Will this ever stop feeling so awful? Will I ever stop missing my dad, missing my mom, even though she’s right here with us? When will all of this become my life, the one I live, instead of some bad dream? How long will it take for me to stop thinking of the past and wishing so desperately to go back there?
Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe… maybe just never, I think, and have to rest my head in my hand for a moment because the basement floor feels suddenly slippery and tilted. Like I’m moving, even though I’m standing still.
I don’t cry, though. I’m never sure what’s going to trigger tears anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’ve cried so much, I don’t have anything left inside me to make more. Other days… well, other times I’m surprised I don’t melt away into a saltwater puddle from all the crying. But I don’t cry now because it’s getting late and if I can figure out how to get the generator working, I can have a hot shower. I can make a meal on the stove instead of trying to be a pioneer woman and make stuff in the fireplace. All it’s going to take is me getting myself under control and making this work.
“C’mon,” I mutter and shine the light on my dad’s instructions. “You did all this so far, you can figure out this part. It’s the easy part. One, two, three.”
Following my dad’s instructions should be the easy part. I have to flip the switches in the right order, that’s all. But my dad’s handwriting is not only notoriously messy, but at some point, this piece of paper’s gotten wet. The letters have run. My flashlight’s getting dimmer and I’m squinting, trying hard to read the directions.
One thing I do remember—if you don’t flip the switches right, something could happen with electricity and back surging or something like that. I can’t recall exactly what, just that it could be bad. Not sure if it could shock me or start a fire or what, but it’s enough to make me cautious and want to be extra sure I do this right.
I hear footsteps directly above me, in the kitchen, and wonder what Opal and my mom are doing up there. Probably complaining about how long it’s taking me. Probably digging around in the pantry for something to eat.
I take a deep breath. Read the instructions one more time. I think I have this figured out, but I won’t really know, will I, until I try?
So, okay, here goes.
One. Two. Three…
There are sparks and the scent of something burning, but nothing shocks me, and the emergency lights come to life behind me. They’re too bright and I cover my eyes with a yelp that turns into a triumphant flurry of giggles. I did it! I did it! From upstairs I hear squeals of delight and I’m turning to leave the workshop and go upstairs when my eyes adjust to the light.
There, in the back by the table saw, is a man.
I scream before I can stop myself. I leap back, hands up. My head connects with the edge of the circuit panel door and sharp pain doubles my vision for a minute. I’m panicking, stumbling… until I realize that man isn’t going anywhere.
He’s slumped against the wall. He’s wearing what looks like pajamas, though the cloth is rotted in most places. So is most of him. Only the size, really, tells me it was a man.
He’s been dead for quite some time.
I’m breathing so fast, I see sparks in front of my eyes. I’ve passed out a few times in my life, and I know enough to sit with my head between my knees. Yet I can’t stop myself from looking up every other second to make sure he’s not moving, not creepy-crawling toward me like something out of a horror movie. That he hasn’t turned into a real-life zombie.
My heart’s pounding so loud in my ears, I can’t hear anything but it and the sound of my sharp breaths. I dig my fingernails into my palms to force myself to calm down, and eventually, I do. I’m covered in clammy sweat even though I feel too hot.
He’s dead. He can’t hurt me. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me.
Oh my God, there’s a dead man in our basement! I want to scream again, but clap my hands over my mouth like I’m holding back some puke. Actually, I sort of feel like I might vomit. There’s a decomposing corpse not six feet from me, after all.
At least there’s no smell, whether it’s too cold now for it, or he’s been down here so long that he’s more dried up than drippy. My stomach turns over as I think that, but I don’t gag. If anything, I’m calming even further. This guy’s not going to hurt us. Yeah, it’s supergross and it scared me sick, but… he’s dead. He’s gone. He’s not going to lurch back to life and try to eat my brains. At least, I don’t think so.
I know who it is, too. I can tell by the watch that’s slipped most of the way off his wrist. It’s big and silver, with lots of dials. It’s Craig’s watch, the neighbor from next door who’d crashed his way through our sliding glass door. When or why he came back here, and what he’d done to himself that killed him, I’ll never know, but somehow knowing that it was Craig makes this a little easier. It’s not some stranger, and even though my last sight of him had been terrifying, Craig had always been a good neighbor before that.
Except what am I supposed to do now? I can’t just leave him down here. I don’t know enough about how bodies decompose to tell if the lack of smell is because of the cold or because of how long he’s been dead, but in a few months it’s going to get a lot warmer. Besides that, I can’t imagine living in a house with a dead body in the basement.
I stand on shaky legs. I take deep, slow breaths, trying not to think too much about the fact I’m breathing in dead-guy germs. “Think, Velvet,” I murmur. “Think. Think.”
The problem is, I’m tired of thinking. All I’ve done lately is think and think and think. Figure things out. Solve problems. Right now it feels like the problem-solving part of my brain’s flat-out broken. The gears are spinning but nothing’s catching.
I think again of a hot shower and how much I want it. I got the lights working. The hot-water heater will be working. I can have a shower, I can shampoo myself clean. I can put on clean clothes I haven’t worn in over a year and probably be glad the waistband of my jeans isn’t as tight as it used to be. I can make something to eat in the oven, maybe baked spaghetti, maybe tuna casserole, but something better than what we’ve been eating for the past week. I can have all those things, if I can just. Figure. This. Out.
I groan, tired. There really is no solution. I can’t lift him by myself. I can’t drag him up the stairs and outside. He’s likely to fall into pieces if I do that.… My eyes light on the shelves of paint supplies. There are a couple of blue tarps there. Some rope’s coiled on my dad’s peg board. And there, too, are his tools. Hammer. Screwdrivers.
Handsaw.
This is awful, or it’s funny, my brain won’t let me figure out which. All I know is I’m laughing. Even with my hands clapped over my mouth, I’m laughing so hard, my stomach muscles hurt. I hear more footsteps upstairs and I don’t want to bring Opal down here—she might be too scared to come into the basement without enough light on the stairs to see by. But she might come down, anyway; she’s sometimes surprisingly brave like that.
And what would she see if she does? Her big sister carving up our old neighbor like a turkey and rolling him up in pieces of tarp? I laugh harder, though none of this is funny. It’s gruesome and gross and really, ultimately, sad. Craig deserves better than to be sliced and diced and dumped, but…
“I’m sorry, Craig, I really am. I remember the times you gave us Popsicles and you took us for a ride on your four-wheeler. I remember when you used to bring over that cheesy chili dip for our Fourth of July parties.” I don’t mention that I also remember him trying to kill me and my sister.