Quilting at the end of the world
Published in February 2013 Efiction Magazine
He lived in a house where the chime of the church bells could be heard every Sunday morning even though the windows never opened. He lived in a house that creaked at every step, where black-and-white photos of people long dead smothered the walls. He lived where nobody visited, but not alone, for mother was always near. She lived in a chair in a room just off of his bedroom.
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Sitting on the edge of his bed, a rare moment of solitude, he thought of that pitiful woman. He always thought of that woman. Even as he stared at an old photo on the wall he thought of mother. Sweet, useless mother. He clenched his fists and realized the photo stared back. There in that photo his father's rigid face was caught in time, the white of his skin a stone monument, his beard a timeless black.
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Robert laughed. Once people were dead their memory shouldn't still haunt you. But father's gaze never faltered. Or, at least, not the gaze of father in the photo.
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That man...oh, that man. What a proud beast his father had been. But how proud could he be now? Robert buried him. Buried him deep and where he would never escape. Robert remembered his father's tombstone better than he remembered the man himself. Eric Richardson. Father and husband. Robert had not allowed them to put 'beloved' or 'loving' anywhere on the stone.
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A bell rang. It wasn't a church bell, but mother's little bell, calling him.
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He slowly opened the door to her room, beholding his slumbering mother in her rocker through a swirl of dust. The chair slapped the floor, click-click-clacking with the pace of the rain on the roof. All around him quilts loomed, casting shadows. Towers of quilts, yellowed by time, filled with dust, were in every corner.
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His mother was an old woman. Her hair hung to the floor, course and wiry, gray as a storm cloud, but long. She was an aged Rapunzel, and her face bore hints of once being fair. The proud jaw bones, shadowing her cheeks, bespoke of a strong, sculpted face. She was beautiful. Old age did nothing but color her. Walking through the only path between the quilts, he set his hand on her shoulder to wake her.
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Her lids fluttered, and she seemed taken by surprise. Her eyes jutted forward, and he saw the veins in the whites.“Eric. My dear Eric!”
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He smiled. “Yes, my love. What can I do for you?”
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She tittered excitedly. “If my legs were a little stronger I'd get up from this chair to hug you.”
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“No need for that. It's just as well that you stay there.” He forced a smile. He found the more he smiled, the less of a mask it became. “You don't want to hurt yourself!”
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“Robert....” The name escaped her as if she just remembered something. “Where is he?”
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He glanced away momentarily. Where is Robert? he wondered. He couldn't figure it out himself. Robert was somewhere, buried deep perhaps. But where? Where was Robert buried?
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“My love,” he said. “Robert has a wife and a good family now. He's very rich and content.”
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“That's so lovely. I do love his wife and child so. He doesn't bring them around often...but sometimes he sends me letters. Oh, but you know that! And he's visiting today, isn't he? Oh, Eric! The house is a mess.”
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Robert nodded to soothe her. “Yes. He'll be here soon. Let me go get things ready for him.”
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He slipped out of the room, shutting the door, hand lingering on the knob. The photo stared at him, father's face never changing, caught in a prison, eyes staring out like a man chained.
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“That's what you get for what you did to her,” Robert whispered.
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He waited a few minutes before knocking on his mother's door, and crying, “Robert is here!”
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Opening the door, he saw her almost in tears. “It's been too long, Robert! You should bring the child next time. How is he?”
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Robert smiled again. “He's good, mother. He's healthy and strong. I think he'll walk soon, but he's very afraid to.”
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“Just like you. A very cautious little boy. Always looks before he steps.”
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“He doesn't like walking when his mother can just carry him around everywhere. He's smart enough to take advantage of us.”
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“Oh no!” His mother laughed. “He'll probably grow up to be a politician.”
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“I wouldn't let him.”
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“Well, I was just kidding. Who knows what he'll grow up to be?”
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“Who knows?” He wanted to cry, so he plastered the smile on thicker.
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“And his mother...how is she?”
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Robert remembered the last days with his wife. He remembered her screaming at him, threatening to take their baby away. He had screamed back, saying if she did he would track her down to the end of the world. Then their child died. There was no reason to stay together. The woman ran away one night, leaving him alone.
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“She's very loving.” Robert's eyes took on a blank look, tears threatening to spill, but, no, he wouldn't cry. “She's calm and good. She loves our son a lot. But who wouldn't love him? He's a very good boy.” Blinking something away, he glanced to the fireplace that hadn't been lit in years. A stuffed cat was on the mantle. He, the cat, was half-rotted now, sending the scent of death through the room.
