The Flicker of Old Dreams Read online

  Secretly I think of myself as an artist. Drawing was my obsession in high school and, briefly, I dreamed I could make a career of it. My mind, my hands have always wanted to create art. Embalming is not completely separate from that impulse. My job is a study of the human form, its beauty and vulnerability. I take pleasure in choosing each tool and color, in making a clean stitch, in positioning the body to create a portrait.

  I touch Mr. Mosley’s face. All this time it has been without expression, but not for long. The family has supplied a picture of him standing in a field of cattle beside his tractor, perhaps the same one that crushed him. He has a handsome, sun-toughened face and does not seem to smile but rather tucks in his lips. His eyes reveal more—a playful squint as if he hopes to get into mischief. I wonder who was on the other side of the camera and what happened after the photo was taken. I place oval-shaped plastic caps over the eyeballs so they won’t appear sunken as the body dehydrates. I sew the lids shut.

  As I close the mouth, running wax string through the lower and upper gums, then the nostrils, I imagine Mr. Mosley earlier in the week, climbing into the cab of his tractor, maybe sitting awhile with his feet up, drinking coffee, having the morning to himself.

  What I hope for each body that comes to me is to add something that gives a surprise burst of life. I pad the mouth with cotton to get the expression right—a man who holds his breath, who finishes his work even if his hands are cut and his joints are sore. I pull the string a little tighter, causing the jaw and lips to close very naturally. Two small knots, and there he is, the man in the photo. Satisfied, I seal my work with Super Glue.

  2

  The small windows near the basement ceiling rattle, but something persistent about the noise causes me to freeze. What if the boys have returned and flung their bikes aside so they can drop into the window wells and press their faces to the glass? They do this sometimes. I only have to show my face and off they go, whooping, clapping one another’s hands. It used to be my peers who did this. Now it’s the children of my peers.

  When the banging becomes more forceful, I climb the counter below the windows.

  “Leave us alone!” I shout.

  But even as I slap at the glass, I remember their words that have become a part of me. Why else would they treat me this way unless there’s something strange or repulsive that they see? The outrage drains from my arms. I search again for their bikes, their smug faces, so they can have their laugh, get it over with, and go away.

  All I see is a stick, pinned on one end, and striking our house whenever the wind blows it. No boys. No teasing, at least not tonight.

  Trash cans tumble through the dark, dusty streets. The sky is filled with twirling plastic bags, bits of roof tile, tarps set free to billow through town like phantoms. And then I see it. The shiny pickup in Doris Golden’s driveway, brake lights on. I can’t see the plates well, only that they’re not Montana. It has to be the younger brother.

  The brake lights go dark, and I press my forehead against the cold glass to see the man who steps out. Only his shadow at first. I still remember the day we heard he’d quit school and skipped town. The playground erupted in cheers.

  As my eyes adjust, his form separates gradually from the night sky. His leather jacket looks silly. No one here wears a thing like that. He walks closer to a light hanging above the side door of his mother’s house. His dark curls fall almost to his collar—the kind of hair I’ve only seen on TV. For a moment he turns, looking directly at me, no change in his expression. And I realize I am completely exposed in this bright window. I imagine my face alarmed and washed out under the fluorescent lights.

  Slinking down from the counter, I strip off the latex gloves and rub my fingers together, trying to work the nerves out of them when the doorbell rings.

  I know who is ringing the bell because I made the mistake of catching his eye. I’ve called him to me like a stray dog that I looked at for too long. The younger brother waits on the other side of this dark stained door. Upstairs, the TV continues to drone, but my father is likely passed out by now.

  I twist the knob and feel, even as the door groans open, that Pop would insist I keep it closed. Wind slips inside, running through our front hallway. And there he is—the town’s disgrace—thin, even in a leather jacket, its black skin buttery and creased. His wavy hair, streaked with gray, blows to one side of his head. Funny to see him grown when I’ve thought of him all my life as a fourteen-year-old.

