After Life

by Rhian Ellis

  She’d made fried chicken, my favorite thing, and there were the peas in cream sauce you can get frozen, another of my favorites, and red wine in tall tumblers. I put my jelly roll on the counter and hung my coat in the closet. When I put my hands to my head to feel my hair, I found it was hanging in thick tangles that I could not rectify with my fingers. I patted it down as well as I could.

  “One light, one dark?” she asked as I sat down, with her tongs in the colander of chicken parts.

  I nodded. We ate.

  I’d never eaten fried chicken by candlelight before, nor washed it down with so much wine, and I was amazed that the food found its way down my throat, past the constriction that had formed there. The meal was so beautiful and good that I kept eating long after my mother had stopped. She watched me. When I finally looked up at her, she covered her mouth with her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, but put her hands down, and then went on. “I was just thinking about when you were a baby. It was so hard, you know. I used to wake up in the night with horrible thoughts. There was one—it obsessed me for months—I thought, what if someone broke in and murdered all of us except you? We’d be lying there dead and you’d be alone in your crib for God knows how long, because no one would bother to come check on us…for a week or two, possibly.”

  “It never happened, Mama.”

  “Yes. But what if it had? I remember hoping that if a murderer did come in, he’d kill you, too, so you wouldn’t be alone all that time, waiting for us to come and get you. I’d picture you holding on to the crib bars and crying, then giving up on crying and just lying there, and how quiet the house would be. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I couldn’t stand it.” Her face had collapsed, as if what had held it together had at long last given way. “Love like that is horrifying.”

  I put my fork down. “Mama…”

  “I still love you that way. That’s what I’m saying. I—I never minded the thought of dying until I had you. Now I’m terrified…”

  Why does anyone have children? Mothers and daughters are put on Earth to tear each other’s hearts out.

  “Mama. Why are you telling me this?”

  Her poor exhausted face. “I wanted to tell you that I read those journals.”

  I knocked my plate to the floor. It bounced on the linoleum and chicken bones scattered in all directions. The cats came running.

  “Don’t,” said my mother. “Don’t. Please. It’s all right.”

  “I asked you not to read them.”

  “I know. I’m sorry—I know. I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t stand not knowing, Naomi. And I still don’t. But—”

  “But what, Mama?”

  “But I heard—someone told me the police are getting a search warrant. Your house or mine, both. I don’t know.”

  “Mama, what did you do with them? Where are they?”

  “Don’t worry about them. I got rid of them. I—I burned them.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “Naomi, I just want this to be over…”

  “You gave them to Officer Peterson, didn’t you?”

  “They said they’d get a search warrant—that if I had anything, I should just give it to them up front. Naomi—I want them to think we’re cooperating with them—”

  “You just want everyone to like you! You don’t care about anything else. You just want your stupid radio show back.”

  “That’s not what I want! That’s not—I just can’t stand it. I want it to stop.”

  “You think I did it,” I said. I picked up my knife and jabbed it hard into the table.

  “Did what?” she cried. “What did you do, Naomi?”

  I couldn’t answer her. I wanted to come up with a lie, a perfect lie, but she would know.

  She put her hands on her head, weaving her fingers into her hair, as if she was keeping her skull from flying apart. She groaned.

  “Mama,” I said, unable to look her in the eye. Instead I looked at my hands, my fat, chapped, nail-bitten hands. “Would you hate me if you knew I did it?”

  “Tell me how it happened,” she said.

  So I told her, truthfully. Before I was finished she was sobbing.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said, but then she began to shriek.

  I led her upstairs. I put my arm around her and led her to her bedroom, to her bed, and helped her down and took off her shoes. She lay there, crying brokenly, and I lay down beside her. I took her fingers and kissed them. “Shh,” I said. “Shh, shh.” She put her arm around me and pulled me close. “Oh, Naomi,” she whispered. “Oh, my love. Please, let’s go back home.” I kissed her wet face. She put my fingers in her mouth.

