Read Online Blameless in Abaddon by James Morrow - Free Book Online Page A

first heard the terrible news from Constable Steadman—“Judge, your wife’s been killed in a freak accident”—he heard something else as well: the long-dead siren on his lost firehouse, howling with bereavement and dismay.
    He howled, he screamed, he wailed, he moaned. He damned the moment he was conceived, cursed the hour he quickened, and rued the day he left his mother’s womb. Mourning transmuted him. He became a kind of monster, a violent force of nature rampaging through the farmhouse, breaking plates and ripping down curtains. The sinking sensation returned, the horrible feeling of suffocation he’d first experienced in Dr. Hummel’s office, only instead of falling through Abaddon Marsh he was trapped in a slough even colder and crueler—a swamp the size of the Godform’s bowels. Were it not for the vigilance of Vaughn Poffley, he might have availed himself of the Algonquin River that week, following Corinne into oblivion.
    â€œCasket, cemetery plot, obituary in the
Sentinel
—I took care of everything,” Vaughn informed him in the same steady voice he employed when assuring Martin they could beat the Democrats’ current candidate for JP. “The stone is going to read, ‘She loved all creatures great and small.’ That sound okay?”
    Seated at his kitchen table, Martin did not respond. He uncapped the salt cellar and dumped its contents in a shapeless pile before him. He stared at the white grains—so suggestive, he decided, of the useless I-125 seeds filling his prostate. For the first time ever he began to regard his imminent death as a blessing, his best hope for escaping this world with its rapacious bulldozers and elevated acid phosphatase, its dangerous bridges and drowned wives.
    â€œDid you know Samuel Johnson missed his wife’s funeral?” he said at last. “Too much for him.”
    â€œYou ought to come, Martin. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
    â€œQueen Victoria couldn’t bring herself to attend the services for Prince Albert.” With his index finger he traced a spiral in the salt.
    â€œAll you have to do is show up. I know Corinne wasn’t religious, but I’ve arranged for my pastor to say a few words at the graveside, nice Lutheran words—that’s okay, right?—and then we’ll have a reception at my place. Marge’ll make coffee, plus shortbread and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off.”
    â€œGoddamn Irish setter,” he said, mashing the salt with his fist.
    â€œJust show up, that’s all. Hillcrest Cemetery, Saturday, ten o’clock. Your sister’ll bring you. The grave’s near the lawnmower shed. It’s where they keep, you know, the lawnmowers. Day after tomorrow. Lawnmower shed. Just show up.”
    When evening came, Martin wandered into the
Nepeta cataria
patch, sat down amid the crop, and waited. At midnight the hedonists appeared—tabbies, calicoes, Manxes—but instead of rolling around on the leaves and getting stoned they simply stared at him, their pupils dilated by the darkness, their gazes a mixture of the inquisitive and the accusatory.
    Where’s Corinne?
the cats seemed to be asking.
    â€œShe’s dead,” he said out loud. “You’ll never see her again.”
    Who will grow the crop?
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Will you grow it?
    â€œI don’t know.”
    You must.
    â€œThink of someone besides yourselves. Think of Corinne.”
    We are cats.
    They spent the rest of the night together: a grieving judge and thirteen apprehensive felines.
    Waking at dawn, his Perkinsville College jersey damp with dew, he rose and made his way through the heart-shaped leaves and the sleeping cats. Back in the farmhouse, he opened a box of Wheaties and shook several dozen scablike flakes into a soup bowl. He looked in the refrigerator. No milk. He sprinkled four teaspoons of Cremora onto the cereal,