I pulled the sharpened dentures from my mouth and dropped them in the cup of water. Crimson strings threaded from the incisors through the liquid. The bed creaked as I lay back, the taste of blood still lingering on my tongue. It had been a long night and even vampires get tired, especially ones my age.
I looked at the picture of Jesus nailed to the wall. He stared down at me with a sad smile and I felt my wife’s cold impression on the bed. Moments like these were the hardest, forcing the realization she was dead. Even with her funeral coming the next day, I couldn’t believe she was gone.
Downstairs, my grandchildren stomped and crashed about, giggling and ignoring their parents’ admonishments. They had arrived earlier that night for Catherine’s funeral. Children are great but grandchildren are better. I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night and their parents pick up after them. It’s a joy to see them grow, learn to walk, speak, and eat. There’s a pleasure in their faces at meal time that most of us older folk have forgotten.
Us older folk.
It’s humorous to hear the stories our ancestors told about our adversaries before the war: we are immortal and will never die. But you, you will not last and will leave no trace of your existence. You will be forgotten because your lives are not only unmemorable, but insignificant. These are the fears of every people and culture so what could be more terrifying than an enemy who cannot be destroyed, as we claimed to be. But they were only stories. No one lived forever, certainly not us.
I’ve read stories about the sorrows immortals suffered because of how much they had seen over their long lives. What rubbish. I would trade my mortality for their immortality in a heartbeat if it meant another day with Catherine.
A scream rang out from downstairs. I smiled when I heard applause, my grandchildren now being praised by their mother as the scream faded to a whimper and the giggles were replaced by slurping sounds.
#
“You spoil them too much,” my daughter Molly told me the next evening, less than an hour after dusk. She stood over the stove, frying up the leftovers from the last night. There was a large pail next to her, filled with body parts, waiting to be tossed onto the griddle. The aroma of garlic filled the room and I felt my mouth watering.
“I just wanted them to have a good time and get some exercise, Molly,” I told her. “Get their natural instincts flowing. Kelly especially looks a little pale. She could use a bit more blood in her veins. But I didn’t clean up after them.”
Molly grunted, flipping the meat with her spatula. Thankfully, she’d inherited her mother’s cooking skills. “They’re too young to move the bodies themselves. I had to drag the carcasses in here before I went to bed so I could cook them up first thing this evening.”
“What?” I asked, overdoing my incredulousness enough to cause Molly to crack a smile. “Did my parents ever pick up after me when I made a mess eating? I think not. I had to both catch my dinner and clean up after myself. That’s the problem with kids today: not enough independence.”
“It’s just we try to keep the children in a routine. We want them to be strong and fend for themselves. And Patrick and I never give them seconds.”
I bent down and kissed Molly’s forehead. “How can I refuse my grandchildren’s wishes? Permit an old man some pleasure, my dear. Where is Patrick, anyway?”
Molly sighed. “Kel and Jamie started bouncing on our bed before sunset. Patrick took them out for a walk around the farm while I slept a little more.”
“That was very kind of him.”
“Yes. He’s very kind,” she said. “Sometimes I think maybe too kind. Papa, I need to ask you something. Did you ever wonder if you made a mistake? If you shouldn’t have married Mama?”
“Is something wrong between you and Patrick?”
“No, not exactly. We’re fine, I guess. But he feels so far away from me sometimes, like he’s isolating himself.”
“He’s not isolating himself right now,” I said.
“Not from the kids, at least,” Molly replied. “Sometimes, he talks to me about things I don’t understand, wants things I don’t know how to give him, and doesn’t want what I can.”
I crossed my arms. “Do I really want to hear about this kind of problem from my daughter?”
Molly laughed. “No, not that kind of thing, Papa. I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing.”
“Maybe. Have you talked to him about it?”
“Better. I fight with him about it.”
“Ah.”
“Did you and Mama ever fight?”
“No, not really. Not for a very long time, at least. We were very happy, your mother and I.” I remembered how hard it’d been on Catherine to move out to the farm but eventually she got used to it. And after being married for forty-seven years, it hadn’t seemed like there was anything new or worthwhile to fight about. “So what is it Patrick does or doesn’t want?”
She poked the meat in the frying pan and let out a sigh. “All of this,” she said, gesturing around the house. “Anything about me, about us.”
I shook my head. “Molly, what are you talking about?”
