The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  "Where are the girls?" Emma asked.

  "They know you're okay," Shirley said. "But I told them to stay with Doolie so we could look after you. Besides," —she paused—"they didn't want to miss the trial."

  "Emma," Mrs. Maples cut in. "If you need me, just holler."

  "Yes, ma'am," Emma replied, easing back against the pillows that were propped up behind her. "Thank you."

  After Mrs. Maples left, Emma looked to Shirley, and asked, "Momma, why do you hate her so much?"

  "I don't hate her," she said. "I just don't know her. It's not like she makes it easy. Mrs. Maples behaves as if she doesn't want to be known, so what's the point?"

  "Well, she lost her two boys, remember? Maybe she's standoffish because she doesn't want to be asked about them."

  "Maybe."

  ***

  An hour was all that passed before Shirley brought up Griffin. Emma was surprised by how long it had taken for her brother's name to be mentioned, and she marked her place in the book she'd been reading and gave Shirley her undivided attention.

  "It'll be soon, Momma. Don't worry," Emma whispered, grasping her mother's hand. "We'll get him home."

  With Doolie's attentions drawn elsewhere, Emma knew that Shirley felt free to verbalize her concerns. They knew it pained Doolie to remember the past, so much so that he would shut down any conversations beginning with Griffin's name.

  Their relationship hadn't been filled with long-lasting discussions on life, or even the occasional fishing trip. Doolie had never known how to talk to Griffin. Lecturing was Doolie's favorite brand of conversation, and it had never set well with his son. Whatever he had to say always came across harsh and demeaning.

  In Emma's heart, there was no doubt that Doolie loved Griffin; he just didn't know how to show it. Doolie's favorite excuse was, "I just don't understand him," which Shirley and Emma found odd, considering Doolie and his son were exactly the same.

  Similar to most addictions, Griffin's had started out small, in the form of marijuana, but had gradually grown worse. When Griffin reached his twenties, Doolie, in a last-ditch effort to help his son pull his life together and to mend their relationship, had offered to build Griffin a cabin, the same as Doolie had done for Emma.

  The only thing Doolie had required of Griffin was that he stay clean and help build it, and in return, Griffin wouldn't have to pay rent. Of course Griffin had enthusiastically accepted the offer, but he had only showed up for two days of work. Needless to say, the cabin had never been built, and their relationship stayed as it always had been.

  "But all these things keep popping up," Shirley cried. "Look at you. I don't think your father will ever be satisfied enough to leave Back Wood."

  "He will," Emma stated with certainty. "Daddy'll be satisfied. And then we'll be on our way."

  Chapter 10:

  Doolie

  Doolie began the meeting as soon as every neighbor showed. Rambler, his loyal companion, stood proudly by his side. Sitting on top of the bar, Lizzie, Jane, and Claire seemed to be trying their best not to gawk at Ethan, who was guarded by Tom, Winston, and Maddox. Lyle sat next to Farrah, trying to explain what was going on.

  "All right, everybody," Doolie interjected, "if you haven't heard what's happened, get quiet so I can fill y'all in."

  Across the hall, Doolie noticed Matt's and Ian's worried glances toward their older brother and continued.

  "Ethan's killed somebody."

  Immediately, everyone began whispering among themselves and scanning the crowd, and they all seemed to hope the victim wasn't a loved one.

  "Calm down," Doolie said. "Calm down. We all know who was practically attached at the hip." He sighed as everyone erupted in tears. "Olivia succumbed to her wounds this morning, and we need to decide as a group what we're gonna do with her killer."

  By their enraged, bloodthirsty, grief-stricken shrieks, it was apparent that everyone who'd known Olivia wanted Ethan dead. But deep down Doolie didn't want to kill the boy. He and Ethan's parents had been acquaintances for years, but the relationship they had shared didn't excuse their eldest son's actions. They weren't there to fight for him, and no one seemed to be on Ethan's side, not even his brothers. There was no way around it: Ethan had spilled blood, and it was time for him to pay.

  "All right, all right. It's settled. Matt, Ian, say your goodbyes," Doolie said to them, sighing as he looked their way.

