by Anna Oney
"Me? Comfortable?" Emma snorted involuntarily. "Oh, please." Rising from the mound, Emma brushed the dirt from her backside.
Tom immediately asked, "Ready?"
"I gue—" she began to reply, but was startled by Stella, who was headed back to them after making a little detour. As the pit bull noticed them gearing up to leave, she stubbornly collapsed to the ground. Rolling on her back, Stella thrust her paws into the air. Panting, she looked from Emma to Tom, seeming to plead to rest for a few minutes longer.
"She ain't going anywhere," Emma said, motioning toward her attention-grabbing friend. "She don't go, I don't go."
"Oh, right. Yeah, because that makes perfect sense. Stella. Is. A. Dog!"
"No, she's a human stuck in dog form," Emma politely informed him. "You might as well get used to it."
Flustered, Tom threw his arms into the air.
"Fine. Let's wait for Lady Stella to cool down."
Fifteen minutes passed without a single word being said, and then the silence was broken by Stella hopping from the ground. As Emma leaned over to pat Stella's back, the dog ducked from her owner's reach, headed straight for one of the mounds of dirt, and disappeared into the hole before it. Soon, Emma and Tom were showered with a layer of dirt as Stella dug the hole deeper, searching for something neither of them could see.
Stella dug with great persistence and speed. On the sidelines, the pair watched with anticipation, and were relieved when Stella found what she'd been searching for. From the bottom of the ditch, she emerged toting an ancient artifact in the form of a spear tip nearly seven inches long. As Stella placed the newfound treasure in the palm of Emma's hand, she growled at something behind her master.
"What is it, sugar?" Emma asked, wheeling about. But there was nothing. Confused, Emma scratched behind Stella's ear. "Nothing's there, baby."
The spear tip had been carved from a red and brown stone. The red color ran through the brown, resembling a lit flame. As was to be expected, the edges were dull, but the tip could still pierce through the skin and leave a nasty gash. As Emma held the weathered weapon, she felt a strange connection to it. She felt as though the artifact was already a part of her, and that she'd simply misplaced it in a previous life. Turning the treasure over, Emma admired the craftsmanship, then handed it over to Tom.
"Pretty neat, huh? Wonder how long it's been here."
"Hard to say."
Snatching it from his grasp, Emma said, "Well, c'mon. Daddy'll want to see this for sure."
But a couple of strides was all she was able to make before Tom grabbed her arm, preventing Emma from taking another step.
"Stop," he whispered. Pulling her back, he commanded, "Be quiet. Be still."
"Why, what for?"
"Walk over to that dirt pile over there."
"Which one?"
"Just pick one," he said impatiently.
"Okay, don't get all snippy."
Chapter 17:
Tom
As Emma approached the mound of dirt, Tom was certain of what he witnessed trailing behind her. With every step, a distinct pair of footprints made a fossilized impression on the ground.
When Emma reached her destination, she turned around.
"Fine. Are you happy now?"
"Just look at the ground."
Within seconds of laying eyes upon their invisible stranger's feet, Emma's brows perked with curiosity. Tom observed from the sidelines as she investigated. Busying herself with sniffing the evidence, Stella wagged her tail as Emma glided her fingers across the toes of the imprint.
"So this is new."
"You don't think it's creepy?"
"Well, yeah. But it's exciting!"
"Don't be fooling with it," he said angrily, striding toward her.
"I think it's pretty cool. For some reason, it's chosen to follow us."
"Us? There's no 'us' to it," Tom scoffed, helping her to her feet. "Whatever it is, it's only following you." Grinning, Emma jerked her arm from his grasp.
"You chicken?" she joked. Scratching behind Stella's ears, she exclaimed, "Let's see if he can keep up!" And together, dog and owner bolted back into the thick of woods, leaving Tom behind.
"Oh, okay!" he shouted after them. "I'll just stay here!"
Watching them take off without a single moment thought or concern for the thing following them bothered Tom greatly. Ever since his arrival to Back Wood, Tom had had no choice but to put aside his fear of the woods. But he wasn't over it enough to be left alone in the forest.
