In All of Infinity

by H. R. Holt

  When he was out of sight, he began running. He didn’t know where he was going. The rain poured harder, lashed at his face as he continued to increase his speed. Breathing began eluding him but he continued, not knowing when or if he would stop. He began wishing God would strike him dead, but he slid and fell in a mud puddle.

  As he sat on his knees, the sobs rocked him and he threw his head back, letting the rain fall into his mouth. He remembered a time when he was with Esme, in the rain, so he imagined that she was every drop. She was more than rain, thunder, lightning, air… she was everything to him. She was life.

  “Why?!” he screamed to no one and yet everyone, still looking towards the sky. “Why did you take her from me?”

  His answer was more rain, more wind. A storm was brewing beyond the dark clouds he’d seen earlier. He saw lightning strike in the distance and felt compelled to stand. The mud on his clothes didn’t stop him from walking on, seeking shelter. How had the weather made him want to live? He didn’t know.

  When at last he’d reached the house, he stood in the yard, looking at the porch. He imagined her standing there, her dress blowing into the wind. He didn’t want to move, blink, but eventually he did both and she disappeared.

  He walked towards the house, a song in his head that he’d heard only days ago. For a moment, he recalled coming home from work, catching her up in his arms and twirling around the kitchen. He was often surprised how her simplest action could make his worst day seem uncomplicated.

  Emmanuel stopped before he reached the front door, put his hands in his pockets, and sniffled. He wasn’t going to be able to live his life the way he’d planned. Her death had ended that. Instead, he would have to find a way to go on without her…lest he succumb to the pit of darkness. He smiled, knowing that she wouldn’t want that.

  He saw Euclid, one of her cats. His gray fur was wet with rain. Emmanuel scooped him under one arm and stepped into the house. His knees threatened to give way, so he dropped the cat and fought for balance. Jasmine, her scent, seemed to cling everywhere, as if the house was made of it. He undid his tie and staggered upstairs, knowing what he must do: get away.

  Emmanuel didn’t know where he was going, if he would ever return, and such was always the case with him. Before he left, he tossed the cats out and let them run wild. As he stood on the porch, watching them glare at him with spite, he wondered if his and their fate would be the same. He locked up the house, turned in his key to a trusted neighbor, and purchased a train ticket to Somerville, North Carolina.

  ***

  Aunt Camie lived on what used to be an extravagant home plantation, which had been a huge supplier of timber, until there was a great fire in 1899. The Colonel perished in the fire along with the land, which had been scarred for many years until the summer of 1919. As Emmanuel rode along on horseback, taking in the cool August air, he took in the depth of beauty that was Rosewood Grove.

  The trees that he once remembered were now nonexistent, but the greenery extended as far as his eyes could see. Situated in the middle of it all was Rosewood, the grand estate that had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century. The four white bulky columns from the first floor porch extended up to the second floor, giving the impression that there were two small houses on top of one another. The wood on the front porch, richly hued and highly expensive (especially back in the day), was the reason for the given name.

  Emmanuel dismounted and stretched. He remembered the last time he’d seen his aunt, which had been on the day after he graduated from medical school. He hadn’t seen her since, and he couldn’t understand what had driven him to come here. For a moment, he recalled what Esme had once told him, that he should ‘gather all dropped breadcrumbs before he can make any more bread.’ It was her way of saying that she wanted Camie in their lives, in their child’s life. They were dead, however, so why was he here?

  He took hold of his horse’s reins and started walking, whistling softly the same melancholy tune he’d been singing only days before. He now knew the name of it, which deepened his sadness: ‘Remember’ by Irving Berlin. In an attempt to clear the music from his mind, he thought about Aunt Camie and the expression his sudden appearance would place on her face.

  If his memory served him correctly, she was pushing eighty, making her twice his age. They hadn’t been born on the same month, which Esme had once innocently asked, and they were as different as could be. He was born in August and as cool as an autumn breeze; she was born in April and was as flighty as a pigeon on a busy sidewalk. Despite their differences, from the time he was ten until he was twenty-six, she was his closest companion. Perhaps that was why he had returned. He needed someone.

  The horse nudged him and he increased his speed. When he usually walked, he contemplated. This afternoon, life itself was on his mind and the very intricacies of it. Hunger, for instance. He hadn’t eaten a morsel since breakfast and here it was only half past noon and he was starving.

  As he stepped onto the porch, he felt as if he’d stepped back in time and felt that, any second now, a young school boy with dark red hair and a thirst for knowledge would come charging out the front door. He smiled as he remembered what it was like being wild and free, then walked up and knocked three solid times.

  “Coming.” He heard the voice that could only belong to his aged aunt.