  Eventually she fell asleep, and after a longer time I did, too. I had strange, brief dreams of large things bearing down on me. When I woke up I didn’t know what time it was and I was freezing cold. I got up in the dark and found a blanket in the closet, then lay down again, wrapping it around us.

  “Mmm, Franklin,” murmured my mother, snuggling close. Franklin was my father’s name.

  It was barely light when I got up. My mother was asleep, snoring lightly, her hairdo crushed into her pillow. I pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and went downstairs. The kitchen table, I noticed, was still covered with our dinner dishes, the candles had burned themselves down to nothing, and my jelly roll waited, uncut, on the counter. Maybe she’d eat some for breakfast, I thought. I hoped she would.

  Train Line was cold and silent, like an abandoned space station. I’d been here twenty years and hadn’t made a mark—hadn’t planted a tree, painted a house, built a gazebo. Train Line would not miss me. Hundreds, thousands of people had come through Train Line and gone again, some had even lived out their entire lives here, and Train Line mourned none of them. Any affection I’d felt for this town was misplaced. A town is a heartless thing, unfaithful and forgetful. It will never love you back.

  I spent the day getting ready. First I called information and got the number for my uncle Geoffrey, in New Orleans. There were two Geoffrey Ashes and I called both. The first number was out of order. The second was my uncle. I knew it before he finished saying, “Hello?”

  “Hello!” I said, working hard to keep the tension out of my voice. “Bet you don’t remember me!” And I told him who I was.

  His voice warmed up instantly. “Why, hello there! What a…what a treat to hear from you! How are you? How’s Sissy?”

  I told him how wonderful we were, how wonderful everything was. And I told him how I was thinking of relocating to the New Orleans area, how I wanted to continue my job search on site, and did he have any recommendations for places to stay?

  “Oh, my goodness, you’ll stay here, of course! My daughters have moved out, I’m rattling around in all this empty space…what field did you say you were in?”

  “Um, communications,” I said. “But I’m thinking of a change, so I’m flexible.”

  “Why, this is just marvelous!” He sounded genuinely thrilled. “I haven’t heard from your mother in, gosh, ten years, probably. Is she still in the spiritual business?”

  We chatted for a little while, and when I hung up I felt as if I’d set something large and unstoppable in motion. It occurred to me that Uncle Geoffrey, excited by my phone call, might call my mother. I would have to leave soon, before she knew what I was doing.

  Ron had a road atlas. I slid it out of the bookshelf, took it to my room, and spent a couple of hours devising a route south and copying it onto several sheets of paper, which I stapled together. I packed Peter’s things, and some clothes and a few books and some food I could eat on the road: apples and salami and cheese and cookies. I spent the rest of the day fooling around. I read magazines and made popcorn and tried to nap. Ron asked me if I was sick.

  “Maybe I am,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “There’s not much to do at the library, actually.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding, but the look
on his face was unconvinced.

  Night fell. I thought obsessively of travel: speeding down dark highways, sleeping in locked motel rooms. It seemed ridiculous that I hadn’t gone months ago. I was meant to travel, I knew it. Finally, at nine o’clock, I gathered my things.

  I was standing in the living room with the lights off, my duffel bag over my shoulder, when Jenny appeared on the stairway. She hadn’t been feeling very well lately and had spent much of the last few days in bed. I’d almost forgotten she lived here.

  “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, her voice wavering. There was just enough light coming from the streetlight outside to make her visible. She was wearing a long white nightgown and no robe. Her reddish hair fell across her face.

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess I am.”

  “Where’re you going?” She sat down on the step, pulling her nightgown over her feet.

  “On a trip. I’ll be gone a while, I think.”

  She nodded. “Is it because of the investigation?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

  She nodded again, sighing. “I hope everything works out for you.”

  “Thanks. And for you, too.”

  I knew I should leave soon, but it was suddenly very hard. Jenny leaned her head against a banister pole. She’d lost weight. She’d never replaced Snippy. I’d meant to spend more time with her, get to know her better. Suddenly I wished I could go back and do it again.