Just then the door opened, and Kelly and Jamie rushed inside, hugging my legs. “Grandpa, Grandpa,” Kelly shouted. She was dressed in overalls and her hair had been braided into pigtails, much like her mother’s had been at that age. “We saw all the animals out in the barn. Can we have another? Please?”
Patrick walked in after them, pulling off his mittens, his thin face white from the cold. He shook his head and I could see his cheeks flushing red.
“You already asked your father, didn’t you?” I asked.
Jamie’s freckled face went red when our eyes met and he thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked at the floor. Kelly watched me, waiting.
“What did he say?”
“That we had to wait until tonight,” said Kelly. She stuck out her bottom lip, hoping I’d spoil her still.
“Well, then you’ll have to wait until tonight, my sweethearts. I’m sure there will be plenty for us all.”
Patrick smiled and mouthed, “Thank you.”
Molly scooped some of the leftovers from the frying pan onto a plate. Kelly grabbed one of the leg bones and started gnawing on it, but Jamie just shook his head. “I told you it wouldn’t work,” he hissed at Kelly as they marched up the stairs.
“Why did you give them those?” Patrick asked Molly. “It’ll spoil their appetites.”
“It’s only a snack,” Molly replied. “Dinner’s a long way off. They’ll be fine.”
Patrick muttered something and walked out of the room. Molly never stopped to look at him, just kept poking the meat with her spatula.
Feeling awkward, I walked to the door and put on my old hat, the one with the ear muffs my grandfather had worn during the war. “I better go see to the livestock and make sure your little monsters didn’t scare them too badly.”
“I’ll come with you,” Molly said.
I remembered how much fun she had helping me when she was a little girl, how Catherine had tied up her thick blonde hair into pigtails. The top of her head couldn’t touch my waist. Now she was only a head shorter than me and her pigtails were gone, her hair cut at her shoulders in a very contemporary fashion. Was it really that long ago? Did time move by so fast?
“How can I say no to my little girl?” I asked and a smile lit up her face. “Just make sure you bundle up. It’s cold out tonight.”
#
Howls from the livestock filled the night air. The snow had started to fall, covering the grass with a thin blanket. Our boots crunched through the snow, echoing across the field. The pale light of the full moon lit up the field as we walked back to the old barn, the red paint peeling off its wooden planks. Our breath floated before us in the chilled air, lingering like apparitions reluctant to disperse. Part of me was thankful for the cold. It helped bury the stench of human waste that usually permeated the farm.
The animals whimpered and cowered away from the door as I opened up the pen.
I have a movie in my head of Molly helping me in the barn as a little girl, dressed in overalls and just a little older than her own children. She would carry a pail that splashed water with every step she took and put it in the livestock’s troughs. She always had such a calming effect on the animals out in the barn.
For parents, such memories are sometimes only figments of the imagination. The way they want to remember their children often replaces the reality.
Such was not the case with Molly. If anything, her movements were more graceful, attaining even more trust with the animals.
All those years ago, I had always worried she would spook one of them, that they’d strike out at her. I am not ashamed to say that even that night I tensed at the thought – so many of them towered over my Molly when they stood up straight (though they rarely did that anymore). What could be more terrifying than something horrible happening to your child? It’s in the nature of parents to protect. And I had already lost so much in the last week.
“Be careful, dear,” I told her when one of them growled and backed away. “They’re not used to you.”
“It’s okay, Papa. I’m fine.”
Molly didn’t seem to notice my fear and her confidence actually seemed to relax the animals. They backed away from her at first but she talked to them, holding out her hands so they could sniff and touch her with their own, and realize she meant them no harm. Eventually, they let her close enough to ruffle their hair and beards or massage their backs (they always loved that) or even hug them as she had when she was a little girl. She had never been squeamish about the livestock’s fate, even back then. It was a fact of life to her. A benefit of growing up on the farm, I suppose.
“I forgot how peaceful it is out here,” Molly said. “How quiet it can get.”
“You always did like the country,” I said. “Your mother and I didn’t think you’d take to the city like you have.”
“How are you doing, Papa?”
“Tired. I am always so tired.”
“But how are you doing?”
I realized then what she was asking, why she had come out to the barn with me. “I’m fine, Molly. It’s sweet of you to worry but you don’t need to. Really. I – ” My throat ached and I had to swallow and take a deep breath before I continued. “Most of the time I don’t even realize she’s gone.”
I tossed out some of the leftovers Molly had prepared, fried meat, some that still resembled arms and legs. The blood had all been drained, of course, because the livestock had no taste for it. They pushed and shoved and dove down in the straw and dirt to capture their food.