  “I saw someone at the window,” he says with no trace of the local accent. “I’ll be needing your services before too long. For my mother. I don’t know what I need to do to get started except come here, I guess.”

  The entryway is almost completely dark except for a soft blue glow from the upstairs den.

  “I’m Robert Golden,” he says, wiping his hair back in place.

  He extends a hand much too smooth for the men in this town. All I can think of is that awful crying up in the gray tower. He stands there a moment longer before withdrawing his hand into his pocket.

  “My mother. She’s not well,” he says. “Doris Golden. She lives just over there.”

  He points into the dark.

  “I know where Doris lives,” I say.

  “Are you one of the Cramptons?” he asks.

  What a funny thing, in a town this size, for someone not to know all about you.

  “I’m Mary Crampton,” I say. “The embalmer.”

  Another gust blows inside, knocking the brochures to the floor. Funeral Planning Made Easy, Sad Isn’t Bad, Prepaid Peace of Mind. Robert Golden should read that last one, but it’s too late at night to remember the introductory speech I’m supposed to give. I’ve never had a knack for talking with those who need our services. It’s fair to say I’m not a people person. Pop usually meets with clients so I can stay in the basement.

  “I’ll help you pick them up,” he says.

  I pull the door shut behind me as a response to his offer so that now, quite unintentionally, we are standing too close together on the front porch. My eyes sting under the glare of the naked bulb.

  “Oh, there,” he says. “The light helps. Now I can see you.”

  His smile lifts on only one side of his mouth as if the muscle hasn’t fully developed.

  Wind elbows between us, rocking us onto our heels. My cheeks feel hot. A wisp of hair falls across my face, and I tuck it behind my ear. Then, remembering that my ears are weird, how they curl too hard at the top, I swipe my hair back down so it hangs flat against the side of my face.

  For most of my adult life, I’ve tried to make myself invisible, but suddenly I’m aware of my physical presence. I’m an ordinary woman. My hair is brown, but not a brown that would inspire a name like chestnut or milk chocolate. It’s more the color of a brown couch cushion that’s sat too long beside a sunny window and faded to something you could only describe as drab. My eyes are hazel, but most wouldn’t know because I look at my shoes if others are around. You wouldn’t call me fat or thin or tall or short or curvy or flat. I’m what you might call unremarkable in my ponytail and grocery store makeup.

  “So you’d like to set up services for Doris?” I ask, folding my arms.

  “Yes,” he says. “I think so. I’ve never had to do anything like this before.”

  We are shouting over the wind.

  “I don’t know how much longer she has,” he says. “I just want these last days to go peacefully.”

  Across the street, a rusted sign over the Petroleum Hotel bangs back and forth. The building is plain as a sugar cube, with an unadorned window for each of the six rooms. It’s no-frills living in this inn that was built to serve hunters. No television in any room, and a single toilet and shower down the hall. Much of the year, as now, it’s empty, the rooms on the top floor dark. The only one there is the owner, an old man who lives on the first floor through a door behind the welcome desk.

  “I’ll get you the forms,” I say. And remembering the mess in my
father’s office, how it may not even be possible to get to the file cabinet, I add, “Tomorrow, when I’m not in the middle of a job.”

  “I’ve interrupted your work,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  Wind shoves my shoulder back toward the house, and we hear a loud crash, then a barking dog. Across the street, a light snaps on in the hotel lobby, the owner’s face glowing at the front window. He looks to the rusted hotel sign, finally ripped from its hinge. But when he steps outside to have a better look, it is our porch that interests him. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare.

  “I should head back to my ma’s place,” Robert says. “Mary Crampton, did you say?”

  He looks as if he might try to shake my hand again, but decides against it, turning down the steps. I say nothing as Robert Golden walks into the black, debris dancing along the ground under the moonlight. He’s an odd man for these parts. His clothes are out of place. He walks too fast. I want to keep watching until he’s gone, but the wind has forced my eyes shut.