  Standing to the side, the Clery boys watched the brothers embrace for the last time. Winston, Maddox, and Lyle had grown up with him; despite Ethan's crimes, Doolie knew it pained them to see Ethan go. Back then they'd known Ethan as a simple troublemaker. Doolie was thankful the boys hadn't remained close. If they had, it might have been one of his nephews on trial instead.

  "Break it up," Doolie interjected. "C'mon, break it up." Ushering his nephews to the side, Doolie leaned forward, grasped their shoulders, and whispered, "Look, I'm gonna do it. I don't want y'all being a part of it."

  "You sure?" Winston asked, attempting to keep the relief from showing on his face.

  "Positive." Doolie nodded. "Absolutely. And remember this," he said, lowering his voice to make sure no one could hear, "the law is what we make it. We are the judge, the jury—you name it. Understand?"

  "Where are you gonna do it?" Maddox asked.

  "The woods. Some ways from here," Doolie answered. "And I sure as hell hope this doesn't become a normal thing."

  Chapter 11:

  Emma

  Hearing the single shot was all it took for them to know the deed had been done. As it echoed throughout the forest, the neighbors knew everything had changed. Back Wood wasn't safe. Their small community was no better than anyplace else. Ethan may have been the first to take someone's life, but they were the ones who had voted to have him executed. All of them had blood on their hands, and the innocence that had once thrived was obliterated once those votes were cast.

  By suppertime, the boys had finished digging Olivia's grave. Despite her injuries, Emma refused to miss the funeral. As Emma expected, Tom was the first to volunteer to assist her. His persistence to be near her when she was in need only multiplied her interest in figuring out why. Because of him, Emma felt crowded every time she left the house. She couldn't explain it, but somehow she was flattered and annoyed at the same time. Why can't things be simple? Why?! she thought as Tom graciously ushered her toward the gravesite.

  The burial plot was located near a massive pear tree that stood on the hill overlooking the pond. Upon their arrival, the boys laid Olivia's lifeless form next to her grave.

  Mrs. Maples had washed the blood from Olivia's body and tidied up the girl's appearance. Olivia's brown hair was tucked behind her shoulders. She had been clothed in a purple dress with white daisies embroidered around the waist.

  The sight of her lying there took Emma's breath away. Olivia was gone, and there was no bringing her back. Her light had been snuffed out at such a young age, and selfishly, Emma couldn't help but think of what Doolie and Shirley would do if it was her lying there instead of Olivia.

  "Poor girl," Mrs. Maples said, sniffling. "What a waste."

  Images of Emma and Olivia playing together as children flashed across Emma's mind as she watched the men lower her old friend into her grave. Oftentimes the two girls would go swimming in the creek, and return with a bucket of fish, their clothes and hands covered with scales. Replaying the memory, Emma had a sudden urge to embrace Olivia, but the time had passed.

  It was only when Olivia's remains were put to rest that Emma realized her hand was entangled with Tom's. Locking eyes with him, she began to speak, but stopped when she felt someone's shoulder brush against her own.

  "Hey, Daddy," Emma said, snatching her hand from Tom's grasp. "You okay?"

  Shrugging in response, Doolie raised his brow, and whispered, "Got you a man?"

  Chapter 12:

  Pete

  For months now, Pete had rocked in the same chair, waiting patiently for Doolie
to arrive. They were long-time friends, and they'd had a well-thought-out plan that had been set in stone— or so he'd thought. Pete had been instructed to wait for Doolie if something catastrophic ever happened—like the flare—, and he wasn't supposed to risk tackling the journey alone. It wasn't safe, and neither was it wise to leave behind the amount of supplies Pete had hidden away.

  When the flare hit, Pete had thankfully been at home, but he'd witnessed countless others trying to reach theirs. Pete had known something was wrong, because no matter what he did to fix it, his truck wouldn't start, and the electricity was out for longer than he believed it should have been.

  Pete's history of flashbacks from his tours in Vietnam plagued him daily. After years of therapy and three stays in psychiatric hospitals, he had finally gotten his PTSD under control. Lately, though, Pete had awakened in odd places in the house, without any recollection as to how he'd gotten there.

