The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  The only way Griffin could possibly lower Robert's body into the grave was to cut the tape and simply dump him in. When he did so, the impact of the flesh colliding with the earth made a grisly sight. Robert's legs and arms buckled and crumpled behind him.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Griffin took a deep breath and began filling the hole. By the time he was finished, the sun had descended, and with the setting of the sun came the soft chirp of crickets. The mosquitoes interrupted the tranquil moment by landing upon any visible part of Griffin's ivory skin. Unfortunately they drowned out the crickets' beautiful, soothing music.

  Before returning to the house, he looked down at his grandfather's grave, wiped a couple of unexpected tears from his face, and said, "I'll miss you, Pawpaw. Love you."

  Swatting at his pesky admirers steadily getting their fill, Griffin's palm collided with one, smearing blood across his hairy arm. This is all the blood I want to see, he thought. Let this be enough. He dropped the shovel at his feet, turned, and parted from the grave.

  When he arrived at the back door, he slung open the screen door, causing it to slam loudly against the laundry room wall. He stubbed his toe against the washing machine, and screamed, "Fuck! Fuck! FUCKITY-FUCK!"

  Stumbling a few feet, Griffin regained his balance and found himself facing the kitchen. What he saw caused him to rub his eyes in disbelief. A pair of pink, sparkling wings was strapped over the back of small, brown-haired girl who was sitting on top of his kitchen table.

  Stepping inside, he said, "Yeah, ummm, hello? Can I help you?"

  The girl seemed to be startled, and she wheeled about to reveal the motion of her jaw steadily chomping on his only food.

  "What the hell, kid?!" he exclaimed. "That's my corn!"

  Chapter 19:

  Emma

  During the days following Tom's invasion of Emma's private space, she found it difficult to be around him. The fear of losing control, jumping his bones, and performing unspeakable, sinful things to him caused her to keep him at bay.

  Every now and then, when Emma caught herself staring into his eyes, she could sense he felt more for her than she did for him. The look in his eyes wasn't lust or desire; Emma believed it was love, and longing for her to feel the same way for him.

  On the inside, the annoyingly shy and self-conscious girl thrived. Emma's rare gift of concealing it from the people surrounding her was the only thing keeping her head held high. Tom was a well-deserving, loving, and possibly the most caring man she had ever met. Emma wouldn't admit it to anyone, but the reason she'd grown so fond of him was because he reminded her so much of Doolie. Of course his attitude toward Stella could have used some work. But with Stella, Emma knew it was the same story with every man, the only exception being Link.

  As Emma leaned against her porch railing, she prayed for the courage to tell Tom she was leaving. She thought of the pain she'd cause him once he discovered she'd refused to confide in him—the pain anyone would feel if they were abandoned by someone they loved. She justified leaving him behind by reminding herself, If I go alone, no one's life will be at risk but my own.

  The hours they spent together, five days a week, were some of Emma's best. When they were together, Emma loved to watch Tom interact with the girls and joke with his little brother. The more time she spent with Tom, the more she wanted to see him—not only for the five days each week, but for the other two as well.

  The friendship Emma had been hoping for began to turn into something completely foreign to her. Something that turned Emma's face as red as her hair, and forced her to stumble over her words.

  During the night, she often found herself lying wide awake with the mere thought of him. Her nights were spent thinking of conversions they could share. Emma replayed perfect scenarios of confidently telling Tom how she felt, but they were always interrupted by the little voice inside of her head saying, You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough.

  Emma continued sitting on the porch and soon noticed her now blue-haired friend, Darby, climbing the hill. She had a devilish grin stretched across her beautiful face. In her hands, Darby was clutching a bottle of what resembled alcohol.

  "What's up?" Emma asked as she cleared the porch steps.

  In response, Darby shook the bottle, and revealed the label: Jack Daniel's whiskey.

  "I think we're overdue for a girl's night!" Darby exclaimed. "What do you say?"

  "It has been awhile. . . but I'm not getting wasted. I have to get up early tomorrow."

  "Sure," Darby agreed. But because of the eye-roll that followed, Emma was certain her friend was going to attempt to corrupt her always-sober mentality.

