Read Online Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Martinez
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talented and dedicated as he was. He was first a poet, then a musician. You could talk to Tristan and he would listen. He was the first person in my life who really listened to me.”
Leah stepped down from the podium, her body language summing up what I'd been feeling since this nightmare began.
My mother made a strangled sound and put one hand to her mouth and reached across Eric to grip one of mine with the other. Her hand felt cool, papery and dry. Pews creaked and people adjusted their clothing. There was a cough.
Neither my mother nor I could say anything on Tristan's behalf. Every time I tried to read to myself what I'd written, my throat would close up and my voice would crack—or worse, I would be gripped with an insane urge to laugh. Instead we printed the elegies up on pretty green paper and put them out at the reception along with an assortment of pictures.
It was amazing to see how many people turned out for someone who had spent so much of the last years of his life almost entirely alone.
The day after the service, Mom and I drove out to Montana where we scattered the almost weightless baggie of ashes from the top of Holland Lake Falls. We hiked up to the top, once in a while pointing out the ever-expanding view of the blue lake between the whispering Douglas fir and proud Ponderosa, until we reached the top. When it was final, his ashes blew toward all points on the horizon and over the falls. Disturbingly, some drifted into piles at our feet until I scooped it up, along with some dirt, andtossed it over the embankment. As he wanted, as he had said not long ago, he was now a part of the mountain.
I sat alone in his room when we got back, unable to do anything else. I thought I was ready to clear the rest of it out but found myself unable to move further. I felt so silly, like I was being overdramatic, wondering if someone was watching me. Then, out the window, I caught sight of my mother's feet and branches hitting the ground every so often around her.
I wrapped myself in the smelly sheets and let the images come; the walk up the trail, in the early hours of the morning, the mist still clinging to the trees, the view of the mountaintops beyond the lake. He would pull the shotgun out of the case that came with it, open it up, cracking it almost in half until the empty barrels gaped, waiting for the shells he would have ready, red and gold, clinking in place, then closing it all up with a click: solid. How long would he sit there, knowing what he was going to do? Would the birds be chirping, was the sun shining when he finally lifted the cold barrel to the delicate, vulnerable place at the hollow under his chin?
I sat on Tristan's bed for a long time, imagining him as he would have looked beneath the sun, then a memory, him sitting near me, hunched down like he did sometimes, one knee higher than the other, hair hanging over his shoulders and down his back. I squeezed my eyes shut when I remembered how Mom had phoned the sheriff hours after he left, insisted on seeing my brother's body. From my spot at the end of the table, I could hear the sheriff's voice: “Ms. Post, please…you do not want to remember your son this way.”
She slammed the phone down and glared at me, as if it was my fault, and said, “How dare he dictate to me. I know what I can handle and what I cannot…” and then she directed her eyes to a place near the front door, as if the man himself were still there, or maybe she was thinking of something else. Her eyes got red and her nostrils flared. She wouldn't let me come near her, only waved me away when I tried.
When the light outside began to fade, I crawled under the blankets and fell asleep.
I woke sometime in the night with my mother sitting beside me, tracing the lines of my face, gently pulling on my hair, combing it though her fingers.
“This isn't healthy, Vivianna,” she said.
“I don't care.” I hated the way she closed her eyes when I said this, like she was
Leah stepped down from the podium, her body language summing up what I'd been feeling since this nightmare began.
My mother made a strangled sound and put one hand to her mouth and reached across Eric to grip one of mine with the other. Her hand felt cool, papery and dry. Pews creaked and people adjusted their clothing. There was a cough.
Neither my mother nor I could say anything on Tristan's behalf. Every time I tried to read to myself what I'd written, my throat would close up and my voice would crack—or worse, I would be gripped with an insane urge to laugh. Instead we printed the elegies up on pretty green paper and put them out at the reception along with an assortment of pictures.
It was amazing to see how many people turned out for someone who had spent so much of the last years of his life almost entirely alone.
The day after the service, Mom and I drove out to Montana where we scattered the almost weightless baggie of ashes from the top of Holland Lake Falls. We hiked up to the top, once in a while pointing out the ever-expanding view of the blue lake between the whispering Douglas fir and proud Ponderosa, until we reached the top. When it was final, his ashes blew toward all points on the horizon and over the falls. Disturbingly, some drifted into piles at our feet until I scooped it up, along with some dirt, andtossed it over the embankment. As he wanted, as he had said not long ago, he was now a part of the mountain.
I sat alone in his room when we got back, unable to do anything else. I thought I was ready to clear the rest of it out but found myself unable to move further. I felt so silly, like I was being overdramatic, wondering if someone was watching me. Then, out the window, I caught sight of my mother's feet and branches hitting the ground every so often around her.
I wrapped myself in the smelly sheets and let the images come; the walk up the trail, in the early hours of the morning, the mist still clinging to the trees, the view of the mountaintops beyond the lake. He would pull the shotgun out of the case that came with it, open it up, cracking it almost in half until the empty barrels gaped, waiting for the shells he would have ready, red and gold, clinking in place, then closing it all up with a click: solid. How long would he sit there, knowing what he was going to do? Would the birds be chirping, was the sun shining when he finally lifted the cold barrel to the delicate, vulnerable place at the hollow under his chin?
I sat on Tristan's bed for a long time, imagining him as he would have looked beneath the sun, then a memory, him sitting near me, hunched down like he did sometimes, one knee higher than the other, hair hanging over his shoulders and down his back. I squeezed my eyes shut when I remembered how Mom had phoned the sheriff hours after he left, insisted on seeing my brother's body. From my spot at the end of the table, I could hear the sheriff's voice: “Ms. Post, please…you do not want to remember your son this way.”
She slammed the phone down and glared at me, as if it was my fault, and said, “How dare he dictate to me. I know what I can handle and what I cannot…” and then she directed her eyes to a place near the front door, as if the man himself were still there, or maybe she was thinking of something else. Her eyes got red and her nostrils flared. She wouldn't let me come near her, only waved me away when I tried.
When the light outside began to fade, I crawled under the blankets and fell asleep.
I woke sometime in the night with my mother sitting beside me, tracing the lines of my face, gently pulling on my hair, combing it though her fingers.
“This isn't healthy, Vivianna,” she said.
“I don't care.” I hated the way she closed her eyes when I said this, like she was
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