  For the heck of it, he began knocking rhythmically, first with his knuckles three times and then pounding with his fist twice. At last, the door was thrown open and his aunt’s hazel eyes were staring up at him. She recognized him instantly and her frown became a smile.

  “Emmanuel!” she exclaimed and threw her arms around his waist, since she was too short to reach his neck. He reminded her of a child, but recalled a time when she was taller than he was. “Come in from that drafty weather.” She looked behind him, as if she were looking for someone. “Where’s your wife? Oh, no matter. I suppose she hasn’t arrived yet. Come in. Come in.”

  He looked at her blankly, not wanting to diminish the light in her hazel eyes by telling her the bad news. “I must put the horse away,” he said with finality.

  “Let him have some fun. I’m sure he’ll need to kick up his heels after the ride you gave him.” She knew him well. “Come on in and have some food. I’ve cooked plenty.”

  When he stepped into the house, he remembered what it had been like the first time he’d arrived. The smell of food floated into his nostrils, and the warmth coming from the fireplace in the den beside him seemed to accentuate the very feeling of being home. The furniture was the same, and the staircase with pictures alongside it of people long gone made a sense of familiarity fill him. He didn’t know these people, yet, in some quaint way, he knew them as well as any childhood friend. Their dour faces seemed to lighten up at the very sight of him and welcome him home.

  “Come on.”

  They walked into the dining room which was the room across from the staircase and beside the den. Except for a candelabrum at the end of the long, newly waxed table, the room was dark. Seated at the table, prim and pompous, was the man who’d been attempting to ‘purchase’ Rosewood for the past three decades. In all honesty, almost everyone knew the proper word was ‘steal.’

  When Emmanuel had seen him last, Peter Gordon had dark hair and greedy, wild green eyes. Although his hair was white now, he still possessed the same eyes, and it was for them that Emmanuel had punched him only days before disappearing from his aunt’s life. Even though he was twenty years younger, she was in love with him. He made her feel alive.

  “You remember Peter, don’t you?” Camie asked. “If memory serves, I remember you two used to get along well.”

  Peter snorted. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Well, you two can catch up. I’ll go get you some food, Emmanuel,” she said and started for the door at the opposite end of the dining room. She walked like a woman years younger and her nephew watched her go until she disappeared. He could hear her singing an old gospel tune and
realized suddenly where he’d obtained the same habit.

  He sat across from Peter, letting Camie be the queen of the table, which was as it should be. He realized her food was almost untouched, and that she’d probably gone through several glasses of lemon-squeezed tea. With a gnawing feeling in his stomach, he began to think how much of an intruder he was.

  “So…how’s it been?” Peter asked, rubbing his nose as if he could still feel the younger man’s fist. He took a bite of meatloaf and savored it before he continued. “I hear you’re married with a child on the way. It’s all Camie can talk about. She’s betting you’ll have a girl, since there tends to be more females in your family. I’m betting you’ll have a boy, especially with the way you punch. It would be a shame if a girl could punch like that. Damned shame.”

  “I don’t recall my life being any of your business,” Emmanuel said and lit a cigarette. It was another habit he’d picked up from his aunt: smoking to relieve anxiety. He hadn’t started until the day after Esme’s funeral.

  “Son, we’re practically related. Of course your life is my business, but, if you don’t want to speak to me about it, then…alright. I won’t force you.”

  “Since when did you become so concerned? Are you expecting Camie to sign over everything to you? I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll fight you in court.”

  Peter tensed and met Emmanuel’s eyes, then took a sip of tea to down his food. He threw back his head and began laughing. The mirth he was feeling wasn’t mutual, and Emmanuel merely stared at him in shock, waited for the laughter to subside. It continued until Peter was gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face.

  “It’s great to have you back, boy!” he said and began eating heartily, a bite here, a bit there, and a sip of tea. “I’ve missed your sense of humor.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Boy, don’t go making me laugh again. My sides are already hurting.” He took another bite of his baked potato and chewed thoughtfully. He at last looked at Emmanuel, the startled expression still on his face. “You don’t know, do you? Emmanuel, son, Camie and I have been married for fifteen years.”

  Camie returned and placed the plate before her nephew, then sat down and took Peter’s hand. She smiled at him and Emmanuel realized the truth, saw the glint of gold on their fingers. They were married.

  “Camie, I thought you told the poor boy we were married,” Peter said, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he looked from one to the other. He settled on Camie’s eyes and they appeared to be filled with love, but Emmanuel doubted it was genuine, unconditional love. He further doubted Peter even knew the meaning of the word.

