Warts and All

The opening sequence to my NaNo novel, unedited, 'cause I'm- how do you say lazy, and make it sound like a good thing....?

PRELUDE

            There’s a woman sobbing at your husband’s grave.

You’ve never seen her before. You’d remember a woman like that, curvy from the candied amber waves of her hair to the brown sugar swell of her bosom, from the twin cherry roundness of pert derriere to the graceful sweep of ample lashes over eyes as blue as saltwater taffy. She is rocking back and forth with the force of her grief, and the heels of her expensive stilettos dig twin gouges in the freshly turned earth. You feel a momentary pang, followed by another: for a moment, you found yourself more wounded by the destruction of her shoes than you were by Caleb’s death.

You wish that she would leave. The other mourners have been gone for quite some time, and you ought to be joining them. There’s a potluck at your sister’s house, and you’re expected. You stayed behind- well, you’re not really sure why you stayed behind. You hadn’t had a single meaningful conversation with your husband in six months; it was highly unlikely you’d find the words now. You stood shuffling from foot to foot, unsure whether you felt more foolish at the idea of talking to empty air, or of being unable to do so.

Everyone thinks you’re in shock. “Sudden,” they whisper, as though being hit by a cross town bus happens any other way. “The poor girl hasn’t had time to take it in.” They pity you even more for your lack of emotion, certain that it’s denial, anxious to make themselves available for the inevitable collapse. You keep waiting for the pain. The officer stood on your doorstep, hat in hand, and you could see the platitudes crowding behind his tired gray eyes, waiting to surge forward with the sympathetic tears: “Ma’am, it’s my sad duty to inform you that your husband was struck while crossing the street this morning. I’m…I’m afraid he was killed instantly.” You simply nodded, and shut the door. It’s like Mad Libs, you thought. Blank, it’s my blank to inform you that blank was blanked while blank-ing. Who gets to pick the nouns? You had a sudden image of God-as-fourteen-year-old-girl, perched on a ridiculously outsized ivory throne as a cadre of angels lounged about him on puffy white clouds, giggling.

“Oh, Gabriel, you always say ‘heart attack’…”

Caleb was a good man. He worked hard, treated you well, was as affectionate as a thirty-eight year old heterosexual with an utter lack of anima could reasonably be expected to be. He didn’t understand you in the slightest, but then, you had the advantage of thirty two years more experience with your brain than he, and you still found yourself perplexing from time to time. If your relationship had cooled of late, you were every bit as much at fault as he. You could have told him it bothered you, those long hours spent at the company, those lonely weekends. You could have said something about the growing distance between you. You could have tried to bridge the gap. He was only doing what he thought would make you happy, and now he’s dead at thirty-eight, rewarded for his efforts by a widow who refuses to cry.

You don’t even have the good taste to be disgusted with yourself. Oh, sure, you feel guilt at your apathy, but that’s just the Southern Baptist in you, retreating to a place it feels at home. It’s not like you haven’t tried. That first night, you dragged the old photo albums out of the guest bedroom closet and sat on the floor with a glass of wine, surrounded by your happiest memories. “That’s us at the Grand Canyon,” you said aloud. “Right after you lost your hat.” Your finger wandered down the yellowed pages to light on a picture of the two of you on your third anniversary. You stand side by side in matching chartreuse sweaters, handmade by his mother on the occasion of your second Christmas as a couple.  You remember her private apology afterwards: “Melvin is just the teensiest bit color-blind, y’know, and I knew I shouldn’t have let him buy the yarn for me but he got it on sale and he was so proud of himself, I didn’t have the heart…” You pictured her smiling and thanking him, putting so much care into the creation of her gifts even as she recognized their absurdity. It had become a symbol between you and Caleb. “The triumph of love over reason,” you whispered, to the dead man in the photograph, “the feelings of the other over one’s own pride.” He smiled up at you, and the breakdown didn’t come.

The woman at the gravesite has finally overcome her hysteria. She wasn’t at the funeral, and you don’t think she’s noticed you watching her from the shadowed seclusion of your parked car. You light another cigarette and inhale slowly. Who is she? A coworker? You attended every office party; you’re certain she wasn’t there. She could be new, but then, how would she have had time to form such a strong attachment? And although Caleb’s company was fairly successful, and his position as a junior executive afforded you both an extremely comfortable lifestyle, there is no way anyone short of the CEO’s wife could have come up with the money for that outfit. You squint through a haze of smoke. What is that, silk? Her dress ripples across her body like a tamed waterfall, caresses her hips like an affectionate cat. A mistress? It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. You angle the rear-view mirror and compare the face in your reflection to the vision across the cemetery. Your skin is as pale as hers is sundrenched. Your nose slopes down where hers turns up like a beckoning finger. Your lips are a defiant slash, the color of old carnations. Her lips are ripe with sensuous clichés: juicy, full, pouty, lush, etcetera, ad infinitum. It is only in the eyes that you find yourself celebrating a minor victory; her eyes hint at tropical paradise, but yours reveal hidden depths, dark but somehow shining, like moonlight on still waters.

Does it matter? You suppose not. It would simple enough to burst from hiding and demand an explanation, if that was your aim. It wouldn’t change anything. She’s collecting her purse from the ground beside her, resting her hand on the headstone as she bends precariously, plucking a speck of withered grass from her hem. She pulls a rose from the large mound at her feet and holds it gently against her cheek. Then, as though in exchange, she reaches into a coat pocket, extracts a tiny, gauze-wrapped bundle, and tucks it tenderly away beneath the remaining flowers. She turns and walks down the far side of the hill, out of sight.

You wait a few minutes.

The ground is boggy and treacherous from last night’s rain, and you skid a few times as you approach. The smell of moist earth blends with the rich musk of crushed blossoms. Their stems are slick against your hands. You crouch in the mud and fumble blindly, careful of thorns, till at last you feel the rougher texture of the fabric beneath your fingers. You pull it forth with the care of a child unwrapping an illicit birthday present. Then, with the same guilty air, you wrap your fist around it tightly and race back to the car.

You lock all the doors.

You check all the mirrors.

You slide low in your seat.

At last, satisfied you’re entirely alone, you lay the package in your lap and prod it experimentally. It’s firm and unyielding, roughly the size and shape of a human finger. It has no discernable smell. The fabric is thoroughly wet, and it takes you a while to unravel the knots. The object has been carefully enshrouded. You peel away the layers.

            It is a finger. It’s your finger.