  "Where and when?" Emma asked.

  "Dance hall. Let's say, ummm, one hour after dinner? That cool?"

  "That'll do," Emma replied, beginning to doubt her cutting-loose capabilities.

  They parted ways after they'd agreed on the venue and a time, and went on with their daily chores. Before Darby left to join Link at the sawmill, she stashed the booze under Emma's bed for safekeeping. That wasn't a good enough hiding place, so Emma took the liberty of placing the alcohol behind her old dictionaries. Emma was certain her girls wouldn't think to look for any mischief behind the books.

  After setting up her snares and taking care of Mary's need, Emma's third chore of the day—or as she liked to think of it, her once-a-day therapy session—was tending to the goats. There was something about holding a baby goat that made her feel at ease. To her, they were the sweetest creatures.

  As she approached the gate, Emma heard her invisible stranger's feet colliding with the ground. It was only when she carried the spear that she heard them. Whoever it was, they didn't scare her. It had been unsettling at first, which Emma had played off well, but after a few weeks she'd begun to barely notice. Every now and then, Emma would hear them crunch the gravel or rustle the leaves behind her, but the secret stayed between her and Tom.

  When it came to the goats, all the girls were good for was helping Emma lead them to the milking station. After that, they often ran for the chicken coop to fetch some eggs—and they flat-out refused to touch the turkeys. Emma took the liberty of naming the two females Thelma and Louise. The male had been difficult for her to name. Unbeknownst to her trainer, Emma took to calling him Gobble Tom.

  Steadily, Emma was milking her favorite goat, Tina, when she noticed Gobble Tom and his two women waddling toward her.

  "All right, you three. What trouble have y'all gotten yourselves into this time?" Emma could feel them pecking at her shoelaces and tugging at the bottom of her shirt. "Cut that out, you guys," she fussed, attempting to turn their attention elsewhere.

  Startling Emma, the fence rattled before her. Looking up, she found Tom grasping it, and staring at her, amused.

  "So, you name all your animals?" He grinned.

  Oh, dear Lord, that smile. And it's directed at me, Emma thought. Heavens to Betsy! Stay cool. Keep calm. Focus on your milking, Emma Clery.

  "I . . . I do," Emma managed to reply. "Even against Doolie's wishes."

  "Who's the big rooster giving me the stink eye?"

  "Oh, him? That's Big Tex."

  "Why's he looking at me?" Tom asked, stepping behind the fence.

  "Oh, well, it's probably 'cause he feels threatened. Up until a minute ago, Tex was the only dominant male in this area."

  Noticing Emma's invisible stranger's footprints imprinted beside her, Tom said, "So I guess our little secret is still following you around."

  "Which one?" she asked, realizing too late that he'd meant her extra pair of footprints, and not the way his sudden presence made her feel. "Oh, yeah, looks that way."

  As Tina's milk splashed into the bucket, Tom awkwardly poked at Emma's shoulder.

  "You, uh, you, uh, need any help with that?" he asked.

  "Oh, you want to pull on these teats?" Emma cackled, squirtng some milk in his direction. "Oh no, not a good idea. You see, this goat here is the meanest goat.
"

  "What's her name?"

  "Tina."

  "What about the other two?"

  "Well, the other nanny, her name is Gwenda." Emma paused, scratching behind Tina's floppy ears. "Now, the light-brown-colored male over there, his name is Hickory."

  "Why 'Hickory'?"

  "Have you not noticed the size of his nuts?"

  "Oh yeah, right. I'm an idiot." He chuckled, smacking his forehead. "I guess Doolie named that one. Am I right?"

  "Yep, and Hickory's the daddy of little Ida Claire over there, Q-tip, and good ole Hammer." She paused, swatting at a fly. "Oh, and She-Who, too."

  "She-Who?"

  "Yeah, She-Who, short for, She-Who-Has-No-Name. Most of the others call her No-Name, but I like She-Who the best. She looks like a She-Who."

  "Good Lord," he said. "You and these names. How come Hick's separated from the others?"

  "For one, Hickory can't mate with his daughters. And the other reason is for our safety. The only thing more dangerous than an aggressive goat is an affectionate one. He likes to jump on people and, you know—believe me, it takes a forklift to get him off of you." She grunted, keeping Tina's back hooves from stomping her feet.

