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On the back side of the cabin, we approached the rock porch cautiously, and when we came upon the door, I peered inside, my gun raised.
The cabin was empty. Hardwood floors stretched throughout the space, dull and marked by scuffs and scattered by leaves that must’ve blown in through the back door. A sofa was situated in the center of the room, next to a tall wooden beam that helped hold the roof up. A kitchenette sat off to the right with a tiny two-burner butane stove and a refrigerator and a sink. A microwave sat on the counter next to a coffee pot and a dish drainer half filled with clean dishes covered with dust and cobwebs.
The sound of my boots tapping against the wood floor echoed through the cabin as there wasn’t much furniture to absorb the sound. I went toward the short hallway where two doors were set in the wall on each side, and I motioned at Thais to stay where she was.
The bathroom was simple with a shower and a toilet and a tiny pedestal sink. I reached out and twisted a squeaky faucet handle, but no water came out. I didn’t expect that any would but it never hurt to try. I left the bathroom and came to another open room; a full-size mattress was laid out on the floor, pressed into the far corner where one solid wall met another with a window. A box of clothes lay on the floor of a closet; two wire hangers dangled from a rod; a little pull-string light hung from the closet ceiling.
The cabin was clear. It seemed no one had lived here, or had even been here in a long time. Anything that could’ve been of much use had already been taken.
When I emerged from the hallway, I saw the front door open and Thais standing on the porch.
“I think he killed himself,” she said when I joined her outside.
A skeleton wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt sat in a rocking chair, the long, bony legs splayed, the arms hung over the chair arms sloppily.
I peered in closer at the hole in the top of the skull.
“Or, maybe someone killed him,” Thais changed her mind.
“No,” I said, pointing at the wound, “you were right the first time. I doubt someone would go to the trouble of shooting him at that angle.
THAIS & (ATTICUS)
Examining the hole in the top of the head without touching it, I agreed. The man must have put the gun into his mouth, angled it upward toward his brain, and pulled the trigger. I thought of my mother and sister, saddened by all the death, especially the suicides. Could I ever do it? I thought I could. I had wanted to that night I found Sosie hanging from the window. I could have ended it then; all I had to do was pull the trigger. But I was too afraid. And now that I thought back on it, I realized it wasn’t only cowardice—I would never forget the look of pain and torture in Atticus’ eyes as he begged me not to do it. If it hadn’t been for Atticus, would I have done it? Would I have had the courage? I thought I may never know.
“Let’s go inside,” Atticus said.
(I took Thais by the elbow, sensing what she was thinking so deeply about, and right then I made the decision to get rid of the skeleton soon so she wouldn’t ever have to look at it again, to be reminded of the horrors that had shaped her life.)
THAIS
An hour later, exhaustion finally grabbed hold of Atticus, and he fell asleep on the sofa seconds after he sat down against the soft, engulfing cushions. I watched him inconspicuously from the side, held my breath when he fought the sleep; his eyes sprang open, his head jerked unstably on his neck, only to lose the battle anyway. I was a statue in that moment. Did my eyes even blink? I didn’t think they did.
I crept over to him, hoping he wouldn’t wake, but soon I realized as I knelt in front of him that there would be no waking Atticus for a long time. He had the look of a man whose body had not known sleep in weeks, months. He slept sitting up, his neck fallen against the back of the sofa, his long legs stretched out into the floor. He was filthy and he smelled and his face was slowly being overrun with hair and the hair on his head was oily and there were lines of dirt underneath his neck and dark circles underneath his eyes and black grime underneath his short fingernails and I still thought him the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
I pulled the long black strings from inside his boots, loosened them eyelet by eyelet until his boots slid from his large feet easily. Atticus never stirred, not when I peeled the bloody socks from his blisters, or when I fitted my arms underneath his heavy body and moved him so he lay horizontal across the sofa. I balled his jacket up behind his head, and raised his wounded feet level with his body on the end of the sofa. I wanted to take his clothes off so I could wash them, but I thought that might surely wake him and I didn’t want to take the chance.