As Tom followed, he noticed as they led into the woods, the footprints appeared farther apart than they had before. Whomever the invisible stranger was, they were definitely able to keep up. Unnerved by the foreign prints, Tom decided to find another trail.
Sulking on his way back to Back Wood, Tom kicked at the fallen leaves and pine needles strewn on the ground. He thought of the day he had accepted Jesus Christ as his savior. Sally had seemed more excited about it than he and his father had been. He remembered being plunged slowly into the water, but none of the preacher's words were etched into Tom's memory. The celebration after the baptism was all he'd cared about: good Chinese food and a new video game.
Taking a deep breath, Tom looked to the sky and heard the snapping of twigs behind him. Turning around, he saw nothing but the same majestic woods behind him, but everything stood still. Birds were frozen in midair. It was the same with the squirrels jumping from limb to limb.
Realizing the strangeness of the scene, he wheeled about and immediately jumped back and fell to the forest floor, full of fright, at the sight of his mother. Sally smiled sweetly down at him; her beautiful curls of dirty-blond hair draped over her shoulders. She wore the same light blue dress she'd worn at his baptism, and cream colored heels.
"Am I frightening to you, my boy?" Sally asked, helping Tom to his feet. "You're staring at me as if I were a scary ghoul standing before you."
"Hey, Mom." He began sobbing and joined her side.
"Why are you crying?" she asked, grasping his hand. "Sweetie?"
"I should've helped you. This is going to haunt me for the rest of my life."
"No, baby, you're looking at it all wrong," she said. "I am very proud of you, and what's done is done. All you have to do is believe. Just take it one day at a time."
"How are you proud of me?"
"Because you finally did what I told you to do." She giggled, running her fingers through his hair. "Sorry I looked a little grim in the dream. I just needed to get my message across. I guess I did." She winked. "A mother always knows what's best for her child. And that girl Emma—she's what's best."
"But . . . how can you know that?"
"Because, silly, it's your destiny. Never let that girl out of your sight. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," he replied, still in a state of disbelief.
"You best! Or I'll come back and haunt your smart ass," she said as she pecked his cheek. Embracing him, she whispered, "I love you, and don't you forget it."
"I love you, too." In an attempt to stall her, he squeezed her tighter, and asked, "Why has everything stopped moving?"
"When you speak with the dead, everything, including time, stands still." Just as Sally began to evaporate, she smiled, and added, "See you later."
Sally left her son embracing a distant memory. Just as soon as she disappeared completely, everything inhabiting the woods was on the move once more. The birds chirped, and the squirrels landed upon their adjacent branches. The leaves blew with the wind and soared through the air before landing softly on the ground. The distant, soothing sounds of the creek had resurfaced.
With everything back to life, Tom continued his journey to the girl who, according to his mother, he was meant to always protect.
It took Tom an hour to reach the barrier, and he was surprised to find Emma and Stella waiting on him to emerge from their family's woods. Each of them had their own foldout chair. Emma's was navy blue and Stella's had a pinkish hue.
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"Where have you been?" Emma asked, standing to her feet, but the pit bull remained seated.
"Took another path." He shrugged, glancing toward the ground beside her feet. Clear as day, he spotted the extra pair of footprints. "I guess you still have your admirer."
"Looks that way," she replied, folding her chair and de-seating a frustrated Stella from hers. "Well, c'mon then. We gonna finish or what?"
"I'm ready if you are," he replied, taking the chairs from Emma's grasp. Arriving at the house, Tom leaned the chairs against Emma's porch, and slapped her rear before she cleared the steps. Tom was trying anything to get a rise out of her. The next part of their training was self-defense, and he knew an aggravated Emma would get the job done.
"What the hell was that for?!" she exclaimed, clutching at her backside. "Have you lost your mind?!"
"Are you good and mad? 'Cause you're going to have to be before we get started."
"Oh yeah," she fumed. "Right about now, I'm pretty pissed off."
