Backland Graces; Four Short Novels
Page 12
“We ought to say some prayers or something,” T.J. said. “You know any prayers?”
Cal backed away from the funeral pyre and sank to his knees. “Shit,” he said. “I never thought much about my old man, you know? Grandma, his own mother, hated his guts. That’s all I ever heard about him, how bad he was. But now as he’s gone...well, shit, fucking shit, T.J. You ever know your old man?”
“My father’s in heaven.”
As he walked back to the truck for the gasoline, T.J. began to tremble. What the hell was up with that, he wondered, getting all shaky now. Maybe it was about learning that life isn’t what it appears to be. Maybe it was about learning that death wasn’t what it appeared to be neither, nothing being like you ever maybe thought it was. Nothing like you’d ever know...except maybe one day when you died and maybe not even then. He stopped by the truck and leaned against the tailgate. He’d been so sure he’d find out. It was all a gray disappointment in a way. He’d put a lot of hope into Whalen telling him something before he died.
“Whalen, give me a sign here,” he said, his voice a low whisper, almost pleading. “Man, you gotta help me out here.” He waited, as if he’d asked the question of a real live person. After several moments, with no answer, he leaned over, slipped his left palm into the handle of the plastic can and carried it back over to where Cal was waiting. He set the can down on the ground, knelt on one knee beside it and loosened the cap, using both hands to get a proper grip. Then he stood again, carried the can in both hands, pressed against his chest. When he got to the pyre he began pouring gasoline over Whalen’s body. It seemed like a lot of gasoline, over two gallons the pump had said. T.J. poured it slowly, letting it soak into Whalen’s clothes, saturating his skin. When the can was empty, he stepped away, turned and walked back to where Cal was sitting.
“It’s all ready to go,” T.J. said. “Let it soak in for a bit. You got matches?”
“Would you mind doing it?”
“I spilt gas on me. I might go up with it. Besides, he’s your old man.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t get too close,” T.J. said. “Light a stick and toss it from here to be on the safe side. The gasoline will puff back.”
Cal walked back to the pyre, selected a dry twig about a foot long and as big around as a finger. He leaned over and touched Whalen on the shoulder as if maybe to say goodbye for the last time or maybe just to make sure he was dead.
When he walked back to where T.J. was sitting, Cal was sobbing. “Don’t say nothing,” he said. “Just don’t say nothing.”
T.J. held a cigarette lighter to the stick Cal was holding and lit the end. It took a moment to get it burning. It flared up then died, smoldering and sending up a thread of smoke. T.J. looked up, following the smoke. Maybe there was a bird in the sky, he was not sure. It was too high. He wondered if the bird was watching.
“You can toss it anytime,” T.J. said. “I figure when it hits it’ll burst out some sparks and the whole thing will go up.”
Cal held the stick out in front of his face a couple inches and blew on it, causing it to sputter and spark. He held it for a long time, studying the stick, the smoke and then Whalen’s body lying so peacefully on its nest of dry branches.
T.J. tapped with a stick on the side of the empty gas can, making the sound of a drum. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
“I just had a thought,” T.J. said, stopping the tapping. “I remembered something from that book: Death makes us all equals. Think about that, Cal. We all got to do it one day, sooner or later. It’s the one thing for sure that makes us all alike.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. He paused, still holding the smoldering stick. “I sort of want to say something, wish him a good trip to wherever he’s going, if he is going anywhere...but maybe...I guess he’s already gone.” He sniffled, vaguely recalling a good moment or two with his father.
“Don’t think too much about it. Just fling it.”
Cal nodded. He blew on the stick once more, got a good hot coal glowing inside the bark and then flung it. The stick landed in his father’s lap.
Just as T.J. predicted, sparks scattered on impact, the gasoline exploded in a burst that enveloped the whole pyre. In seconds, the branches were all alight and the body began to blacken and curl in on itself, cooking like meat at a barbeque.
T.J. and Cal sat and watched the fire and the smoke rising into the sky. The stink of burning flesh began to subside after twenty or thirty minutes and what little fat was still left in Whalen’s emaciated flesh sizzled and sent blossoms of fire into the burning branches. The blackened flesh cracked, broke open, the fire hissing as the last of Whalen’s water and juices escaped. In less than an hour Whalen’s earthly form had been reduced to a stick puppet wearing a thin suit of charcoal, grayish bones protruding in a few places where the casing of burned flesh had split away. Somehow his head had become detached and was lost in the ashes.
“What happens with the bones?” Cal asked.
“We’ll bury them, else the coyotes’ll get them.”
“Maybe that’s not so bad.”
“Maybe not.”
The pyre smoldered down to hot ashes, the body barely recognizable as human. T.J. nudged Cal and pointed to the sky where a half-dozen carrion birds hovered. “They can smell death from miles away,” he said.
“Fuck. They’ll pick the bones clean, won’t they?”
T.J. nodded. “I read in this book, out in this place called Tibet, when someone dies they chop up their bodies into very small pieces and lay it out for the vultures…”
“You told me already,” Cal said. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
“It’s an idea though.”
“I’d like to find his head,” Cal said, absently. “Bury it. I’d like to bury that much of him.”
T.J. nodded, realizing they’d have to crush the skull into tiny bits so that it would not be easily found. He’d seen them do it in the film about Tibet. He wondered if Cal would be up for that.
“We’ll wait till it all cools down,” T.J. said.
Somewhere above, even higher than the carrion birds, Eagle circled ‘round and ‘round, unseen by the two men on the ground or even the dark birds—there were seven now. The dark ones were settling down to the earth a few hundred feet from the smoldering pyre, black wings folded back, looking for all the world like little hunchbacked women draped in black and waiting, maybe praying. Everything waited.
“This is good,” T.J. said. “This is good.” ~
About the Author
Hal Zina Bennett is the author of more than 30 successful books. As a personal writing coach and highly respected ghostwriter he has guided to publication national bestsellers whose authors’ names are household words. Look carefully and you may very well find Hal’s name on the acknowledgements pages of some of your favorite books. He lives in northern California with his wife Susan J Sparrow, in a community not unlike the one described in Backland Graces.
Visit his website: www.HalZinaBennett.com