it up to the flat.
By the time we finished changing it we were both exhausted from yelling at each other. I had absolutely no desire to eat--in fact I felt rather sick from arguing but he insisted on stopping at Lenore's and getting carryout. When I tried handing him money for it I received such a murderous glare that I didn't even bother pressing him about it.
The house swam with darkness and emptiness, and I laid down on the couch, too tired to even undress. I was asleep within minutes.
On to part six
Read this section with the commentary