“Edith?” he whispered loudly. He held his hands in the air, not sure what to do with them. He was afraid to move her, she was so still. Was her back broken? Was she paralyzed? It was quite a fall for an old woman. “Are you okay? Edith! Say something!”
She didn’t answer.
Edith lay under Mei, as though she were holding her, arms wrapped tightly around her. Mei’s head lay on Edith’s shoulder. A nasty, pink and brown wound screamed from her arm, burned deep into her skin.
She’d been branded with a huge number “2.”
A low hum started and grew into a heartbreaking wail.
“Eeeeediiiiiiiiith,” he screamed.
As he crouched over Mei’s body that covered his wife, he was struck by the worst hurt he’d ever felt—much harsher than the day he’d said good-bye to their only son—and the agony of it enveloped him.
Emma stared into the grave from above, and dropped to her knees, realizing Edith couldn’t answer her husband. Wouldn’t, ever again. She brushed the curtain of her hair aside, and reached a hand down to Elmer, not even coming close to reaching the broken man. “Elmer,” she said, stretching her fingertips down. “Stand up. Take my hand.”
The tears streaming down her face matched his.
He glared up at Emma and panted, taking painful breaths. He waved her away. “Leave me,” he roared.
She stood and stumbled a few feet away, her hand to her mouth as her tears ran unchecked. She took a sharp breath.
“Edith!” Elmer hoarsely screamed again, in a voice so broken it was barely recognizable.
Emma flung her hands up over her ears and dropped her head, feeling the life sucked out of her. She drew in a huge breath, holding it. She had no right to cry; no right to share Elmer’s grief. If she hadn’t hitched a ride with him, he might’ve been back home already to prevent this. She turned and ran to the house, not being able to stand the poor man’s howls.
The screen door slammed behind her.
Elmer scooted forward, tears rolling and snot bubbling, and pulled Mei up by her shoulders, then held her up with one arm, as he struggled through his sobs to try to pull his wife out from behind her. Edith’s long silvery-gray hair was down, streaming around her shoulders; she was beautiful… more beautiful than the day he’d married her almost fifty years ago. He rarely saw her with her hair down anymore. Usually it was up in a bun. At night, she braided it. A couple times a year, he might catch a glimpse of the long silvery locks, but it was rare.
It was impossible. He couldn’t get Edith out from under Mei like that. Instead, he stood, putting one boot on each side of Mei, and lifted her. The smell nearly knocked him down. He turned and carried her to the other side of the grave, leaning her against the dirt wall. Something in Mei popped and cracked again, as though her bones were snapping like dry tinder. Her head lolled over like a rag doll, the bandana falling off.
Elmer nearly heaved.
He got down and scrambled across the dirt again and looked at Edith.
Finally seeing her without Mei on top of her, he gasped. There was the bullet hole that had killed her. He turned his head up and cursed God. How could you let this happen?
She’s gone. She’s really gone.
He grabbed her and picked her up, standing to hold her broken body to his chest. Edith’s feet hung six inches off the ground. He tightly hugged his bride.
He ignored the smell of burnt flesh and convinced himself that she still smelled the same. Like lilacs and honeysuckle… a smell he’d associated with his bride for half a century. He buried his nose in her hair, sucking in huge breaths, and bawled until he was too exhausted to hold either one of them up anymore.
He fell to the ground, with Edith still in his arms, howling relentlessly, for how long he didn’t know, squeezing and hugging her while her arms flopped lifelessly at her sides. Finally, he took a deep breath and held it… then shuddered. “I’m so sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have left you here alone,” he cried. “I just wanted to get those girls home safely.”
He felt so shallow. Fifty years and that was the best he could come up with? Meaningless excuses? She’d been shot and thrown into a grave with a dead body… he couldn’t imagine anything more frightening for his wife. She would have hated that. In the past, he would have had to hold a gun to her head to get her into a hole. She’d barely glanced at Mei once they’d put her down there when they’d buried her.
That’s when it struck him.
They’d buried Mei in bright purple shirt. He remembered it plain as day.
Mei was now wearing a yellow shirt.
Somebody had to change that shirt.
His wife was alive when they put her down here…
Holding Edith with one arm, he stuck his hand to the dirt floor where Edith had lain, and searched the dirt, coming up with her little revolver.
That was why her hair was down. The few times he’d asked her to carry her gun, she’d act silly and hide it under her bun, sitting on the top of her head, and then tell him she was carrying her tiny revolver he’d bought her. She ignored the bigger 9mm until he’d been forced to put it away.
He smiled proudly through his tears. She went out fighting. He hoped she’d at least winged one of them. “That’s my girl,” he said, as he pulled Edith close again.
The sun finished setting, leaving him in the dark, softly singing through his sobs to his bride. It was the only song that came to mind… but he didn’t think Edith would care. She was a huge Johnny Cash fan, and loved for him to sing it to her. “I fell in to a burning ring of fire… it went down down down…”
As the moon rose, shining down on them, he refused to dry his tears or wipe his nose. He let it all go, only singing the same verse over and over, wishing for the darkness of night to completely blanket them and bring him sleep; giving him one more night to hold his bride while she lay against his shoulder.
44
Tucker and Katie were gathered around their table with the four kids using two battery-powered lanterns to play Monopoly when they heard a knock. Tucker scooted his chair out, warning Katie not to cheat—she was the banker—and nearly stumbled over the dogs laying at his feet.
He edged to the window and peeked out, his gun ready.
It was Sarah, holding her baby.
He slid his gun back into the holster, and stepped out onto the front porch, closing the door just in case it was bad news. So far, he’d kept the worst of it away from his kids’ ears. “Hi, Sarah. How is she doing now?”
Tucker tried not to cringe. The baby didn’t look any better. If anything, she looked worse. If Sarah didn’t look so much happier herself, he’d have sworn that Sammi was already dead. She had her swaddled in a blanket, and it wasn’t cold at all; maybe it was because she was so sick.
Sarah gave him a smile. “She is better now, I think. I just wanted to thank you.” She juggled Sammi to her shoulder and handed Tucker the plastic bag she had hanging from one arm.
Surprised, he opened it and looked inside, finding three rolls of toilet paper. “Thank you, but you don’t have to give me this,” he said. He tried to hand it back.
She waved him away. “No, I do. I have more, and I have tons of wet wipes, too. It’s just me and Sammi at home, and I thought of you and Katie with four teenagers… well, you’ll probably need it before I do. Thank you, for everything you did for us.”
Tucker shrugged. “You’re welcome, and thank you. You’re right. Those knuckleheads really go through some toilet paper. This will help a lot. Here, come on in.” He held the door open for her. “I have something for you, too.”