Victoria, IL 1982
Steven Fox Yasukawa
Nedra is dead by the first snowfall.
Thaddeus knows the motions: who to talk with about the grave site, the coffin,
flowers, the obituary. He always helped with these things when his patients
didn’t make it, doing it without making things personal, using few words. He
hasn’t been so involved in all this since he retired, but he doesn’t notice any
changes. It was the same before as now. He doesn’t forget routine.
Some of the snow has started to melt
off by the time of the funeral. Leaves keep it puddled beneath trees, the thin
branches exposed to the Illinois weather that still takes lives. Islands of
soggy grass break through snow, mud frozen thick under it, mixing with white.
This service happens like all the others: no one listening to Father Jackson’s
words, just keeping their heads bowed. Most folks are probably thinking of Nedra,
but nothing more than It’s a shame or She’s at peace now. Thaddeus had been to
enough of these to know. Seen enough coffins, holes in the dirt and rock. He had
known all the people well enough without knowing them. Nedra was the same.
They’d lived in the same house for decades, but that’s all. He didn’t care to
hear her stories any more than she cared to tell him. She had women in town for
that and the people who’d stop to buy eggs. He helped her out by sharing his
house. She cooked, cleaned, and tended the chickens. That how it was supposed to
be. And that’s how it ended. Nedra put to rest, a woman who shared space with
Thaddeus.
Nedra had let him have his routines,
as she had hers. She had the chickens, the eggs, supper. He started making
dinner when he retired, but only because she made him feel guilty. She was still
doing supper then. Thaddeus had coffee and the paper in the morning, and this
took time, but he didn’t sit down to read Westerns until after putting dinner
together for them both. For weeks he put the ham on buttered bread. Later he
made supper too. Nedra fought with him about that, hollering that she’s
perfectly capable, that his suppers could kill a healthy boy. He’d heat things
on the stove, but she’d still cook freezing soup in bags, naming and dating each
one. Her script had aged but was still nearly flawless—just that the lines were
more blotchy than before. Thaddeus knew it took her a long time to write the
names on the bags, and that riled her. He’d made pork and beans and corn with
green beans, cans he got from the store. Nedra would eat it. She stopped talking
to him by then—only making grumbles about him.
The wind picks up and everyone there
hides within themselves. Father Jackson stands, eyes closed behind his glasses,
and talks loudly, over the wind. He has not changed much, his lean face and bald
head. This eulogy uses the same speech he usually does: grace, great, blessed,
the Lord. The words are lost in the air, showing the beginning of this season
that’s only good for passing away. For the next ones, Father Jackson will do it
all inside and then the cemetery will do the rest. Doing it outside at this time
of year was foolish. Thaddeus nods for him to get on with it. Nothing else to
regret; just give a conclusion. It’s getting too damn cold for folks to be
outside with this unstoppable north wind. It will be dark before too long,
everyone’s system weaker. Thaddeus knows his eyes aren’t too good at night and
neither are most other peoples'. With the last words, Father Jackson raises his
arms, and people turn to leave, steps small and careful. Thaddeus turns around,
hands pocketed, warming his face by breathing into his collar.
At home, shoes by the door, Thaddeus
lies on the davenport, flattened over years of sitting and faded from the
morning light. The dim lamp puts a weak light into the room. He sits up and
takes off its ruffled shade, placing it off the tired orange carpet. He reads
his Western by the bulb instead of making supper, flipping to the correct page
number. Bookmarks are a waste, people should just remember where they left off.
It’s as easy to remember a number as it is to find a scrap of paper to stick in
some spot between pages. It used to be a memory exercise when he realized he was
getting old, but now it is effortless. The book rests on his paunch, the
yellowing paper scraping against the buttons and wrinkles of his shirt when he
turns each page. He breathes through his mouth, the sound loud but comfortable.
In moments some of his toes twitch the way they do when he falls asleep.
He remembers, stands. The chickens.
Feed the chickens. He started the procedure a while ago, when Nedra was laid up,
but he still forgets. He puts on his shoes and jacket again, taking the bucket
of feed from its spot by the back door. The chickens would probably mess his
shoes. He’ll have to find his shoe polish when he’s done, either in his closet
or the night stand. It takes too long to lace up his winter boots.
The sky outside has lost its
color—the clouds heavy and thick. The beginning of another winter. He’ll have to
start shoveling the drive soon to get anywhere. There is still time.
This part of the yard has more snow,
the barn stopping the wind and the house some of the sun. More gray than white,
it’s slight enough that it’ll probably melt off before the next storm, water
pooling in the swales. Thaddeus takes determined steps, where the footing is
best. He doesn’t stretch his stride; the bucket hangs from his hand. The path to
the chickens is direct, each step holding a print of the bottom of his shoe.
The coop is warm and smells of thin
shit. The hens sit quiet, reassuring coos, soft and occasional. One is dead on
the floor, on its side with one eye open to the ceiling. There’s no blood or
broken bones. Some disease maybe. The others are too lazy to do anything but
blink.
“Jesus.” Thaddeus steps wide around
the chicken and leans to push open the door. He puts his foot into the feathers
and pushes it out. With the bucket, he spreads the feed but doesn’t check eggs.
Outside, some of the outer feathers
move in the wind. Thaddeus kicks the white body, rolling it away. He walks and
kicks it again, feeling how soft its body is. It skids to a wet pile of snow and
grass. He shakes his shoe and moves back to the house.
Inside, Thaddeus finds a pot, the big one that has a black ring on the bottom
from where the flame always touches it, and fills it with water. The shudders
thump the siding outside. The window glass would be rattling if he hadn’t had
the windows replaced at the end of summer. Water used to condense on the inside
of the glass in winter, and a slight breeze would come into the rooms if the
wind was strong enough. The white of the pane sticks out against the gold,
orange, and brown everywhere around the house. It was a small fortune, but
important. The house was new once, but that was some time ago. There’d probably
be more repairs coming, more money required. But it doesn’t matter. There is
nowhere else to move in town, and he doesn’t want the city. Too much there. For
now he is comfortable in the kitchen of his house with new windows. He lights a
match and turns the gas on. Takes a bag of soup from the freezer and floats it
in the pot, Nedra’s handwriting rolling into the water.
Next:
Galway in a Storm
Val Nolan
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Introduction