Shaking out the Dead

by K M Cholewa

Geneva halted the parade and split paths with the music.

  “Oops,” she said.

  Ralph. She had forgotten Ralph.

  She made a sound that could pass for a single laugh, but her face was screwed up, her brows drawn together. She forgot Ralph. It was both a problem and a victory.

  Could she leave him overnight tucked safely against the shack in the dust and smoke? Should she call John and ask him to bring Ralph inside?

  It was 10 p.m. Late, but not too late. Geneva lifted the needle from the record and grabbed her keys. She would try to be quiet but suspected she would not go undetected. She headed out for the gravel road.

  She turned off the asphalt highway and away from street lamps. Beyond her passenger window the mountains were dark whale backs surfacing above the earth. The forgetting was the sign, she knew. It was time. The letting go was here. She thought of what she had asked John earlier that day: Do you need to know what you’re holding on to in order to let it go? The question now seemed irrelevant. John had been right. You just open your hand. What made it tricky, Geneva realized, was that when you opened your hand, you didn’t get to decide what did and did not fall. To let go of anything, it seemed, you needed to be willing to let go of everything. On the bright side, there was nothing to fear since anything authentically yours can’t go anywhere. Open your hand and your fingers don’t fall off.

  Geneva’s heart blazed. Her vision seemed oddly clear. She felt fully attuned to the cosmic groove, otherwise known as the Tao. The flow. God. She drove through the night so in sync that, even on the bumpy road, she felt the car was gliding. The farther from the city and lights she drove, the deeper the stillness around her should have been. Yet, Geneva sensed a vague stirring, a definite fluctuation in the frequency. She feared she was losing the cosmic thread. Something was wrong, unsettled. She glanced down at the car’s controls, looking for red lights and warnings. She pressed the brakes and looked beyond her windshield. Everything started to shake.

  Geneva threw the car into park and dove from it. It was a reflex. She stumbled into the road. She was disoriented for a moment in the wide darkness. There was nothing to hold onto. Nothing stood still.

  And then, it was over.

  In the middle of the road, Geneva stood with her adrenaline pumping. A single remaining stripe of indigo glowed above the mountain’s curve. The stillness returned but had changed in quality.

  It was an earthquake, she thought. Right? It wasn’t personal. Was it?

  She looked across the prairie. The mountains settled back in. Her headlights illuminated rocks and grass. Her car door hung open, and the motor ran. Geneva climbed back in and put the car in gear.

  Somewhere, pressure had been released. Something, somewhere, let go. “God is Pressure.” Geneva had read it once. And forgotten it. But the words had returned true. God is Pressure, the push of light. So you better let it flow. If God was indeed Pressure, it seemed to Geneva, holding on, holding on to anything, was to resist God.

  Good luck with that, she thought.

  She reached John’s property and pulled toward the ditch outside the barbed wire fence. She stepped up his driveway, trying to keep her feet quiet on the gravel. At his door, she reached to the ground for the black lacquer box. Beside it, leaning against the shack, was a shovel she hadn’t noticed there before.

  Just then, the door opened. John squinted down at her.

  “I forgot my husband,” Geneva said.

  “That’s good,” John said.

  Geneva stood with the box.

  “I know,” she said. “I thought so too. There was just an earthquake, right?”

  “A five-pointer plus, I’d guess,” he said. “Rattled the dishes.”

  John raised his hand then, and Geneva saw he was holding an industrial-sized flashlight.

  “Ready?” he said.

  Geneva nodded. John grabbed the shovel.

  “I know a good place,” he said.

  “Scattering him never felt right,” Geneva said. “Burying him — that’s better.”

  They set out from the shack, past the fire pit, following the flashlight’s pool of light. They walked for ten minutes in the sooty air through a grove of aspen and into the open space beyond it. John stopped and put down the flashlight.

  “How’s this?” he said.

  Geneva looked around. In the darkness, she couldn’t tell it from any other spot.

