go away with him.
Mr. and Mrs. Coates. Forty-seven years and still together.
7
Wrestling with Angels
By the end of his second week on the job, Clay was finding artistic enjoyment in the crafting of the grave markers. Although they stabbed at his secrets, they inflicted a good sort of suffering. Penitent pain. Beneath his fingers the markers grew from relatives’ chosen templates into expressions of love. Some communicated with pristine lettering, others with grandiose poems, nature scenes, even photographs.
The dates, however, were cold hard facts. Written in stone.
“You’re gettin’ the hang of it,” Digs told him that morning.
“Not bad for my first few days.”
“Seventeen years for me,” Digs stated. His fingernails, thick and grooved, tapped against a slab of marble. “Seen friends and family go through here.”
“No kidding?” Clay looked up. “You’ve worked on your own relatives’ markers?”
Digs brushed at a white tuft sprouting from his ear. “You do what you’re paid to do. S’okay, until you’re peelin’ the letters of your own mother’s name. By any measure, that’s a bad day on the job.”
“Oh, man!”
“But my mom died givin’ birth to me, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a joke. Lighten up, Ryker.”
“Not exactly something to joke about.” He was uncertain which part had been in jest, if not all of it, but he didn’t press for details.
“Believe me. In a place like this, all day kickin’ out headstones, you gotta laugh to keep it from gettin’ to you. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll be jaded like the rest of us. Just don’t let Mr. Blomberg catch you makin’ jokes. He takes dyin’ very seriously.” Digs couldn’t suppress a series of giggles.
“He takes everything too seriously. If I started joking, he’d probably kill me.”
“Ha-ha! Attaboy, Ryker. You’re already catchin’ on. Couple of weeks, and you’ll be a regular ham, guaranteed.”
Wendy, shapeless in her baggy work pants and matching blue shirt, lifted a grin for Clay’s attention. “And we’ll all be tickled to death,” she said, joining the dark humor. At that, she and Digs burst out laughing.
Brent remained on task. He was the burly one who’d been operating the hand truck on Clay’s first day. Without a hint of amusement, Brent said, “You two are twisted, you know that? Twisted. You think I’d let them talk about you that way, Ryker, you think? Huh?” He dropped his tool on the workbench. “Over my dead body.”
The trio of co-workers were rubbing tears of mirth from their eyes by the time Clay forced out a laugh. For no apparent reason, his mind shot back to the numbers he’d discovered on his mother’s arm. And the other sets—on Summer, on the older guy at the hardware store. They’d seemed so real.
Were the sum totals of thirteen the sole connection? Was there any point?
He resumed his work on a rose-colored headstone.
Asgoth brushed a hand over his shirt. Despite the years, the musky sweetness of pot smoke still clung to the material. On the left sleeve, scratch marks and dots of dried blood hinted at savage events.
He had endured so much. Time now to let his experiences produce results.
A clawing sound brought him back to the physical confines of the apartment. He hurried into the living room, prepared for confrontation. To his chagrin, Mr. Monde and a squat female companion came through the front door, unannounced, uninvited.
“Who’s this?” Asgoth demanded. “Why’re you here?”
Though debonair as always, Monde couldn’t conceal the slight flaring of his nostrils. “Forgive the intrusion, A.G. This is Pristi, the Consortium’s seventh and newest addition. She comes to us from a larger network that stretches across the country.”
“An impressive network, at that.” Pristi nodded her large head. “If only you knew the details, the subtleties, the intricacies it encompasses. Mind-boggling, actually. Imagine the wonderful
Mr. and Mrs. Coates. Forty-seven years and still together.
7
Wrestling with Angels
By the end of his second week on the job, Clay was finding artistic enjoyment in the crafting of the grave markers. Although they stabbed at his secrets, they inflicted a good sort of suffering. Penitent pain. Beneath his fingers the markers grew from relatives’ chosen templates into expressions of love. Some communicated with pristine lettering, others with grandiose poems, nature scenes, even photographs.
The dates, however, were cold hard facts. Written in stone.
“You’re gettin’ the hang of it,” Digs told him that morning.
“Not bad for my first few days.”
“Seventeen years for me,” Digs stated. His fingernails, thick and grooved, tapped against a slab of marble. “Seen friends and family go through here.”
“No kidding?” Clay looked up. “You’ve worked on your own relatives’ markers?”
Digs brushed at a white tuft sprouting from his ear. “You do what you’re paid to do. S’okay, until you’re peelin’ the letters of your own mother’s name. By any measure, that’s a bad day on the job.”
“Oh, man!”
“But my mom died givin’ birth to me, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a joke. Lighten up, Ryker.”
“Not exactly something to joke about.” He was uncertain which part had been in jest, if not all of it, but he didn’t press for details.
“Believe me. In a place like this, all day kickin’ out headstones, you gotta laugh to keep it from gettin’ to you. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll be jaded like the rest of us. Just don’t let Mr. Blomberg catch you makin’ jokes. He takes dyin’ very seriously.” Digs couldn’t suppress a series of giggles.
“He takes everything too seriously. If I started joking, he’d probably kill me.”
“Ha-ha! Attaboy, Ryker. You’re already catchin’ on. Couple of weeks, and you’ll be a regular ham, guaranteed.”
Wendy, shapeless in her baggy work pants and matching blue shirt, lifted a grin for Clay’s attention. “And we’ll all be tickled to death,” she said, joining the dark humor. At that, she and Digs burst out laughing.
Brent remained on task. He was the burly one who’d been operating the hand truck on Clay’s first day. Without a hint of amusement, Brent said, “You two are twisted, you know that? Twisted. You think I’d let them talk about you that way, Ryker, you think? Huh?” He dropped his tool on the workbench. “Over my dead body.”
The trio of co-workers were rubbing tears of mirth from their eyes by the time Clay forced out a laugh. For no apparent reason, his mind shot back to the numbers he’d discovered on his mother’s arm. And the other sets—on Summer, on the older guy at the hardware store. They’d seemed so real.
Were the sum totals of thirteen the sole connection? Was there any point?
He resumed his work on a rose-colored headstone.
Asgoth brushed a hand over his shirt. Despite the years, the musky sweetness of pot smoke still clung to the material. On the left sleeve, scratch marks and dots of dried blood hinted at savage events.
He had endured so much. Time now to let his experiences produce results.
A clawing sound brought him back to the physical confines of the apartment. He hurried into the living room, prepared for confrontation. To his chagrin, Mr. Monde and a squat female companion came through the front door, unannounced, uninvited.
“Who’s this?” Asgoth demanded. “Why’re you here?”
Though debonair as always, Monde couldn’t conceal the slight flaring of his nostrils. “Forgive the intrusion, A.G. This is Pristi, the Consortium’s seventh and newest addition. She comes to us from a larger network that stretches across the country.”
“An impressive network, at that.” Pristi nodded her large head. “If only you knew the details, the subtleties, the intricacies it encompasses. Mind-boggling, actually. Imagine the wonderful
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