  When Pete returned home from the war, he had reopened his father's pawnshop and married his high school sweetheart, Emily. For as long as she could, Emily had accepted and loved Pete as he suffered through his affliction, but the day he'd hit her, she'd finally had enough.

  The day Emily decided to leave had been the greatest day of their son's life. Though Zach hadn't lived with them for years, he'd been relieved that his mother had decided to escape the depths of Pete's battle scars. Unlike most children, Zach had longed for his parents to get divorced so he wouldn't have to spend every night trying to fall asleep while his father experienced night terrors.

  Eventually Pete had gone bankrupt. The money he received from the government wasn't nearly enough to pay his bills. Shortly after losing his father's business, Pete had begun working for Doolie, and they'd become good friends.

  The first time he'd been introduced to the Clerys, he had felt welcome. It seemed spending time with them helped decrease the number of his flashbacks, along with his feelings of rage and guilt. Though the emotions were still there, they weren't as potent, and after many years Pete had finally learned to forgive himself.

  The wind woke him from his trance where he'd been living in the past. For weeks he'd worn the same clothes, and he found himself trapped inside a cocoon made of his own stench. Since the funk rising from him was enough to make a strong-stomached man gag, Pete decided it was time to change his raggedy clothes.

  Climbing the stairs, he avoided the hallway mirror, ducking from its view, and stepped into his bedroom. Nowadays he couldn't stand his reflection. All that stared back at him was a pathetic old man—a man who believed his time was up.

  The clothes piled in his dresser were musty, worn, and shabby. Despite the hopelessness of his garments, he found a decent pair of warm-ups and began to undress. After pulling the sweater over his head, he bent over and pulled the sweatpants up to his waist.

  It wasn't until Pete straightened back up that he realized he no longer stood in his bedroom.

  Crouched in the mud, surrounded by the thick jungle of Vietnam, Pete found himself on guard duty while the rest of the men in his platoon slept. Mosquitoes seemed to bite every inch of his body. He heard soft growls and movement in the trees from wild animals roaming the area. Shooing away another massive mosquito, he heard something approaching from behind. He wheeled about, spotting the enemy hunched beside a tree. The man raised his weapon to fire but was too slow, and Pete jumped him and stabbed him repeatedly in the neck.

  As the man drew his last breath, Pete rose from the ground covered with blood, and by that time the rest of the platoon had been roused by the gurgling sounds of the enemy bleeding out. Pete had left his victim nearly decapitated.

  Jeremy, one of Pete's closest friends, stepped forward, and whispered, "Pete," shaking his shoulder, "Pete, you're covered in that sumbitch's blood."

  Discarding the corpse, the platoon trudged through the thick, muggy terrain. There was no such thing as a lone soldier, so they kept a watchful eye out for the rest of the Vietcong. The man, Pete assumed, had separated from his group, and when he'd seen Pete was alone, he must have figured Pete was an easy target.

  It took them hours to arrive at base camp. Jeremy guided Pete through, refusing to leave his friend's side. Before anyone else could see Pete, Jeremy rushed him over to their platoon's tent. Ushering Pete past the empty beer cans and posters of naked women, Jeremy continuously whispered, "It's gonna be okay."

  Once on his bunk, Pete remained stoic and grim for several minutes, until he began pounding his head with his fist.

  "Pete! Pete!" Jeremy shouted, shaking him. "Come on! Snap out of it!"

  Sobbing, Pete stared at Jeremy with nothing but grief in his eyes. His shame was evident, and another minute didn't pass before Pete began savagely tearing the blood-drenched clothes from his body. As Pete buried his face in his hands, images of the man he'd so violently stabbed flashed before his eyes. Seconds after he came to his senses, Pete dropped his hands to his thighs and was startled to find blood staining them. Distraught, he rushed toward the mirror to find his face covered in blood as well.

  Slowly, he turned to face Jeremy and found that his friend had disappeared—and Pete no longer stood inside of their platoon's tent. He stood in the middle of his filthy bathroom, and was struck by a sudden wave of grief that he was alone.