“Do we need to move some of them over to the church?” Molly asked.
“I already did last night, before you and Patrick and the kids arrived. I wanted to make the most of our time together.”
She gave me a hug. “Are you sure you can afford it, Papa?”
“It’s the least I can do for your mother’s funeral,” I told her.
#
The church was only just up the street. By the time we got there, the sanctuary was already half-full but the first row had been reserved for us. I sat down beside Molly, my grandchildren squirmed between her and Patrick, uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes.
Jesus hung on a crucifix at the front of the church. Strange that our adversaries used to shove the image of our God into our faces, thinking He would save them instead of us. They did not understand that the God they worshipped was ours, not theirs.
The preacher shook my hand and said how he was sorry for my loss. He was a handsome young man, always smiling. Even that night, he had a small smile on his face. I did not tell him Catherine never appreciated his sermons.
Instead, I said, “Thank you.”
After everyone sat down, the preacher handed me a dish filled with tiny strips of fried meat. Catherine had wanted her funeral begin with communion.
“The last night with his disciples, Christ feasted with his friends,” said the preacher. “He passed food to them and said, ‘This is my body which has been broken for you. Eat it in remembrance of me.’”
I put the piece of flesh inside my mouth. It was tough and difficult to swallow. The church bought from an overstock warehouse, not from my crop.
I tried to focus on the symbolism of the act instead of politics. Jesus had shed His blood for our sins and asked us to drink it so we would one day be resurrected, just as He was. But all I could think of was Catherine, how much I missed her and wondering why she had to leave so soon.
The preacher continued, “After the meal that same night, Christ passed a cup around to his disciples and said, ‘This is my blood which has been shed for you. Drink it, in remembrance of me.’” The blood tasted metallic on my tongue but went down much easier than the flesh had.
“‘I am the resurrection and the life. No man comes to the father but through me.’” Was the road to heaven that narrow? Was there a heaven at all? I wondered. Was this just another myth our ancestors created? But looking at Catherine’s casket and Christ hanging on the cross over her, I started to wonder if even Gods die. I didn’t know, but I hoped that wasn’t the case. I wanted to see Catherine again, filled with life. Not like the last time I’d seen her in the bathtub, wrinkled and spent, her tongue hanging out of her mouth, her eyes empty.
I didn’t hear the rest of the preacher’s sermon.
Usually I found them enlightening but maybe Catherine had been right about him after all. Easier on the eyes than on the ears. She’d had a way of judging character, even though I’d often been blind to her observations.
After the preacher finished, friends and strangers approached to hug me or shake my hand, offering condolences after viewing the body.
Patrick and Molly kept a tight grip on the children, telling them not to look, worried what it might do them psychologically, but most of all wanting them to remember their grandmother as she’d been when she was alive, not the artificial way she’d been displayed in the casket. It had been my idea to leave the casket open during the service. Old-fashioned, I guess. Catherine had always said I was a traditionalist. But when they finally closed the lid, I was thankful.
Patrick helped carry the casket out into the fading night before dawn arrived. They put it down in the fresh white snow, re-opened the lid, and trudged back toward the church.
A funeral is an all day affair, starting very late in the night. The departed is prayed for and set outside, awaiting the sun to lay it to rest. Instead of sleeping, we stay up to commiserate, mourn, and stare out of the tinted windows into the beautiful, forbidden light. Then the body is gone, the casket left almost as empty as Christ’s tomb.
But dawn did not come, at least not right away. Dark clouds had rolled over the plains, blocking the daylight. A storm was on its way. A part of me felt relieved. I wasn’t ready to let go of her. I felt something nagging at me, something I needed to understand first.
Snow started to fall. The animals I’d brought over the previous night began to bray and cry out, their moans echoing throughout the sanctuary. At least today that custom would be satisfied.
Then, for a few seconds, the clouds broke and the sun cut through the sky. In the empty field, Catherine’s body caught fire inside the casket.
I cried out, realizing I would never see her again. Not in this life, at least. She was gone. There was so much I still wanted to tell her, so much I wanted to share. I just wanted her to hear me say “I love you” one more time.
The clouds soon returned, hiding the ground from the sun but the flames continued to flicker above the casket, their warm orange tongues licking at the gray sky. Plumes of smoke curled above the field. The surrounding snow began to melt from the heat and the casket sank a little into the newly created mud.