  "So." Tom paused, clearing his throat. "What's this girls' night I keep hearing about?"

  "Oh yeah," she replied, setting Tina loose. "Can I have the evening off?"

  Bringing his hand to his chin, Tom murmured, "Hmmm, well, I don't know."

  "C'mon, please? I don't ask for much."

  "I guess I'll let you have one night off. But . . . just one."

  ***

  Shirley agreed to watch the girls, so Emma and Darby could have a night out. For one night, Emma agreed they could have Stella all to themselves and stay up past midnight.

  After dropping them off, she ran back to her cabin to change into her less-than-attractive, flower-printed pajama bottoms and white camisole. Before leaving the house, she retrieved the booze from her bookshelf, grabbed a blanket, and slipped on a pair of flip-flops.

  Emma lit a kerosene lantern, and began to approach the dance hall, as solar lights illuminated her path. There, she found Darby starting a fire in the pit.

  As Emma handed her blue-haired friend the booze, Darby exclaimed, "I'm so ready to not have to think!"

  "Me too!"

  Once the blanket had been spread on the ground, they sat beside each other in the middle of it. Before she broke the seal of the bottle of Jack, Darby stated, "Before we get too wasted, I want to hear your theory about what happened that day. I'll go first. I was hoping for either the zombie apocalypse or an alien invasion. But after the first couple of weeks, I realized some dreams were never meant to come true."

  "Don't sound so disappointed." Emma chuckled.

  "So what are your thoughts on the subject?" Darby asked, raising her brow. "Hmmm?"

  "Oh, I don't know."

  "Everyone on this damn road has their own opinion of what happened," Darby said.

  "Okay. Well, evidence points toward a solar flare. But I think God had a big part in it. I think He's punishing us. I think He grew tired of us putting our entertainment systems and upgraded phones before one another. Before Him. I believe He's testing our faith. Think about it," Emma continued. "The power lines were freaking ripped from the ground! Did you not see it?!" Calming herself, Emma looked to Darby, who was wide-eyed over her friend's outburst, and Emma hastily apologized. "Sorry, you know better than to get me started."

  Darby twisted the lid from her prized alcohol, and passed Emma the bottle.

  "Enough of this serious talk!" she exclaimed. "My friend, you take the first sip."

  When Emma hesitated, Darby commanded, "Drink!"

  Holding the bottle to her lips, Emma felt there was no choice but to pour the burning liquid into her mouth.

  "Whew! That's stout!" Emma coughed. "Damn. It's been too long."

  "Pass it along; don't be greedy," Darby said, tearing the bottle from her friend's grasp.

  About an hour later, Darby looked Emma up and down, and said, "So what's up with you and this . . . this Tom dude?"

  "Nothing," Emma replied, coughing as she took another swig. "Why?"

  "Oh, come on!" she exclaimed. "Tell me!"

  Passing the bottle to Darby, Emma said, "Look, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't at least like him a teeny-weeny bit."

  Already intoxicated, Darby rolled her eyes, and added, "Oh, weeelll . . . don't sssaaay anymore. For the love of all that is holy! Spill it, woman!"

  "Alls I can say is—" Emma paused as a whoosh of drunkenness passed over her. "The good Lord has bless"—she burped—"blessed him greatly."

  ***

  By the second hour, they laid exhausted, looking up at the stars, with the dying fire crackling beside them. Before parting ways for the night, they each fetched a solar light from the pathway, held it up, and took turns going back and forth kissing one another's cheeks. Every now and then they would miss, kissing the night air instead.

  Unbeknownst to them, they'd left evidence of their drunkenness in the form of an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey lying next to the fire's ashes.

  That, Emma thought as she struggled up the hill to her cabin, waaasssn't sooo baaad.

  Chapter 20:

  Tom

  Lying wide awake, Tom prayed their girls' night would soon come to an end. When their rambunctious laughter finally ceased, he found himself worrying about how Emma would find her way home. It didn't occur to him how short of a distance it was between her house and the dance hall.