  “Good-bye Naomi. I’m sorry we didn’t become better friends.”

  “I am too. Good night, Jenny.”

  “Good night, good night, good night,” she said, turning and going back to her room.

  I crept out the back door and around the house behind ours, then found myself on Davis Street. I took the long way to my mother’s house, avoiding the bright lights. It was drizzling unpleasantly. Invisible puddles covered the road, and by the time I got there my feet were soaked. I hid my bag behind her car, then knocked on the back door. After several minutes, she answered it.

  “Naomi!” She seemed shocked. Uncle Geoffrey probably hadn’t called her, then. She was dressed up. I wondered if she had guests.

  “Can I borrow your car, Mama? I’m sorry to bother you so late. I need to run to Wallamee for some things…”

  “Things?” She looked confused and frightened. “What do you need? Naomi, what is this all about?”

  “Nothing, Mama!” I forced a smile. “I need some…female things. The Groc-n-Stop is closed.”

  “Oh.” Her face softened. “All right. Hold on. I have company…” She didn’t ask me in, so I stayed on the steps, drizzle filling my hair. She returned with the key.

  “Here you are. Drive carefully, it’s slick out there.” I took the key from her warm hand.

  “Thank you. Mama, I…”

  “Go on. I have company.”

  I wanted to cry.

  “Naomi? Are you sure you want to…?”

  I shook my head. “Bye, Mama,” I whispered.

  She stood back and let me go.

  I got into the Oldsmobile and put my seat belt on. Then I remembered my duffel bag, so I got back out, hefted the bag onto the passenger seat, and tried again. My mother, I noticed, was watching from her window. I didn’t wave. I took Peter’s money out of the bag, put half of it in my pocket and the rest in the glove compartment, then started the car. Like a pirate ship with its sails down I slipped through Train Line, navigating rocky shoals and inlets until I was on the open road, free.

  Wallamee was nearly empty, and the traffic lights through the middle of town had switched to blinking yellow caution lights. I didn’t need to stop or even slow down as I headed for the interstate. But as I neared the street that Dave the Alien lived on I felt a powerful urge to visit him and say good-bye. He was probably at work, I thought. A video store would be open late. But I wanted to see him. It would be a pity to leave him without a word or an apology.

  Both floors of the house were dark. I went inside and up the unlit stairway, anyway, and knocked on his door. There was no answer so I knocked again, hard.

  “Minute,” came a muffled voice, far away.

  The door opened. Dave had pale-blue striped pajamas on and his face was sleepy. Still, he looked very surprised to see me.

  “Are you all right, Naomi?”

  I noticed that I’d been crying. I wiped my eyes with my hands. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry to show up like this. It’s just that I’m leaving on a trip and I wanted to say good-bye first.”

  “Come in. Can I get you something?”

  I shook my head.

  He turned on the overhead kitchen light and we both blinked in the glare. “Have a seat,” said Dave. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t say. But I wanted to talk to you.”

  “All right.” He pulled his chair close to the table and looked at me, expectant. His long face was pale, his freckles dark, his upper lip in need of a shave. Dave was a good person. He was the kind of man who’d get married young, have children, and stay married until the very end; a man with reasonable expectations and a kind heart.

  “I’m sorry about Halloween,” I said miserably.

  He laughed. “Oh, no. Don’t be. I had a good time.”

  “You did?”

  “A very good time.”

  “Well, I’m glad.” I blew my nose. He patted my hand.

  “I guess you didn’t, though, huh?” he asked.

  “I did. If it didn’t look that way it’s because I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

  “I know.”

  I looked at him. Of course he knew. Dave was as plugged into the Train Line gossip as anyone. “Is that why you haven’t called?” I asked quietly.

  “No. That’s not why. You didn’t want me to call again, Naomi.”

  He was right. Poor Dave. “You’re an excellent reader, Dave. You should be a medium.”