I went into the bedroom where I found a box of clothes in the closet. Taking each piece out one by one, I judged them before folding them neatly into a pile beside me on the floor. This shirt is too small even for me. This one will fit Atticus, I’m sure of it. This dress is pretty; I think it might fit me. These pants might fit Atticus, but they’re probably a little too short—he can still wear them. Oh! A pair of hiking boots! My excitement faltered when I pulled back the tongue and saw the size. Too small for Atticus, but maybe he could cut out the toes? Another too-small shirt, and a too-small pair of jeans and a too-small pair of underwear—some of these things must’ve belonged to a young boy. Another dress—this one I’m sure will fit me! Long-sleeve flannel shirts. Short-sleeve T-shirts, plain white and gray and black and navy, cut into a V at the necks—these must’ve belonged to a man. I thought of the skeleton in the rocking chair on the front porch and realization set in and my heart fell as heavy as my breath. Where was the young boy who wore these too-small clothes? Where was the young woman who once wore these pretty dresses?
I found them outside, buried on the south side of the cabin. Two crosses made of jagged, uneven pieces of wood marked their graves. Mary. Corey. Wildflowers, little purple ones and yellow ones with mahogany-red centers grew atop the graves in a strange wavy pattern. A ribbon hung from Mary, deep purple at one time, but had turned black. A small toy car hung from a piece of string around Corey, two of its tiny wheels were missing. I thought it sad. Why couldn’t the little boy be buried with all four wheels? Why did he have to be buried with a broken toy after living such a broken life? I didn’t think it was all that sad that the boy had died; I thought him lucky that he’d never have to be hungry or thirsty or afraid ever again. But that broken toy car, it left me feeling resentful of irony.
I walked to the pond on the east side of the cabin where I drew water into the glass coffee pot I took from the kitchen. I started a small fire close to the back porch, built rocks up around it and took the spacer shelf from the microwave and placed it on top of the flames. I boiled the water in the coffee pot there.
Cutting one of the boy’s T-shirts into strips of fabric, I took them, hung over my arm, with the sterilized water into the living room where Atticus slept soundly, and I sat down in the rocking chair I’d brought in from the back porch, next to Atticus’ feet. Carefully, I cleaned away the dirt and debris from his broken blisters and cuts. Atticus stirred some when I touched the wet fabric to his wounds, but he never woke. His feet were much worse than mine ever were, even when the raiders dragged me into Lexington City. I cleaned every wound, every blister, wiped away every trickle of blood, and the whole time with such a heavy heart I nearly cried. How could he have walked on these feet for so long? How did he manage to keep the severity of such pain from me? I felt guilty. And angry with him just the same.
I spent the next hour bringing up dry wood from the surrounding forest, stacking it into a neat pile against the house so the rain couldn’t touch it. I went down to the pond and bathed in it; nothing to wash with but dirty water, yet I still felt clean afterward. And I slipped on one of the dresses that Mary used to wear, and it fell past my knees; thin cotton fabric with a flower print that matched the wildflowers covering the graves. The clothes I’d been wearing for days, and Atticus’ only pair of socks, hung on a laundry line I’d made using paracord.
By early evening, Atticus still had not as much as moved even to adjust his position in his sleep, and I made more good use of my time alone by emptying our bags on the living room floor and taking another inventory of the contents.
I rearranged things and knocked the dirt out of things and opened a squished pack of cigarettes and placed them all on the floor so they could dry, even though neither of us smoked. Cigarettes, like alcohol and drugs, were good for bartering.
As I started to put everything back inside the bags I stopped, my hand hovered over the large backpack. I looked around the room, at the emptiness of it save for me and Atticus and the long sofa that held his even longer sleeping body. I thought of the man on the front porch. The mother and son—I decided they had been that kind of family once—lying peacefully in their graves. I thought of the pond and the firewood and the clothesline and the mattress on the floor in the only bedroom.
And then, in reverse, I removed everything from the backpack again.
A small frying pan I set on the kitchen counter beside the microwave. Four miniature bottles of Crown Royal and two bottles of pills I hid underneath the sink where I planned to put the cigarettes after they dried. A hand-sized garden shovel and a plastic box of fishing gear, and snare wire and a military sewing repair kit and Zip-Lock bags and dingy coffee filters, I set it all neatly inside the kitchen cabinets. My bag of toiletries—which contained a tiny bottle of shampoo I remembered only after I’d already bathed—I put on the little medicine cabinet shelf behind the mirror in the bathroom. When I opened the closet in the bathroom, I found a bed sheet on the top shelf. I took it down with me, opening it wide and snapping it to get the dust out. Then I went into the bedroom and slipped it over the mattress; I made two pillows by rolling T-shirts together.
I sucked on a piece of caramel hard candy as I hummed a song. Hallelujah…Hallelujah… And I went back outside in my flowered dress and took the fishing gear in the plastic case with me where I sat down on a rock next to the pond’s bank and constructed a line. I left the line out, floating on a plastic soda bottle, and went back to the cabin.