  “Good,” she said, trusting him.

  John jabbed the shovel into the ground. Geneva held the box while he dug.

  “Wish we’d get some rain,” she said. “Wash out the valley.”

  “These fires are here ’til the snow flies,” John said.

  Soon John had dug a small trench. He stepped back and leaned into a hip. His hands and chin rested on top of the long wooden handle. Geneva stepped forward. She undid the latch. She paused to see if there were words. But she was done with words. That’s what made it time. She shook out the contents along the length of the trench, not a scattering to the wind but a laying to rest under a sky that held the transforming elements, earth turned to fire turned to air.

  “You know,” Geneva said, “I always figured if there were a heaven, hell, and all those zones in between, that they were part of the big bang too, and they’ll get sucked back into nothing exactly when we do.”

  “Makes sense,” John said.

  Geneva thought they were the kindest of words.

  “He said he loved me,” Geneva said.

  “What more could you ask for?” John said.

  “For it to be real,” Geneva said. She half-laughed, then sighed. “Whether I was asking a lot, or a little, I have no idea.”

  John held his opinion.

  “Think you’d ever sell this land?”

  “No,” John said. “I promise. He’ll be okay here until he’s not here anymore.”

  “I wonder how long it takes.”

  “To disappear completely?” John asked.

  “To become something else so completely that what you were is gone.”

  John pushed the shovel into the pile of dirt he had dug out to make the trench. He spread the dirt over Ralph’s ashes.

  “I want to become new,” Geneva said. “But I get the feeling it entails forgetting who you’ve been. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “It’s the Holy Grail,” John said.

  Geneva looked down into her hands. She laughed.

  “Now I have to figure out what to do with this box.”

  43

  

  Tatum spun into the lot of Vincent’s motel. She took only one breath to collect herself then threw open the car door. She knew Vincent’s room number, and she knew her mission. Overload the senses. Drown feelings. She would show him her scar and watch his face. He would struggle between backing off and pretending it didn’t matter. He was not a superficial guy. That’s not how he’d want to see himself.

  A stage-three air alert had turned the night a dingy purple. Tatum stood in the eerie light outside Vincent’s room. Her pulse raced. But before she could knock, the door opened. They both jumped, startled. Vincent looked surprised but not unhappy to see her.

  “Vincent,” Tatum said, “this has nothing to do with any expectations. I’m happy to edit your book no matter what. But I do want you. I want you.”

  A question mark on his face was followed by a soft smile.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Weren’t expecting room service, were you?” Tatum said nervously. She looked at the ground.

  Vincent lifted her chin. He moved his hand to her hip and kissed her. Tatum was surprised to feel her body brace.

  The kiss was not long.

  “I was just leaving,” Vincent said. “I’ve got to meet someone.” He motioned with his chin toward the restaurant across the street. “Half an hour, an hour at the most.” He reached to her hair and took a strand of it between his finger and thumb. “Can
you wait?”

  “Okay.”

  “The manuscript is on the desk,” he said, “if you need to amuse yourself. The TV has bad reception.”

  “All right,” Tatum said.

  Vincent stepped aside, and Tatum slipped into the room.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said. He hesitated before pulling the door closed behind him. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Well, you’re welcome,” Tatum said, and she winced as he closed the door.

  You’re welcome? She was such an idiot.

  The motel room was rundown but not seedy. Tatum lowered herself onto the end of the bed almost as though she wasn’t certain it would hold her. The air conditioner was off. It was the noise, Tatum knew, from her history with Vincent. Instead, the windows were open and traffic noises drifted in through the screens, as did the smoke. The room smelled dirty. The whole valley smelled dirty.

  She surveyed the room. Tatum had to hand it to Vincent, letting her stay there alone, he must not have anything to hide. She stood and paced, examining what private details of Vincent’s world might lay on the surface. A half-filled water glass. A comb on the dresser. Half a package of Rolaids. Her eyes drifted from the surfaces to the walls. Above the television set hung a mass-produced print of a landscape. Pine trees, a waterfall, and a little bridge crossing a creek. It was hideous. Tatum smiled. She’d been in a dozen motel rooms just like this. She had an affection for them and their crummy art.