  Back inside, I hold the knob for some time, letting my nerves quiet down. I think of “the younger brother,” said like a curse in this town. Then I think of the man at my door with his crooked smile, hair blowing to one side. Right now I feel, well, I don’t know what I feel. I only know I haven’t let go of the doorknob.

  I bend down to gather the pamphlets that had scattered across the floor when I remember Mr. Mosley. I still have work to finish tonight.

  Hurrying downstairs, I slip on gloves, then squeeze my fingers open and shut to calm my nerves. I search the tray of tools until my fingers relax around the metal handle I need. I inhale, exhale, then draw the scalpel down Mr. Mosley’s neck.

  My hand disappears, sliding through dark and slippery passages. My fingers know the way, feeling the dense muscle, soft knots of fat, until they locate the thick, white carotid artery. I tie it off with string and attach a tube to the free end. I do the same for the jugular vein, then, using my elbow, flip a switch.

  Embalming fluid the color of pink lemonade pumps through Mr. Mosley’s arteries via one tube while blood leaves his body out another. Red streams and jellylike clumps gurgle down the drain. Right away, his skin becomes firmer, his face appears to blush. As the machine hums and clicks, I massage his arms and legs to break up clots and help distribute the fluid. Already he looks like the man he must have been earlier in the week. I wonder how his life measured up against his dreams. Or if he still had dreams. Some of us have let ours go.

  3

  I stand at my bedroom window, dressed for the day, and look out on my town at dawn. Outside, the dry creek bed flows with plastic grocery bags. More garbage collects along the barbed-wire fences and metal windbreaks. Soon all the neighbors will be out, picking up the trash and tending to vacant properties or the whole place looks like a dump.

  Robert Golden’s truck sits in the driveway across the street and it’s hard to know what his return to Petroleum means. I don’t expect many to make him feel welcome. And maybe that doesn’t matter; visitors never stay long. Most take a look at this place and these miles and miles of treeless prairie and see a whole lot of nothing.

  But look, how could you see nothing while you stare at this fluid painting in the sky? Watch it deepen to a muddy purple, so everything beneath it seems to glow. And closer, hidden among the pale grass and tiny shrubs and pincushion cactuses and patches of snow, see the mule deer, almost the same color as their surroundings, and elk wearing their winter coats?

  I turn my head toward a sudden flap of wings. Crows and snow geese holler, Morning. Morning! Get up! And the town begins to awaken.

  I like the view from here, where I feel in harmony with these early risers, stoics, and hard workers. The beautiful boys from my childhood have grown into men in flannel and work boots. So many redheads, so many named after trees and horses. Colt. Trotter. Ash. Birch.

  Fathers and sons pile into trucks with thermoses and packed lunches. Sometimes I wave as they head out to the local ranches, but mostly not. I understand that our relationship is this, watching each other go about our lives, needing each other’s businesses to survive if we are to survive. And mostly, sharing a love of this land that is not for everyone.

  Out here, you are never separate from the weather or wildlife. Open your door in the morning and there are tracks of bobcats and coyotes that walked through your garden while you slept. Some fear being flung so far into nature without a nearby hospital, firehouse, or cell-phone tower. You have to be willing to look after yourself, scrub out your own wounds and sew them up with fishing line. There are plenty in town with impressive scars, limps, missing fingers, glass eyes.

  And yet, some of us can’t bear to leave this place. We like waking to the call of geese, and dwelling among more animals than people. At night, there are no streetlights, no lights on this expanse of highway. When you stand out on the prairie, you can open or shut your eyes and it’s just as black.

  But this is as much as we share. I don’t pretend to have any illusions. I know we’ll get along easiest when I see them on the embalming table.

  Two more trucks head toward the highway as the sun pushes higher and color bursts beneath the clouds—salmon pink, egg-yolk gold. The air comes alive with the rumble of machinery and the bawling and bleating and clucking of animals waiting to be fed and let out to roam.