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He decided to say the obvious.“That's not properly preserved, mother.”
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“It's fine. He almost looks the same.”
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Skin peeled from the cat's bones. “You throw away things that die. You don't keep them around like this.”
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“Why would I throw away something that's perfectly fine?” she said.
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Nightmares. Nightmares every night of this corpse dragging across his imagination, hissing and moaning, always in pain and never dying.
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His mother had made a mockery of this creature, displaying his rotten insides, his horrible stench, the memory of what he had once been exhibited like a freak show at the carnival. The marble eyes jutted from his head, beady and black, reflecting the light in the room. He bared his fangs, revealing the blackness down his throat. Robert felt like the tortured gaze of the animal was upon him even now, judging and knowing him for the fool he was.
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Months ago when the cat had died next to her feet, mother had screamed, “Don't bury him, Robert!” She made Robert gut him before her, pulling out as much of his insides as he could. Then she sewed him with the same thread she used on her quilts, murmuring all the while, “He used to purr. He used to love me.”
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So here the cat still was, a dead relic, a haunting ghost.
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“Robert....” Mother petted her son, hand brushing his coat. “Have you seen your father?”
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“I saw him in the hall. He said he was on his way somewhere and he would be back soon. Why won't you quilt in the meantime?” The crowded room muffled his low voice.
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“I have no blocks to quilt with....” She stared at the floor.
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“You used the last of them? Can you make more?”
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“Go take money out the pot.” She smiled. “Buy me some more fabric.”
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“Oh, mother. There hasn't been money in the house for a very long time.”
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She didn't hear him. “And get some thread, too.”
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“There is no money. There will never be any money.”
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Her wrinkles deepened as she thought. “Then we'll have to make do like we're poor people. We can make thread, and we can make blocks. Go find some old clothes and cut them up. And for thread....” She twirled a strand of hair, her long finger like a spindle. An idea hit her. He watched her face light up. “Cut my hair.”
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His gaze trailed down the gray locks all the way to the piled ends on the floor. “I don't think that'll work.”
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“That's very good, Robert. Now get your father in here. I want him to cut my hair.”
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He smiled thinly. “Of course.” Leaving the room, he returned with a basket and a pair of scissors. “I'm back, my love.”
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Stroking her hair between his fingers, he began to cut around her shoulders, pieces falling into the basket. How could he make thread from this? Then he smiled, because it didn't matter. He would never make thread of it.
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He studied the line of her neck, noticing a scar that ran from her collar to her chin like a bit of lost string. Someone had hurt her long ago and left their mark. He thought of his father, leaving marks, long after he was dead. Sick. Disgusting.
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“Eric...Eric....” As she whispered the words, he realized she had fallen asleep.
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The scissors froze in the air, then clattered in the basket, mother's hair mostly shorn.
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Sorrow welled in Robert. How pitiful they were. How sad. They were living a play life, because other lives had been torn away. He was an actor portraying the son and the father. He felt so strange, like he was losing himself.
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His mother snored slightly, her wrinkled neck stretched as she slept. Her neck, so, so pale and white. Like paper. White as paper. What did one do with paper? Cut it. He visualized cutting her into blocks and stitching her back together by strands of her own hair.
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Mercy. The word rang, a beautiful, freeing word. His mercy kill would create a mercy quilt.
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“Eric.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Eric, please answer me.”
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She was still asleep, so he smiled, and replied, “Yes, Eric is here.”
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“Will we send little Robert to the boarding school, Eric? Will we? I'd miss him so much.”
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His smile darkened. So they were still playing this charade? They'd always be playing this charade. “Yes. Yes. I would love to send Robert to school...if he wasn't dead.”
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Her eyes snapped open. She gripped Robert's shoulders with strength he didn't know she had. “He died? When?! How?! Oh God. Oh God.”
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He knew this should be awful, but watching her made a cruel smile cut his face.“You cut him up. You took Robert's skin and you made him into a quilt. You took his organs and displayed them on the mantle. You really are a monster, Delia, because you can never let things go.”
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She fell back, body stiff as rigor mortis. He almost thought she was dead before a sob escaped her throat.
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“It's very sad,” he continued. “The people we kill. I think all kill everyone slowly.” He stared at her neck. He thought about scissors.