  No one, and nothing but his wife's failed attempts at decorating, surrounded him. The flowered wallpaper Emily had covered the bathroom with years earlier was steadily peeling. Alone, he turned away from the mirror and wondered what could have triggered the flashback. There hadn't been any loud noises or screams. He'd only been changing his clothes.

  Am I so sensitive, he pondered, that the simple act of changing clothes could bring me back to the time I most regret? Along with the image of the enemy's head barely hanging on by the tendons of his neck, seeing all of the blood had driven Pete mad.

  Shaking his head of the memory, Pete made his way downstairs. After the first month he'd expected Doolie to arrive and gather the supplies, which they'd religiously added to for the last two years—but Doolie had never showed.

  The entrance to Pete's cellar was located in the kitchen. It was kept locked at all times, and the latch was hidden beneath his flimsy fold-out table. Moving the table from in front of the latch, he unlocked the door, and began easing down the basement stairs. The only light aiding him came from the small window in the corner. Foolishly, he'd left the kerosene lanterns and fuel with the supplies. He finally found a lantern, and then managed to choose a single portion of food without giving in and grabbing seconds. He needed to conserve what nourishment that remained.

  Pete's spirits were extremely low, and when depression set in, his flashbacks would begin, and his grip on reality would slip. He tried to stay positive, but Pete feared the loneliness was beginning to consume him.

  C'mon, Doolie, he thought as he climbed the steps. Hurry your ass up!

  Chapter 13:

  Emma

  It had been two weeks since Olivia's murder, and as a result of their brother's death, Matt and Ian seemed to express more enthusiasm toward their daily chores. Since that day they'd learned anything Doolie could teach them, and eventually they had become members of Winston's hunting party.

  Once the drama was settled, Mrs. Maples taught Emma a couple of low-impact exercises that she referred to as "deep breathing techniques" and "shoulder blade squeezes" to help strengthen Emma's ribs. At first, Emma treated Mrs. Maples's methods the same as she did every exercise: by objecting to do them. To Emma the exercises were self-explanatory, but that didn't keep Mrs. Maples from critiquing Emma's every move.

  "Sit up straight!" she had commanded. "Don't slouch! Take a deep breath. But don't strain yourself!"

  After the third day of Mrs. Maples barking orders and slapping Emma's knee whenever she caught her exhaling or moving too quickly, Emma had finally had enough. She hated the attention and pity her injuries had drawn, so to escape Mrs. Maples's overbearing demeanor and the prying eyes of her intrusive neighbo
rs, Emma had begun sneaking away to strengthen her ribs on her own.

  As children, whenever their parents had fought, Griffin and Emma would hide at the Boom Hole, which housed the deepest water in the area. The distance between Back Wood and the hole was lengthy, but she didn't mind. Besides, walking was another way to reinforce her stamina.

  Whenever Emma would disappear, Doolie was the only person who could find her. So it didn't surprise her when, several days after she'd begun slipping away, she caught sight of him leaning against the concrete table beside the mossiest cypress tree, waiting for her to finish her last exercise.

  It wasn't until Emma began inching her way toward him, avoiding the cypress knees, that he broke the silence.

  "You've always liked this spot."

  "Yeah," she said, sighing as she admired the ruggedness of the mossy landscape. "Beautiful, ain't it?"

  "Absolutely," he replied. "Nothing prettier."

  "Hey, Daddy?" She said, reaching his side.

  "Yeah, baby?"

  "You think Pete's still alive?"

  "I hope so. But it's unlikely."

  "But if he is . . . we're still bringing him back with us, right?"

  "That's the plan. But the truth is, we don't need him as much as we need his supplies."

  "He's your friend!" she replied, appalled.

  "Look, there's friends, and then there's those who benefit us."

  "But, Daddy," she argued, "you promised him."

  "You know his story. And there's no telling what he's like now. My bet is"—Doolie paused, spitting at the ground—"he's done gone through his meds and lost his mind. The Pete we know could be a completely different person now."