along the cold rails. The world had not woke up yet and Charlie stood there, still, feeling like the possessor of some secret knowledge.
Flicking his cigarette out into the yard, he went back into the house. Still trying not to look around him, he went to his mother’s room and turned the knob of her door. Bracing himself against the fetid smell, he swung it inward and then his breath got caught up in the back of his throat. His throat closed up and his heart hammered against his breastbone—
His mother, crouching in the corner, stood up, moving too rapidly, brushed the wrinkles out of her dress and came toward him. She made a hideous kissing gesture with her mouth and said, through windpipes riddled with decay, “I’m not there yet, Charlie. I ain’t made it to the byootiful place.” And he smelled her rose perfume covering up that fecal urine reek and closed his eyes, waiting to feel her cold cold hands on his cheeks only—
He didn’t feel them at all. Pressing himself against the doorframe and trembling, Charlie opened his eyes.
There, on the bed, just as he’d left her save for looking a little more dead, lay his mother.
“Jesus,” Charlie said aloud, putting a shaky hand to his chest and waiting for his heart to stop trying to explode. He thought about going into the kitchen to get some wine until he remembered he didn’t have any.
Charlie crossed over to the bed and thought, “Well, I guess I have to do this.” This was the part he dreaded most and he found himself questioning the reality of it. The whole thing just didn’t seem like something he ever saw himself doing. It felt like he had become someone else, living some other life.
The smell of death hung around his mother. There was some familiarity in the stink. Charlie had smelled it when they went to visit his great-grandmother in the rest home. He had smelled it in hospitals. It was like the body gone bad, turning like milk or meat or fruit. There wasn’t any other way to think about it.
Charlie went around the bed, undoing the four corners and tossing them toward the middle. Gathering quilt and sheet around Mother, Charlie bent down and heaved her up, slinging her over his shoulder. There was a sickening crack as his Mother met his shoulder with some stiffness before her torso went limp and draped over his back. If it weren’t for having to focus on some level of physicality, that sound and that feel would have made Charlie nauseous.
Cautiously, he crept through the living room and down the stairs as they creaked beneath the added weight. Once in the basement, Charlie hurried to the hole and, as tenderly as he possibly could, turned the hole into a grave. He climbed down in the grave with her. The mounds of dirt were well over his head and he felt instantly claustrophobic. As though he was going to be buried in there with her. He figured he had managed to go a good three and a half to four feet deep with the grave.
Charlie bent down and made sure the sheet or quilt covered all areas of her body. It would seem too disrespectful to just throw the dirt right on her. He scrambled out of the hole before panic attacked him.
He stood there, looking down at her and feeling like something was missing. Mother was not the most religious of persons but Charlie felt like some type of prayer was in order only he didn’t know any prayers. Suddenly, he ran upstairs and grabbed the two books out of her room. He dropped the romance in there with her and said, “In case the Beautiful Place has a restroom.” Then he flipped around the Bible until he found “Psalm 23.” Nervously, he read it aloud over her grave, not fully understanding it and not entirely sure he wanted to.
With that, he closed the Bible up and delicately lowered it into the grave until it rested against Mother’s still heart.
“God bless you, Mom. You deserve so much better than this.”
And just before he threw the first shovelful of dirt on top of her, a streak of sunlight
Flicking his cigarette out into the yard, he went back into the house. Still trying not to look around him, he went to his mother’s room and turned the knob of her door. Bracing himself against the fetid smell, he swung it inward and then his breath got caught up in the back of his throat. His throat closed up and his heart hammered against his breastbone—
His mother, crouching in the corner, stood up, moving too rapidly, brushed the wrinkles out of her dress and came toward him. She made a hideous kissing gesture with her mouth and said, through windpipes riddled with decay, “I’m not there yet, Charlie. I ain’t made it to the byootiful place.” And he smelled her rose perfume covering up that fecal urine reek and closed his eyes, waiting to feel her cold cold hands on his cheeks only—
He didn’t feel them at all. Pressing himself against the doorframe and trembling, Charlie opened his eyes.
There, on the bed, just as he’d left her save for looking a little more dead, lay his mother.
“Jesus,” Charlie said aloud, putting a shaky hand to his chest and waiting for his heart to stop trying to explode. He thought about going into the kitchen to get some wine until he remembered he didn’t have any.
Charlie crossed over to the bed and thought, “Well, I guess I have to do this.” This was the part he dreaded most and he found himself questioning the reality of it. The whole thing just didn’t seem like something he ever saw himself doing. It felt like he had become someone else, living some other life.
The smell of death hung around his mother. There was some familiarity in the stink. Charlie had smelled it when they went to visit his great-grandmother in the rest home. He had smelled it in hospitals. It was like the body gone bad, turning like milk or meat or fruit. There wasn’t any other way to think about it.
Charlie went around the bed, undoing the four corners and tossing them toward the middle. Gathering quilt and sheet around Mother, Charlie bent down and heaved her up, slinging her over his shoulder. There was a sickening crack as his Mother met his shoulder with some stiffness before her torso went limp and draped over his back. If it weren’t for having to focus on some level of physicality, that sound and that feel would have made Charlie nauseous.
Cautiously, he crept through the living room and down the stairs as they creaked beneath the added weight. Once in the basement, Charlie hurried to the hole and, as tenderly as he possibly could, turned the hole into a grave. He climbed down in the grave with her. The mounds of dirt were well over his head and he felt instantly claustrophobic. As though he was going to be buried in there with her. He figured he had managed to go a good three and a half to four feet deep with the grave.
Charlie bent down and made sure the sheet or quilt covered all areas of her body. It would seem too disrespectful to just throw the dirt right on her. He scrambled out of the hole before panic attacked him.
He stood there, looking down at her and feeling like something was missing. Mother was not the most religious of persons but Charlie felt like some type of prayer was in order only he didn’t know any prayers. Suddenly, he ran upstairs and grabbed the two books out of her room. He dropped the romance in there with her and said, “In case the Beautiful Place has a restroom.” Then he flipped around the Bible until he found “Psalm 23.” Nervously, he read it aloud over her grave, not fully understanding it and not entirely sure he wanted to.
With that, he closed the Bible up and delicately lowered it into the grave until it rested against Mother’s still heart.
“God bless you, Mom. You deserve so much better than this.”
And just before he threw the first shovelful of dirt on top of her, a streak of sunlight
Similar Books