Jamie started to sob, burying his head in his mother’s knee, but Kelly just stared out into the field, her eyes wide and her mouth opened. Molly clutched them both to her and I felt her body sink against mine. Patrick watched, standing apart from his family, his face strained.
After the flames died down, the preacher spoke up. “The family has provided a meal downstairs in the basement and requests that you join them. It’s important that in this hour, we be with the family of our dear sister and show them our love and support.”
The animals were shivering in their chains downstairs, waiting. We selected our dinners and the animals were moved to the tables and forced to lie down. They writhed in their chains and whimpered as we took our seats beside them, stroking them gently to calm them and then lifting their limbs to our lips. Some of the livestock screamed when bitten. Others soon got over the initial shock and became, not less excited, but seemed to take some pleasure from it, as if they understood the price their sacrifice paid for us and were at peace with it.
Molly and the children had already started eating, blood staining their faces. Patrick sat with his head bowed, probably still blessing the food.
Poor bastards, I thought as I looked into the eyes of the female strapped to our table. I wonder if they feel as we do?
Then I chuckled to myself, appreciating the ridiculous questions we find ourselves grappling with in grief. I tore into her flesh and her warm blood filled my mouth.
#
The food did not comfort me. I don’t even remember hearing the woman as I drank from her veins, whether or not she screamed and kicked or moaned.
The day finally ended. The guests had eaten most of the livestock but not all. Patrick agreed to take the leftovers back with him when he and Molly and the kids returned to the farm. The children had fallen asleep before dusk and I knew he and Molly must have been tired. But I wasn’t ready to go home yet.
“Are you going to be okay?” Molly asked me. “It’s so cold outside.”
“I just need some time alone,” I told her. “I’ll walk home.” I pulled her aside, away from Patrick and her children. “You didn’t get to tell me last night. What is it that Patrick wants?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Papa. I shouldn’t have said anything to you about it. It was selfish and horrible timing.”
“Please.”
She stared at me, a confused look on her face. “You know how thin he is, how pale he looks? When we first started dating he never ate a lot. I didn’t think much about it then.” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. “He doesn’t like eating the livestock, Papa. He doesn’t think it’s right. He says that they aren’t really animals and he should eat other things instead.”
I shook my head, remembering how I thought Patrick had been praying before dinner. “Other things? What other things?”
Molly sighed. “Other kinds of livestock. Cows. Pigs. Anything else.”
“Pig blood?” The idea disgusted me. “He wants my daughter and grandchildren to drink pigs’ blood?”
“No, not all of us. Just him.”
“Just him?” I repeated. My thoughts drifted to Catherine, everything she’d wanted that I hadn’t given her, that I had refused to give her. Her misery when she’d first moved to the farm. All the things I hadn’t understood, that had gone unsaid. I thought she’d change but she was stubborn and I thought she wanted to change me. But I couldn’t change anymore than she could.
I’d never understood, I realized. Why is that only now, when she’s gone, I finally understand?
“Papa?” Molly asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Molly kissed me on the cheek. “I didn’t expect you to.”
“I love you, my Molly,” I said, hugging her to me.
“I love you, Papa. Come home soon.”
I watched them go before I walked out to the field, saw Patrick open the door for Molly and lift the kids into the backseat of the pickup truck without waking them. I waved as they pulled away, and then walked into the field.
The casket would be gone before the night ended but nobody would have moved it yet. I’m not sure what I wanted to see or do when I got out there. Certainly not fall down in the snow and cry like a child, but that’s exactly what I did as I looked inside the casket, empty but for the ashes.
“There’s so much I didn’t tell you,” I sobbed. “So much I didn’t understand.”
The moon hung above me where the sun had been hours before. I spent the next few hours sobbing and praying, trying to make up for past mistakes and regrets. I talked and talked and talked, hoping for some kind of answer or sign from God that my prayers weren’t in vain, that there would be a resurrection, that I would see Catherine again. But all I heard was the howl of animals from my farm, their cries surrounding me, filling the field, empty except for me.
I stayed out there beside her empty casket, waiting.
END
“Last Respects” was first published by Pseudopod in March, 2007.
D.K. Thompson writes technical documentation for an aerospace company, which is sometimes more disturbing than anything else he can imagine. He’s a graduate of the Viable Paradise SF/F writers workshop and won the Pariah Publishing Grand Prize for his novel-in-progress, Fallen Horizon. He lives in Southern California with his wife and daughter. Visit his blog at http://krylyr.livejournal.com
APEXOLOGY: Horror