  “You think?” He smiled. “But I’m not mysterious enough. Every thought I have might as well be written in lights across my forehead. I’m Mr. Transparent.”

  “Mr. Transparent. Like a sideshow act.”

  “Mr. Transparent and his lovely wife, Mother Ash! This is your last chance, ladies and germs, to see the world-famous couple before they leave on their tour of Europe, China, and the Sandwich Islands! Step right up and take a gander!”

  I laughed. But in saying it he’d made it true for a moment, and I imagined the dinky little trailer we’d live in, and the smell of the sideshow tent, and our friends the Rubber Man and the Nail-Eating Woman. We’d have a child with its own remarkable talent, utterly unlike ours: it would be a snake charmer, maybe, or a strong man.

  “I’d enjoy that,” I said, and meant it.

  “Me, too.”

  I put my hands on the Formica tabletop. “I can’t really stay. I just wanted to say good-bye.” I hoped he’d try to talk me out of going for a little while, but he didn’t.

  “Okay,” he said, standing up. “Do you need anything? Are you going a long way?”

  “Pretty long. But I don’t need anything, I don’t think.”

  He looked around his kitchen, then opened a cupboard and took out a box of Fig Newtons. It was the only thing on the shelf. “Here. A meager offering. But it’s all I can do with the short notice.”

  I accepted them. “Thanks. You’re very generous.”

  “Ha. Well, good-bye, Mother Ash.” He walked me to the door.

  “Good-bye, David.” I stepped out into the hallway and turned to look at him one more time. He wasn’t very handsome, but suddenly I wished we’d had that child together, that snake-charmer child.

  “Godspeed,” said Dave.

  I went halfway down the stairs and waved. He watched until I was gone.

  I drove all night. I had highlighted my makeshift map in yellow marker and circled exits and rest stops in red. I kept it folded open on the seat next to me and referred to it now and then with the flashlight my mother always kept in her car. Though it wa
s a pitch-black and moonless night, and the only lights shone from other cars and farms far from the highway, I had a sense of the landscape changing around me. Wallamee County was a series of flat valleys and low hills, but as I descended toward Pennsylvania, the valleys became narrower and the hills higher. They rose up invisibly around me. The air that came through the vent smelled different, too. More like cows and more wet.

  Time went faster than I thought it would. I’d imagined that minutes would creep by while I drove and that the miles would slip beneath my tires as slowly as clock hands. But that didn’t happen. When I first thought to look at Peter’s watch—holding it by the window and waiting to pass under a light—three hours had gone by and I was well into Pennsylvania. I wasn’t tired at all, which surprised me. I never stayed up this late.

  The sky lightened. This was another surprising thing; how early I could tell the sun was rising. By three o’clock in the morning, the sky to the east had begun to look paler. It was as if a huge city squatted behind the hills, lighting up the night sky with its spotlights and billboards and marquees. But according to my map there was nothing back there except for some tiny towns and vast areas of emptiness.

  By morning I was in West Virginia, and the highway began twisting and curling and heaving up and down over hills. All night I’d been thinking, half-subconsciously, about astral bodies. There is a theory among spiritualists—not a well-favored theory, anymore—that there was an “etheric counterpart” to the physical human body. This astral body could leave the physical one and travel around; it could visit dying relatives and come back with news of their demise, it could sit in on meetings when the physical person was sick in bed. Spiritualist scientists had done experiments on it. One I read about, back in the twenties, claimed that the astral body weighed something like two and a half ounces and that it was terribly, terribly thin: almost as thin as a shadow. Ordinarily the astral body never completely separated itself from the physical one. It was attached by a kind of cord, the astral or silver cord, which, like a piece of chewing gum, got thinner and thinner the farther the astral body traveled. And if the astral body made its escape through a window, and someone subsequently slammed that window, there’d be trouble. At best the astral cord would be damaged; at worst, severed. Without its astral body, a human would eventually wither and die.