  But unlike those other rooms, she was not in this one for suicide. She was here for annihilation, the next best thing.

  She walked to the desk and fingered the manuscript. She wasn’t in the mood to read but knew Vincent would want her to say something when he got back. A few comments about his manuscript would stoke the fires. She picked it up and turned. Above the bed, she noticed a print similar to the one above the television set. She looked back and forth between the two. They were not similar. They were exactly the same.

  “That’s hilarious,” she said aloud, but her spirits sank. It made her think of Paris. He’d toast the fact of it.

  No, she thought. Not Paris. Vincent. She looked at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed. Self-annihilation better lends itself to spontaneity. Vincent was giving her too much time. Time to notice that the mattress was off the floor. Time to wonder how many women had made Vincent no-strings-attached offers of their bodies. Some people you have to love on their own terms. Their frailties and cruelties must remain unacknowledged. Then, there were people like her, crawling for love. A million sorrys, and it was never enough. What made some people worth more than others, she wondered? Why is a bone thrown from one person worth more than another giving everything she’s got?

  A grinding sound interrupted her thoughts. Wind hitting the building? She looked to the windows. Something wasn’t right. Her mind tried to make sense of what it saw. Then, it clicked. She thought she heard a strong wind. But the curtains weren’t moving.

  The window was.

  Earthquake.

  Her mind formed the word, and it was over.

  “Whoa,” she said.

  She looked back at the crummy artwork. One of the pictures had shifted, but they were still exactly the same.

  The heat of the room snuck up on her. She looked at the worn bedspread, and it bored her to the point of claustrophobia. What made Vincent worth more than her, she thought? But the question dislodged a shard of hate, a shard not reserved for Vincent alone. When the people you love don’t love you back, how can you help but hate them, at least a little?

  Tatum dropped the manuscript onto the bed. She didn’t leave a note. Her own thoughts were scaring her, and she had to get out. She left the room, nearly stumbling to her car. She barely remembered the ride, but there she was, parked outside the Deluxe. It was their last night open. Her last chance. She had no idea where Paris was living. She might never know again where to find him. Her fingers curled over the steering wheel. She bit her bottom lip. She wanted Paris to save her from her own thoughts. She didn’t want to hate him. She wanted to love him.

  But would he let her be the woman he had once loved? The one he had drawn in the picture?

  She banged her head against the steering wheel. The problem wasn’t who Paris would allow her to be. The problem was her and who she could be. She hadn’t lived up to the image he had held of her. Was she any different now?

  Tatum lifted her head and screamed at the windshield. No words, just a frustrated howl. She put the car in gear and peeled out. Back at the duplex, she stormed into her living room and stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do.

  She didn’t want to exist.

  Her eyes darted through the room. There she was in the pillows. There she was in the ottoman. She lunged toward the sofa, yanking off the pillows and pitching them toward the door. She kicked over the ottoman. In the kitchen, she grabbed a box of plastic garbage bags and then marched to the linen closet. There, she pulled out the sheets and towels. She stuffed the bags. In her bedroom, she filled another bag with clothes and shoes. She tore apart her closet. She dared anything to matter enough to stop her.

  Giant bag after giant bag landed at her front door. It wasn’t suicide. It wasn’t sleeping with Vincent. She could self-annihilate without self-destructing, she told herself. If she had nothing, she thought, she was one step closer to being nothing. Ground zero without the bomb. She loaded her Celica to capacity. It wasn’t all she had, but it was all she could fit. In the foyer, she paused. It was nearly two in the morning, but she didn’t care.

  “Geneva,” she yelled at Geneva’s door. “Geneva.”