First, Tom taught her the different pressure points that would inflict the most pain and worst damage. Teaching Emma "the death finger," as he liked to call it, was the easiest because her father had already taught her. Instead of going over it, Tom forced Emma to perform it to prove her skill. She hesitated at first, but Tom was certain the recent memory of him slapping her ass was what caused her to violently shove her thumb between the back of his jaw and upper neck.
Collapsing to his knees, Tom exclaimed, "Okay, okay, okay! You're good!" He struggled to catch his breath. "You're good."
"Daddy taught me well," she smugly replied.
Full of herself, Emma made the mistake of turning her back. Before she knew it Tom had a firm grip on her ankle, and pulled her legs out from under her. Falling to the floor, Emma landed beside Tom, who latched his hands firmly around her neck.
Squeezing slowly, he said, "Never turn your back on the enemy, or this is where you'll be."
Being so close to her, Tom was tempted to kiss her. If it were any other woman, he would have by now, but he believed Emma was a woman to be respected. The way she felt lying beneath him, with her flaming curls displayed around her beautifully freckled face, made Tom want to dare to meet his lips with hers. The angrier she got, the greener her eyes seemed to shine. Emma's heart was beating so fast, her neck was pulsating, and Tom's fingers rose and fell with the rhythm. In Emma's eyes, Tom could sense the confusion and self-consciousness she felt from being thrust into this situation.
"Tom," she pleaded. "Don't."
For only a moment, Tom was close enough to touch her the way he truly wanted. Locking eyes with Emma's, he took his hand from the base of her neck and sat up, tucking a stubborn piece of hair behind her ears, which were bright red. With hopes of defusing the situation, Tom helped Emma up and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder.
Uncomfortable silence filled the space between them. Not only was today's lesson clearly learned, but the chemistry that erupted between them was beginning to reveal itself.
***
In the days following their "close call," as Emma put it, people began to suspect something was brewing between them. They had formed a bond, one that in Emma's eyes only translated into friendship. But in Tom's eyes, it was much more than that. He began to fall in love, while she chose the coward's way out by ignoring her true feelings.
Chapter 18:
Griffin
During the days following the death of Griffin's grandfather, he found it difficult to find the right place to bury Robert. Although he was blessed that the violent storms had ceased, Griffin was saddened by the massive hole in his heart. Lacking love and companionship, Griffin knew his time at this place was over. Without his sickly grandfather to tend to he no longer had a reason to stay.
Griffin planned on burying Robert with a fond memory from the past, so he rummaged through a cardboard box of old photographs. After an hour of searching, he found the perfect one. The photo of his grandparents' fiftieth anniversary celebration seemed worthy enough to be buried alongside his grandfather.
"This'll do," he said, remembering the fish fry they'd held to celebrate.
Setting the picture on Robert's chest, Griffin trekked through their empty house toward the shovel, which was leaning against the washing machine. Exiting the house, he was on a mission to locate the perfect burial plot. Along the way he passed through the bare plum and fig trees, looking for any resemblance to what might have been a dangling snack. The hunger Griffin felt was great, but he didn't allow the rumbling in his stomach to outweigh the importance of finding a worthy plot.
He covered their massive stretch of land, and then came to the cornfield. The stalks looked burdened with bad posture and little to no nourishment. The violent storms had left behind beaten and battered remains of Robert's once-flourishing garden. Instead of vibrant green, all of the stalks were wilted and brown. The smell of rot ensnared Griffin's nostrils as he trotted, miserable, through the empty and useless cornfield. The bottom of the shovel collided with various lumps of dirt as he moved onward. In an attempt to improve his attitude, Griffin sped up, using the shovel as a walking stick.
With his head hanging low, Griffin's eyes laid upon the bottom of a particular stalk of corn. Wrongly cast among the others, it was a bright emerald green. The ears of corn glistened in the sunlight, beckoning him forward. As Griffin reached the tall and slender structure that housed the golden treat, he let his shovel hit the ground with a loud thump.
