Ethan Rutherford - The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories

“That,” John said, “and I want to see that doctor you’ve got above the garage.”

Thomas stopped. He was fifty feet from the road. He looked, saw his truck, and the trailer, but couldn’t see Sarah in the cab.

John’s voice was picking up strength. “Right? Maybe spend the night over there. See if she can tell me why this, shit keeps happening to me.”

Thomas drew a deep breath, and felt the cold on the back of his throat. He shifted the phone from one hand to the other. “I don’t think so, John,” he said, and shoved his cold hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t think so.”

“And why not?” John said. The radio in his car was suddenly silent. “Isn’t she perfect for me? Isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” Thomas said. “No, John, she’s not.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m single and available, and I’ll be there soon. I want answers. This is fresh stuff I’m talking about here. Heartache. I think we all want answers.”

“You’ve got—” Thomas began, but stopped. His jacket felt tight. He had nothing to say.

“Well, look at that,” John said. “That doesn’t sound like a nod from here.”

Thomas felt a pressure in his ears, a dull pain that began at his jaw and clustered at his temple. He pulled the phone away from his head. John was still talking. For what felt like years Thomas had endured nights of badgering like this, had waded into an endless abyss of silent listening. He’d cajoled and placated John; dodged his accusations, done what he could to mitigate the self-pity and anger as John went up and down, even though it was never clear to Thomas where he’d slipped up as a parent and a friend, where he’d fallen short. He’d come to terms with feeling responsible for things not working out the way they were supposed to. For John not working out the way he was supposed to. He absorbed everything John said like a distant dark star so it wouldn’t radiate any farther than it already did. Beyond that, he didn’t know what to do. But there must be a limit to all of this. He swallowed a shoot of saliva, and brought the phone back to his ear.

“Give me one reason she isn’t,” John said. “I can wait.” There was no mistaking his tone, this time. It was a threat. The texture of John’s voice on the phone sounded different to Thomas—it had become thicker, angrier. Thomas could feel desperation rising in his body. They had been approaching this moment for a long time now, and it had finally arrived. It was clear: this kid—their son—he would take everything if they let him. And he would keep taking. The desperation was turning to panic. Perhaps he and Joan were to blame for all of this, perhaps that was true. Perhaps they could have tried harder to help their son. Perhaps they had tried too hard. But that would have to wait. For now, the connection with John needed to be cut. Thomas looked up the road, back from where they’d come. At the end of it was their home. At the end of it there was a language John would understand. “Because, John,” he said, and took a breath. “Because she’s mine.”

There was a deep silence on John’s end. To Thomas it sounded like both a gathering and a negation of thought; the moment after the instruments tune and resolve in communal quiet. “John,” Thomas said. “Listen to me. Don’t bring your problems home this time.”

“I knew it,” John said. He was whispering now. “I knew it. You want her so bad. You old, bearded goat, and I got you to say it.” A pause. Then, suddenly cheerful, he said, “Secret’s safe, Pops. She’s all yours. You know me.” Then the line went dead.

Thomas held the phone to his ear for a full minute before gently closing and placing it back in his pocket. He walked back to his truck, set the gas nozzle in the tank, and hooked the handle. What he wanted, now, was quiet forever. He felt gone from himself, deep in some ocean. Years of tending, and without warning, he’d slipped. What he’d said could not be taken back. What John thought he knew would not be forgotten. It didn’t matter if it was true or not.

Zachary was quiet, staring at the traffic through the slats in the trailer. The snow clouds stretched in pregnant monochrome across the sky. Sarah was waiting with the coffee in the cab of the truck. Thomas got in. When Sarah had stitched the gash in his forehead, she’d told him to hold still, and swung one of her legs between his, as if to hold him, sitting, in place. She had fixed him to his chair. He’d wanted to take one of her breasts, not inches from his upturned chin, in his mouth. He’d never wanted to leave.

He turned the key halfway in the ignition, and the radio came to life. Blood on the road . He took his hands from the wheel, leaned back deep into the headrest, and closed his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah said. “Hey, what is it? Is John okay?”

Thomas opened his eyes. The windshield was dirty with road-salt and snow. Everything outside of the truck looked cold. Sarah was looking at him, holding their coffee cups. “What is it?” she said again, more softly this time.

“Please,” he said. He had meant to ask her a question, but found he couldn’t.

“Please what?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.” They sat for a minute without saying anything more. And then he reached for her. He felt as if he were moving slowly, but knew that wasn’t the case. His jacket caught briefly on the armrest, and the center console pushed uncomfortably against his ribs. He felt his hand and fingers behind her neck, under her hair, as he pulled her toward him. He’d meant to bring them face-to-face, to kiss her he thought, that was, he knew, what he wanted, but then he saw her expression—disbelief, terror; a child, she looked like a child—and he brought her head to his chest instead.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that. He was aware only that after a time she was gently pulling away from him, and he was keeping her there. “Thomas,” she said into his jacket, and he reached to put his other arm around her. “Thomas,” she said again, harshly this time. Then, suddenly, she wrenched free.

He felt a pain spread out along his thigh, one that bloomed just above his kneecap, and radiated up his leg. He looked down. The coffee from the cup she’d been holding had spilled in his lap, a dark, pulsing stain. He looked back to Sarah; she had pressed herself against the passenger door, as far away from him as she could get. The left side of her face was reddened, had chafed against his jacket; the right side drained of blood. A few strands of her hair were in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She was looking at his lap. “Sorry.”

His leg was throbbing. His vision had cleared. “Don’t be,” he said back.

The wood was stacked behind their house, near the now empty chicken coop, and with nothing else to do inside—wanting, in fact, to get out of the house—Joan had put on her coat and boots, grabbed the canvas log holder they kept by the kitchen door, and braced herself against the weather. Their entire property appeared still under the new blanket. The flakes falling from the sky were large; she could hear the sound of them as they hit and stuck. She walked halfway to the woodpile and stopped to enjoy it.

Her plan was to move the wood out of the weather and fill the log basin by their fireplace, so it would be dry enough to catch and no one would have to trudge out later for more. After that, she’d set some aside in the garage for Sarah.

The first bundle she overloaded, and couldn’t pick up. As she pulled some of the bigger pieces from the pile, she felt a presence, and started. When she turned, she saw the herd of alpacas, standing near the fence, watching her. They were covered in snow; they looked both mournful and resilient. She’d bought them on a whim two years ago, with some idea toward selling their fur. She regretted it now. She regretted everything now. When they’d bought this place thirty years ago, she’d been sure they’d eventually outgrow it; it was a small house. But now, with the light coming out of the kitchen window, burning soft and warmly through the falling snow, it felt, if anything, too large. They were turning into hermits, she and Thomas; their house a monument to failure and quiet and shame. They barely talked. It was a house full of empty rooms and hallways, cheerful family pictures taken by strangers.