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What was he saying? What was he doing? This wouldn't free them. He broke down, resting his face against her lap. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my love. I was lying. It's a horrible lie.”
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Face pale, she stroked his hair. “It's okay. I forgive you.”
“You're always so forgiving....” His voice drifted. “Robert is fine. He really is. He decided to go home, though. He's very tired. His wife misses him.”
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“Aren't we all? Tired, I mean. But we live on.” She laughed, the sound high as a bell. A beautiful noise.
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“We do....” He left to get her what she wanted.
I need squares.
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There is no money.
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The conversation played in his mind again as Robert took a dress from the drawer in his room. A woman's dress, belonging once to a wife and now to no one. How many were corpses?
Cutting the baby blue fabric, he watched the dress transform into blocks. Another transformation into a quilt would occur. His mother. Oh, how talented she was. He frowned.
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This was the last gift he would give his mother. Of this he was sure. He had nothing more left.
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He entered, seeing his mother awake.
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“Eric!” She looked ecstatic, arms outstretched. She took the basket of them into her arms, cradling and rocking all that remained of the wife.
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“You know where those come from?” Robert said as he watched his mother cradle the squares.
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His mother looked at him curiously. “The store?”
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He was about to say something to the contrary, but the words stuck in his throat. “The...yes, the store. I always get you such nice things from the store. There's the nicest woman there. She asked how my mother is, and I let her know you're doing well.”
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“I should go see her sometime.”
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“You know how the polluted city air is on you. It's best you stay here.”
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She glanced down at her legs. Robert's heart leaped as she frowned at them, gnarled and twisted like twigs. She lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing the sick pallor of her ankles. “I want to take walks sometimes. And sometimes I almost think I can, but my body doesn't. It thinks of nothing but rest.” Her eyes shone with tears.
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“You don't need to move. I'll be your legs.” He bent down, holding her hands. “I'll be anything you want.”
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Her hand traced his jaw. “But you can't be everything to me, Robert. That's just silly.”
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The words were a slap to his face. “But I can be enough to you. I can be just enough.” He gripped her shoulders.
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Her expression darkened. Was she scared?
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Unable to meet her gaze, he pulled away and walked towards the quilts. His fingers ran across them, their edges soft. Always on one edge at the right corner dangled three incomplete strands. He unfolded one from the top and stretched it across the floor. A rag quilt with a pattern mother created herself, as she was completely self-taught. The edges were round and ragged, the blocks stitched like a cathedral window.
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The fabric brought back memories of a man. Father. His army coat had been made into blocks for this one. His medals hung from each, his ribbons adorning the edges.
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Father's quilt. The quilt of the father. The quilt was the father, or all that remained. He stared. This quilt couldn't throw punches like father. This quilt couldn't threaten with a the edge of a knife until one day he made a cut down mother's neck, a warning, shallow scratch. But the cut scarred mother, and the scar stayed somewhere deep, taking root in her soul.
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Robert was an imposter.
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“Are you sad, Robert?” His mother's voice rose behind him. “Is there something wrong with your life? You seem so sad.”
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“Wrong?” The word stung him. “Yes. Yes, there is.” He glared at the blocks of the army quilt. “You know, I'm a better husband than he ever was, mother.”
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“What?”
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“I'm Robert and Eric. I'm both.” He wrapped the quilt of his father around his shoulders. “I am the father and the son.” He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her lips in a way that was both chaste and passionate.
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She said nothing, stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, “What is this?”
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“I don't know.” He stepped back. “I'm not even sure what I am.”
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She trembled.
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“Why are you shaking? You never were scared before. Is it because I'm showing you the lie for what it is?”
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“Let's keep pretending.” She looked at her hands. “Let's keep pretending forever.”
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“But we can't. We can't, mother. There is no forever anymore.”
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Tears dripped on her lap.
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“There's only....” He stared at the dust. He stared out the window at the world outside. The ugly world. “Maybe it's time.” His voice shook. “We can't live like this. It has to end. Mother, I love you. I love you so much. I've been a good everything to you. But this has gone too far. It has to end.”
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“Does it, Robert?”
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“Good bye sweet, dear, loving, kind mother.”
He closed the door, closed it tight. Tight! And no bell would be answered again. The church bell tolled, a faint percussion boom, Sunday morning's tolling gloom.