  Tom didn't want to admit it, but deep down he just wanted to see how Emma behaved under the influence.

  Slipping on a pair of faded blue jeans and one of Mrs. Maples's son's Green Lantern t-shirts, he tiptoed through the creaky house in an attempt not to wake Mrs. Maples or Cooper.

  As he eased open the front door, the pitter-patters of someone's feet came up behind him.

  "Boy, what the hell you doing?" Mrs. Maples asked, rubbing her eyes. "Do you know what time it is?"

  "No, ma'am. Sorry, I don't."

  "Well, you—oh hell, I don't know either," she said. "You gonna tell them girls to keep it down?"

  "Sure, yeah," he replied. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

  "Yeah, sure you are," she replied. As she returned upstairs, she muttered under her breath, "You and your women."

  On the porch, Tom fetched his work boots from the railing and grabbed the lantern from the hook. Reaching the end of their driveway, he spotted a faint light headed to the left. Figuring it belonged to Darby, he continued his trek toward Emma's redbrick driveway.

  Upon his arrival, Tom heard Emma singing a song. At first the tune didn't sound familiar, but soon Tom recognized it as one of David Allan Coe's. Suddenly he found himself falling even harder for her as she belted out one of the greatest drinking songs. Not very well, but Tom was impressed Emma was able to remember the chorus in her drunken state.

  Halfway across the bricks, Tom noticed her stumbling across the ground as if it were moving. To enjoy the remainder of the show, Tom made himself comfortable on her porch steps. On the sidelines, he witnessed as she thrust the solar light into the air and positioned herself as if she were about to challenge someone to a swordfight. The words "I will kill you for this" spilled drunkenly from her lips. Instead of being stuck on Back Wood Road, Emma seemed to have been written into one of her favorite novels.

  The drunken woman playacting before him caused Tom to erupt in uncontrollable spurts of laughter. His sudden cackling forced Emma to turn on her heel, and threateningly wield her pretend sword.

  "What in the hell are you doing?" Tom chuckled, clutching at the stitch in his side. "You drunken dork! Oh man, you really are drunk as shit, aren't you?"

  "Yooou . . . you shut up," Emma managed to reply before she hit the ground harder than a sack full of rocks.

  Preparing for the worst, Tom jumped from the steps to fetch her. During his attempts to pry the solar light from he
r grip, Emma would snatch it away and burst into childish giggles.

  Before he could dare reach for it a second time, Emma kicked at Tom's feet, pointed it up at his face, and dramatically shouted, "Go back from whence you came!"

  Tom pointed toward the nearest tree, and exclaimed, "What's that?!"

  Having successfully drawn her attention elsewhere, Tom snatched the pretend weapon from her, put it in his mouth, and bit down on the light's handle before slinging her over his shoulder. Emma punched at his back and pulled at his ears. By the time Tom reached the porch, his shoulders were aching and his earlobes were bright red.

  "Let me go!" She thrashed and kicked. "Put me down!"

  Tom set her on the top step, and rushed past her before she could latch herself onto his leg. He opened the door, stepped inside, and set Mrs. Maples's lantern on the nightstand in the bedroom. Emma looked incredibly weighted down when Tom returned to fetch her. His amusement that she could barely keep her head raised immediately switched to horror as Emma's head banged against the railing.

  "Ouch!" she yelled, smacking the defenseless railing. "Man, watch it."

  "C'mon, now." Tom laughed, tucking the handle of the solar light into his back pocket. "Don't be getting in a brawl with the porch."

  Once indoors, the fighting side of Emma's intoxication ran out of juice. It seemed a seductive drunk had taken over as she raised a hand to Tom's face and tried pulling it down to meet hers.

  Holding his ground, Tom laid her in bed and noticed the spear tip lying beside her Bible and a framed picture of her and her brother. The artifact didn't have the same effect on Tom as it had in the past. Instead of wanting to escape the room, where its presence demanded acknowledgment, Tom realized it didn't bother him if it didn't bother Emma.

  Tucking her in, Tom could sense his willpower fading. He wasn't occupied with the mysterious, old tool, but with Emma's granny pajamas. Suddenly it hit him: It didn't matter what Emma wore as long as he got to take it off of her.