  I hear the swish of boots through the weeds as neighbors begin to pick up trash. Women with scarves tied under their chins, men holding caps in place, squint into the wind with crosshatched faces and hair that never looks brushed. It’s time to wake my father.

  I clomp down the hallway in untied boots and find Pop in the recliner under a blanket. From this angle, he has more scalp than hair, his skin freckled and shiny. He looks older when he sleeps, mouth slack, cheek squished into the side of the chair.

  When I look closely at my father’s face, it is like a map of the journey he won’t talk about. I like the lines by his eyes that I imagine come from my mother making him smile. I like the nick under his chin from a ski accident he had on their honeymoon. I like the turned front tooth that makes him look a little happier than he actually is.

  It seems, for my whole life, I’ve wanted to know the side he keeps hidden. Does he cry, and if so, about what? And when he fishes, quietly as you’re supposed to, casting out again and again, where does his mind travel?

  I straighten a stack of magazines on the table beside him, mostly expired TV schedules, and make gentle noises to let him know I’m here.

  Pop is something of a local celebrity with his television ad that has run unchanged for a decade. But this is not the man the community sees—not with his oily hair, what’s left of it, the stained undershirt, the checkered pajama bottoms with rice stuck to them.

  “Morning,” I say, finally, and pat his leg. “Come on, Pop. Time to get up.”

  I open the blinds to let in the sun as he moves a bit in his chair.

  “Come on, time to get a move on. Everyone’s outside cleaning up from the storm.”

  “I’m up. I’m up,” he says, struggling to open his eyes.

  He tries to stand too quickly. The remote control falls from his lap, and then the blanket. He seems embarrassed that I’ve bent down to help untangle it from his ankles.

  “Did you hear the wind last night?” I ask.

  “I must have had the TV up too loud.”

  “Well, everyone’s getting to work out there,” I say. “You didn’t hear the wind?”

  I’m making a point. I do it this way, never directly. I can’t make the words in my head come out of my mouth: You could talk to someone instead of making yourself pass out. You could talk to me. Instead, I fold the blanket as he reaches out to the chair for balance.

  “I could use a quick shower,” he says.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I ask.

  “I’m just fine.”

  He’s never been one to talk about his troubles. Not about losing Mom, not about the tragic stories we a
bsorb in our line of work. He fusses about money but never says he’s afraid. Ask how he’s doing, he’s always fine.

  “I’ll meet you outside,” he calls, as he closes the door.

  I hear the sweep of the shower curtain. The faucet squeaks and water rumbles through the pipes. I remember when my father used to sing in the shower.

  As I walk down our driveway, I hope no one says hello. Our trash can has rolled to the bumper of Pop’s hearse, spilling its contents. Most of the garbage has caught under the back wheel. I reach for a page of newspaper covered in grease stains—fried potatoes I cooked earlier in the week.

  “Mary, can you give me a hand?”

  I look up to find Fritz Berg, owner of the Petroleum Hotel, who stared so long at our porch last night. He stands across the street, leaning on his cane. His clothes, all variations of blue, look two sizes too big. I cross the street, suddenly aware of the greasy newsprint on my hands.

  “That was a lot of wind,” he calls.

  “Yes.”

  My voice comes out weird and high—I get nervous around most people—and my shoulders rise in embarrassment.

  “Any damage at your place?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ve got a problem here,” he says.

  “Yes. I see.”

  We both look up to the hinge, where the hotel sign has ripped from the pole. Then we follow the long drop that left it at his feet.

  “Do you have gloves?” he asks.

  I pull the pair from my pocket and put them on as I walk across the lawn. Up close, the sign is bigger than I would have guessed. The metal is so corroded, it’s hardly readable.

  “Don’t know if you can use it again,” I say.

  “Oh, we don’t need a sign,” he says. “Who doesn’t know this is the hotel? I just want it off my property.”

  It’s heavy enough to have dented the ground.