He ate them raw. Devouring the corn raw made the taste sweeter and fresher. With every bite, the juices from the kernels filled his mouth, and flowed swiftly down his throat. Griffin ate with a passion and a grateful heart. Before he knew it, he'd ingested three ears of corn, leaving two, which he promptly stuffed in the back pockets of his jeans.
Reenergized, Griffin resumed his search and circled the rest of the garden, praying to find a plot that would suffice. Depressed, he passed the once abundantly stocked cantaloupe and watermelon patches, and then traveled toward the abandoned greenhouse, which was located at the top of a small hill. The yellow building was condemned. It wasn't even fit to house the rodents and spiders now inhabiting it.
Surprisingly, next door to the building, his grandmother's flower garden thrived. The roots of the flowers had fought through the stubborn soil to find their way into a new world. Griffin's was a world where natural beauty was scarce and frigid, a world where the magnificence of Nature herself had been snuffed out by the harshness of its new predicament. These small flowers, it seemed, were the only exception.
This is it, he thought as he drove the shovel into the soil. Buried right beside Memaw's flower garden.
Digging the hole was the easy part. Fetching the lifeless body of his oversized grandfather and dragging it across the yard was a completely different story. The very thought of having to haul the massive load of nothing but rotting flesh and old pajamas caused Griffin to have a couple of hitches in his giddyup.
As he walked across their overgrown lawn, Griffin regretted making Robert feel as though it were a life-or-death situation for him to help feed his grandson's addiction. Griffin had guilt-tripped Robert every time he refused to let Griffin borrow a measly fifty bucks for a quick fix. Seeing his grandson go through the effects of withdrawal was what Robert had seemed to fear, and Griffin had feared the pain as well.
The icy gaze of his grandfather stared him down as he pushed the wheelchair to the side of the bed. Stationed at the opposite side, Griffin lifted the body to a sitting position. The smell wasn't at its worst, but a wave of the odor of decomposing flesh had him doubling over. The stench was so putrid it caused Griffin to nearly slap himself in the face trying to shield his nose from his malodorous grandfather.
Stepping from the room, he took a couple of deep breaths and slowly regained his composure. Griffin reentered, and found his grandfather in a slumped position with his palms and forearms facing up. Robert's chin rested upon his wrinkled neck. The press
ure from his neck and chin colliding forced his bottom lip to pucker out. Staring at him, Griffin was reminded of a dissatisfied toddler.
Dragging his grandfather from the bed into his wheelchair, Griffin found himself gazing into Robert's expressionless eyes. His grandfather's head being tilted back had forced them open. They were drained of all color, and appeared doll-like. After gliding his fingers over the lids to close them, Griffin returned to the kitchen to fetch the spare duct tape. With hopes of delivering Robert to the burial site without dropping him along the way, Griffin used the tape to secure his body to the chair.
Wheeling Robert from the room, Griffin paused midway through the kitchen and removed the ears of corn from his pockets. He set them on the table, and fetched his pocketknife from the top of the refrigerator so he could cut Robert loose when the time came.
The air was muggy and thick when he exited the house. Dew had begun settling on the tops of blades of grass. Trying to haul a load of that magnitude across the overgrown and muddy terrain proved impossible. Unfortunately Griffin hadn't thought it through. He pushed and shoved against the tall grass and uneven ground, begging the wheels to start gliding.
This is fucking horseshit! he thought, snatching the overgrown grass from the ground and angrily casting handfuls into the air.
"Horseshit!" he screamed.
Blades of grass were scattered and thrown every which way, including upon his grandfather's lap. They were settled between the slits of Robert's eyes and mouth. To Griffin, it looked as though his grandfather had had a sudden, wild urge to motorboat the lawn.
A small, inappropriate giggle escaped him. Don't laugh. Don't you laugh, damn it, he thought. It ain't funny.
Collecting himself, Griffin was quick to think of a solution to the problem. He left his grandfather's corpse behind, and retrieved the rusted hammer from the shed. He made a mad dash toward the abandoned greenhouse, and removed the boards from the building. Afterward he constructed a runway, and successfully wheeled his grandfather across.