  But there was no answer. How could she not hear? Tatum imagined Geneva jamming her head under the pillow to drown out the sound of her voice. Tatum left the duplex, got into her packed car, and pulled away from the curb, heading for the Salvation Army.

  Tatum drove the near empty streets past the marquees and strip malls. She parked behind the square, dark building. It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, but there was a floodlight above the Dumpster-sized drop box where people left their cast-offs. Let the poor rest their feet on her ottoman, she thought, tipping it over the bin’s edge. Let the homeless wear her clothes, she thought, heave-ho-ing the garbage bags over the rim. Would Paris recognize her blue corduroy blouse on one of his midnight customers, she wondered? No. Tonight was the last night. He would never see the women again.

  Tatum emptied her car and stood beside the drop box under the starless sky. Her apartment was torn apart. Her car was empty. The air was so packed with particulate that her lungs were fatigued by breathing itself. She looked for the moon and waited for the relief. The fix. She wasn’t gone, but was she gone enough? Or should she have stayed in Vincent’s room? Did she need a fistful of pills to get the job done?

  The moon was nowhere. The moon was the one that was gone. Not her. It didn’t seem quite fair. She turned a circle beside her car, her head thrown back and eyes turned upward.

  The feeling she expected didn’t come, the melancholy and heartbreak for a lost moon. One longs for what is gone, and Tatum knew that the moon could not be gone. It made her angry, not sad, that the moon wasn’t there. She searched the overcast sky for the vague halo.

  It was discomfort no matter how you sliced it, she thought. The discomfort of having. The discomfort of losing. The discomfort of fear. The discomfort of courage. Maybe choosing one over the other wasn’t so great a leap.

  “I love you, Paris,” she said, looking up into a moonless sky. “Okay?”

  She got back into her car. She was going to the diner. She would drag Paris outside. She and Paris. They were going to find the damn moon.

  44

  

  The night was slow, as Paris had expected. It became clear he needn’t worry that there would be meatloaf enough for the women. He collected the old menus and tossed them into the garbage can in the kitchen.

  When 2 a.m. rolled around, t
he retarded women took their usual booth. Paris delivered piping hot plates straight from the microwave to their table. The women looked confused for a moment but then picked up their forks. Paris thought they might want soup too, for nostalgia’s sake, so he brought them each a bowl. Only one other woman showed up that night, the alcoholic with the shake. Paris brought her food too, and they ate quietly while he cleared out the cabinets beneath the counter. He threw away unneeded cleaning supplies and carried stacks of dishes back into the kitchen. He found himself feeling almost good as he laid them out with the pots, pans, and cooking utensils ready for tomorrow’s sale. He didn’t know what the next day would bring or where he would go. West, he thought, maybe. It didn’t matter. He was starting over. Soon he would be back to his old, invisible self. He would let people be and not expect anything to be other than it was. He would be one less pair of sticky hands.

  A thud from the back of the kitchen interrupted his thoughts. He lifted his head and heard it again. Someone was banging on the back door. He walked toward the rear of the kitchen, craning his neck. He pushed the metal bar, and there she stood beneath the fire escapes in the purple night.

  Linda.

  “The ’tards said you wanted to see me,” she said. She hugged her arms, though it wasn’t cold. She looked down the alley then back at Paris.

  So much for unsticky hands.

  “You’re closing tonight, huh?” she said, clearly nervous and unsure what he might want of her.

  Paris stepped out and placed a brick kept nearby into the door to keep it ajar. He had thought it was all over, but here Linda was, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out the money.

  “Here,” he said. “I want you to have this.”

  Linda drew her brows together and looked at the bills.

  “What’s this?”

  “To get out of town,” Paris said. “I mean, if you need to, or want to.” It occurred to him that that was his own plan as well. “I’m leaving too” he said. “If you need a ride, I can give you one,” he blurted. “It’s not about sex or anything,” he added quickly, but the words felt awkward hanging in the air. “Just take the money,” he said. “But you can have a ride too. If you want.”