  “Well, I was planning to, don’t get me wrong, but I was waiting for the right time,” she said and gazed at Emmanuel. “Honey, Peter and I are happily married, and we have been for fifteen years, six months, and two days. I wanted to tell you, but you’d already disappeared into your work. Now that you’re married, I’m sure you’ll understand what love is like.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he replied bitterly, taking a toke and exhaling, letting the smoke engulf him. He realized they were looking at him. He heard the Grandfather clock strike the one o’clock hour, which had been the hour of her funeral. “She died. She’s been in the ground for an entire week, decaying, with our unborn child resting in her maggot filled womb. Love doesn’t exist for me anymore, because it’s nothing more than a word used by poets. Death is all I know. It haunts me. Beckons me. Love lasts only for a moment; death lasts forever.” He stared at the glass of tea before him, suddenly feeling an overwhelming fascination about it. “We cannot capture life like we can water…”

  He put out his cigarette in the nearby ashtray, pulled himself from the table, and stood looking down at them.

  “Emmanuel—” Camie began, tears falling down her face. “Emmanuel—”

  “I’m sorry if I ruined your appetites. I’ll be leaving now,” he said and looked towards the door where he’d entered. “Farewell, Aunt Camie. Peter.”

  They did not follow him. If they called his name, he would not have turned. His mind was elsewhere, thinking of something far greater than conversation. He was thinking of ways he could capture life.

  When Emmanuel returned to York County, everything was as he’d left it a fortnight ago. He retrieved his key from his trusted neighbor, who looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. After all, with the way he’d left, no one expected to see him return. The neighbor, who happened to be Father Brevard, the man who’d presided over his wedding and wife’s death, could only be trusted because he was a man of the cloth. There were many people in York County that Emmanuel had known longer, but none of them had been so connected to him and his wife. After all, he was responsible for bringing them together.

  As Emmanuel walked away from Father Brevard’s house, stuffing his hands in his pockets, he knew he was being watched. Poor widow, he knew they thought. Look at him: he’s so pitiful. He’s such a disgrace. Sulking here, there, and now I hear he’s going to defeat death. Oh, he’s an awful sight! With a shrug towards the wind, he decided he didn’t give a damn what they thought.

  He marched up the lane, looking towards the sky that was as black with the threat of rain as the day when he left. For a moment, he associated himself with the darkness and realized how similar they were. Emmanuel shrugged the thought aside and continued on, attempting to whistle, but he realized he wasn’t in the mood for song and dance. He was in the mood for silence, so he stayed that way until he reached his familiar house.

  When he was safe inside, he put the keys in his pocket and walked into the living room. The smell of jasmine had almost disappeared, as if Esme hadn’t existed at all. He could no longer picture her reclining on the couch, her smooth hands calling for him, wanting him to feel the movement of their unborn child. She was no longer with him, and that was as it should be for she wouldn’t approve of what he was planning.

  Emmanuel tried to remember why he had ever been happy, but surrendered and walked towards the fireplace. He stared at it, amazed in the difference between how it was now and the day of her death. When she passed on, the fire was burning, roaring with a life she no longer possessed, but now it was so cold that the wood appeared frozen. He could hear the sound of wind coming from the chimney before he felt the blast on his face.

  Emmanuel stood silently for a minute before opening the matchbox on the mantle and setting the wood ablaze. He watched it for a moment, and then rushed upstairs with the keys jingling in his pocket. Although his plan was a simple one, to completely remove her presence from his house, a part of him wrestled with his brain. It was his heart. The brain and body functioned as one as he took her possessions to the attic. Her feminine clothing, pictures, jewelry, parchment, and everything on the vanity table (including the jasmine) were deposited in a corner of the attic furthest from his view. When Emmanuel had at last brought up the vanity table and mirror, he covered them with a sheet. He stood staring across the room, knowing the white sheet covered his past, almost like a ghost. He attempted to calm his heart that threatened to give out on him.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, he realized that he was crying. He captured a few tears with his finger and looked at it, wondering if capturing life would be the same as capturing teardrops.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked towards the sheet again. “Farewell, dearest bride. Farewell.”

  Emmanuel walked down the steps and out the door, shutting it resolutely behind him. He locked the door and took the key to the attic off the chain, then pushed it under. With a deep breath, he continued on his way…forever without Esme.

  ***

  Emmanuel covered every article of furniture upstairs with spare sheets, closing and locking each door before his heart could get caught up in what he was doing. When he was finished at last, he started down the stairs, fiddling with the keys in his pockets. He paused halfway when he heard a knock on the door. Since he wasn’t in the mood for visitors, he went on his way towar
ds the living room, trying to get lost in the tune he was whistling. The visitor didn’t stop; another knock landed, then another, and another.