Welcome
to The Spot Writers. This
month’s prompt is “unfinished business.”
This week’s
story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK,
a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER
WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon!
***
New
Beginnings
by Cathy MacKenzie
“We need to go,” Tim said. “Now.”
Lisa glanced up at her boyfriend. “Right
now?”
“Yes. It's time.”
“But I'm not ready.”
“Well, get ready.”
Five minutes later, Lisa appeared
from the bedroom. “Do I look okay?”
Tim smiled. “You look gorgeous. As
always. But it’s dark. No one’s gonna see you.” He snatched his car keys from
the hook. “Doesn’t matter. Let's go.”
Half an hour later, Tim parked the
car by the wrought iron fence, and they walked to the gate.
“I'm not sure I can do this,” Lisa
said, gripping his hand.
Tim glanced over. “Sure you can. No
one will know.”
“But...”
It was his turn to grip her hand. “It's
okay. I gotta do this.” He flicked open the trunk and withdrew the shovel.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, quit asking.” He scanned the
area. “It's late. And dark. There’s no one here.”
The full moon illuminated the
cemetery, highlighting grey pillars reaching to Heaven. Some short and squat. Others tall and skinny.
Mark had been skinny. He took after his father.
She gulped in a great breath, surprised
the air was so fresh. What had she expected? The smell of death? Decay?
Decomposition? Perhaps. Except they were several yards from the first row of
graves, and the death smell couldn’t travel that far, could it? And those
nearest gravesites were old, from the 1800s. The most recent were at the back.
Any odour should be long gone after that many years. She shook her head. Quite
being so silly, she admonished herself. She’d frequented the cemetery
previously. No smell existed.
Tim slammed down the trunk lid.
“Sssh, quiet,” she whispered. “Someone
might be around.”
“Look around.” He spread his arms. “No
one's here.”
“Could be someone behind the bushes.
Or in the trees.”
“Hush, woman. There's no one.”
She leaned into him. Inhaling his
cologne. Gentleman Musk. She had bought it for his birthday the previous month.
She took another deep breath. Fall, her favourite season, was in the air.
Cooler temperatures always arrived mid-August. She’d miss that tell-tale sign
if she left, and she hated the thought of leaving Halifax and moving a thousand
kilometres away.
Tim was adamant he must finish what
he’d started. But what had he started? A
new life nineteen years previously? Sex. That’s all it was. But, they’d been
married, so it was more than sex. Their life together was to have lasted
forever. A match made in Heaven. All that jazz. But was anything forever?
“Unfinished business,” he’d said. “It
needs to be done.”
Unfinished business. Ironic. Not even
the new year, but it was as if he must make a fresh start. New city. New job. Cut
ties with family.
But he—they—couldn't leave without Mark.
He had to go, too.
They walked the rest of the way in
silence.
“Here,” she whispered. “Here he is.”
Tim thrust the shovel into the soil.
They hadn’t buried the urn as deeply as she’d expected. Perhaps Tim had known his
son would be unearthed. That this wasn't his final resting place.
Tears cascaded down her cheeks. This
was wrong. But she kept her thoughts to herself. Wouldn't do to upset Tim, and
the task was undeniably harder for him. Mark was his flesh and blood, not hers.
His son. She hadn’t had children. Discovered during her first marriage that she
couldn’t conceive.
Tim had changed since Mark’s death.
Not yet six months since he died. And when Tim got the transfer, he pretended
he didn’t want it, but she knew differently. She hadn’t wanted to leave with
him although he had expected her to jump for joy and obey, as usual. She had
been so done with him numerous times but kept going back. “Give me a bit of
time,” she had said. “I’ll come later.” He hadn’t been happy, but he didn’t
argue as much as she had expected. Secretly, she was glad. It was her way out
of their relationship.
She clutched his arm. She did love
him. At that moment, anyhow. Felt his
anguish. But any love she’d had for him over the past year of their time
together had slowly vanished. “You okay?”
“Yep. Almost done.”
The moon shone on the silver lid half
buried in the soil. She teared. Such an untimely death. But was any death
timely?
He reached down for the urn. He
brushed away the dirt and grasped it to his chest. “He's back.” He smiled. “I
have him back.”
“Janine won't be happy.” Her heart
thumped. She should have kept her mouth shut.
“She won't know. She'll never know.”
He set Mark on the ground, picked up the shovel, and tossed dirt haphazardly
into the hole.
What would Mark think? Would he be
happy to be removed? To be taken kilometres away to a strange place? And Janine.
She'd never liked Janine, Mark’s mother, Tim’s ex-wife. But the woman grieved
as any mother would and faithfully visited him. Was it fair to let her sit with
him, talk to him, mourn over him? Kneel by an empty hole?
“Tim, no. We can't do this.”
“What?”
“This. What about Janine?”
“To hell with Janine. He's my son,
too.”
“But...”
He walked to the edge of the cemetery
and threw the shovel into the woods. When he returned, he picked up his son. “You
with me, or what?”
“Yeah, but...” She eyed the woods. What
would happen when someone found the shovel? And the grave. So obviously
disturbed.
Disturbed.
Her boyfriend looked as disturbed as
the grave. A madman shedding tears.
“I'm going. You come or not,” he
said.
She stood, rooted like the trees bordering
the cemetery. She couldn't do it. Couldn't walk away with stolen ashes. Mark
deserved to be left in peace. Dead or alive, his mother deserved her son. The
thought of her coming to his grave, not knowing it was empty—no, she couldn't
be a part of this.
He turned. “Well…”
“No, I—”
“Fine. Stay. I'm going.”
They hadn't been happy the past few
months. It was more than Mark’s death. Simple life getting away from them, and
she deserved more. She hadn’t given notice—to her employer or her landlord. Perhaps
she had known all along she wasn't going to leave with him.
She raced to the woods and picked up
the shovel. Tim was still visible in the dim light. She could easily catch up.
He was unaware she’d crept up behind
him. She held the shovel above her head, and the scene played out in slow
motion: Tim dropping the urn, Mark hitting the ground and his ashes scattering
like lime, Tim falling...dead...
The shovel felt weightless in her
hand. She lowered her arm.
She couldn’t do it.
“Tim, we should take the shovel with
us. Your fingerprints are on it.” And now mine, she thought.
Tim turned. “What?”
“The shovel.”
“Yeah, okay.”
New beginnings, she thought. Now that Tim’s finished his unfinished business.
***
The Spot
Writers—Our Members:
Val
Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine
A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil
Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De
Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento