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Shaking and in tears, it’s a struggle to lift his wife’s lifeless body off the bloody carpet and onto the bed.
With her finally on their bed, Arthur relaxes his hand on her shoulder, lets the life-shaping energy he controls move through him and into her. In the past, he brought people who weren’t too physically injured by their cause of death back to life. It never took long, but Sandra had a gunshot wound to her head. It might take longer.
It’s been decades since he’s had a reason to animate an object, even longer to bring someone back to the living, which to him were the same thing. His wife dying would be every reason to use his ability.
He slips off her sweats and T-shirt but leaves on her panties. He pauses while redressing her in one of his shirts, as the idea settles on him that she killed herself in front of him out of spite. Her last words to him were “fuck you, Arthur.” And then she ended it.
Arthur maneuvers her onto her side, in the fetal position, and then tucks her in. He pulls the blanket over her face, to remedy looking at the gun wound to her head—a temporary measure, merely until she comes back to him. With the blanket over her, he imagines she’s more asleep than dead.
In the passing weeks, he tells acquaintances that Sandra is sick, and therefore can’t leave the house for them to see her. In the meantime, a slight aroma gathers around her body. Not as bad as it could be for a normal death. There’s a smell, nonetheless, like old wet food of some sort. Beans and yogurt, and aged meat.
He checks on her regularly to see if she’s changed position, to see if there are signs she’s come back to the living.
If anybody suspects something is wrong, they’ll ask too many questions. So, to keep up appearances, he accepted a dinner invitation from their friends next door, Glenda and Raheem.
Knowing the best lies are half true, he knocks on their door.
Raheem yells from the other side, tells Arthur to let himself in, which he does.
Glenda and Raheem sit at the dining room table with their kids—Shelly, a stunningly cute little girl nine years of age, with thick, kinky dark hair like her mother, and Tracy, an energetic, yet obedient, young boy, ten years of age.
The adults have small talk about the needed rain in arid Southern California, about the stupid patrons at Raheem’s work, and, yes, that awkward pungent stench overcoming the public. It gets worse every day. The stench is not like that around Sandra. It’s more the hint of feces and dead things, of rotted water, a reminder of disease.
Glenda and Raheem cut the conversation short, in order to bring in the food—chicken, vegetables, mashed potatoes, and water. Raheem leads grace. The kids bow their heads. Glenda squints. Raheem bows his head. Arthur stares at them, at the like-mindedness of the family.
However, as they eat, a curious silence settles over the like-minded family. The utensils clank and scrape. Something is wrong, or at the very least, being hidden by their bowed heads.
“It’s hard to believe how sick she is.” Glenda cuts into her boneless chicken breast. Her tight pigtails with pink barrettes clipped on the ends.
“As suddenly as she got sick, you’d think it was contagious.” Although holding a spoon, Raheem speaks with his hands. “You’re not contagious, are you?” he says to Arthur.
“Arthur,” Glenda’s voice is rhythmic. “How is she?”
Glenda’s hair has silver streaks. Her complexion much darker than Raheem’s, who is more yellow than brown. Raheem is in great shape but weighs more than ever. He doesn’t go to the gym as often because he lacks the give-a-shit. She’s dark like Arthur, doesn’t have a potbelly like Arthur, though.
Arthur bites into his chicken. “She’ll be okay, contrary to popular opinion. Believe it or not, she’s been sicker than this. It’s not like she’s dying.”
Raheem scoops peas onto his spoon. “I’ve heard people have died from this particular flu bug.”
“She hasn’t left the room for over a week, has she?” Glenda asks.
Raheem begins, “Hey, man, if you need help with anything—”
“Truth is, I’m good,” Arthur says. “We don’t need help.”
Glenda places both of her hands on the table. “Nobody is trying to, I guess, seem like they know everything. I hear you. We’re thinking she’s probably more sick than you think she is. What are the chances of her needing a doctor?”
Raheem leans forward. “Dog, I’m going to chime in on someone I deeply care about and say, why don’t you get her checked out? She’s hella not good. You have to remember, she’s not just your wife. She’s a friend of ours too. I know sometimes you get a certain way...so you can’t hear what people are saying but hear this. Arthur, go get Sandra some damned help.”
“We’re fine,” Arthur says. “We saw a doctor.”
“Kids.” Raheem jabs a finger towards the living room.
Their food mostly eaten, Tracy and Shelly excuse themselves.
Raheem leans back. “You’re being disrespectful as shit by lying to me in my house.”
“’Heem...” Arthur starts.
“Ra heem.”
“I’m sorry if I come off rude. It’s hard to see her like that. It’s harder with you calling me a liar.”
“Would she be better off in the hospital?” Glenda says.
Arthur drops his knife and fork so they clang against the plate. “This isn’t going to work. Again, thanks for dinner.”
Raheem folds his arms. “Are you sure you talked to somebody about her?”
“I inquired,” Arthur lies. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Glenda stops mid-chew. “I think the air is making her sick. It might not be the Flu. Just take her to the doctor. They’re probably dealing with it a whole lot of people like her down there.”
“Thank you for the meal. Thank you for being honest and exactly who you guys are.” For a second, he admires Tracy and Shelly watching television. “Beautiful family. You’re giving them the childhood I wish I had, you know that?”
Raheem pushes himself away from the table. “You’re going to deflect the whole thing?”
Arthur leaves, certain lying makes the situation worse. The only person worth talking to about Sandra would be Sandra.
***
In his home office, Arthur fires up his computer, opens a new word-processing file and names it “Sandra”.
To help in thinking about her, he begins to write to her.
***
My dear Sandra,
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When I think back to that moment when you shot yourself, I get stuck. Thinking about it, I spend my days watching the sun from the office window. Before I know how much time has gone, the sun has faded into nothing. I don’t know why I feel guilty, but I do feel guilty. Nearly twenty-five years of marriage and I never abused you, never cheated on you, and never intentionally lied to you, but I can see you were mad at me. I feel guilty.
I should have known whatever I did—and I don’t know what I did—was wrong. Because of my ignorance, I cleaned your blood from off the bedroom mirror, wiped bits of skull from the dresser, picked up pieces of forehead from the carpet. The puddles are gone, but the blood stains will always be there.
I wish a stray bullet would strike me in the gut and end my life. Plenty of people are like you and me and have pondered putting a gun to their head and pulling the trigger. We’re not the minority. People want to die. But they want people to have cared for them too. Me and you—people in general—have mental lists of who we think will give a damn about us dying. If I kill myself, with you gone, I wonder who will mourn me.
I keep racking my brain about how it happened. Where in the world did you gather the courage to kill yourself?