DEATH OF A MAYFLY - Chapter 7

I spent the next two weeks cleaning the trailer from top to bottom, pouring gallons of white vinegar and bleach on every square inch of floor, countertop, sink, the toilet, and everything he’d touched, scraping up years’ worth of dirt, oil, and sweat with a stiff wire brush. I used the last little bit of winter sunshine to air out the bedding and curtains, and was surprised to find that underneath all the grime someone had at least tried to make this place a home.

In the mornings I stood on the front porch, beating down the rugs and couch cushions to get out the endless layers of dust and skin cells, thumping them against the corner of the house before taking a broom handle to them over the railing of the sagging porch. Most of the windows still opened, thankfully, filling the house with fresh cold air and taking all the pungent odor of a young bachelor with it back out onto the prairie. He never folded laundry, the clean-ish pile mixed in with his stinking work clothes, and with no interest in smell-testing his rancid underwear I threw the whole heap back into the wash.

I cleared the table, stacking the yellowing bills and newspapers next to the fireplace for kindling, and turned around to face the front room. I supposed we’d spend most of our time here, for better or for worse, sitting next to the fire and talking about his day. It wasn’t very big, but once I pulled the faded curtains off their rods the light poured in and opened up the space so well that I almost felt optimistic. I slid his chair to one side, wiped down the lampstand, and collected another stack of neglected bills shoved down into the couch cushions.

Late-morning sunshine stretched across the little front room, and I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. There in the corner was an old upright piano, dusty and sort of sad-looking like it hadn’t been touched in a very long time. I wiped it gently with a damp rag, dragging my fingernails through the creases to dig out bits of dust and dirt and carefully opening the fallboard to reveal a full set of stained keys, some chipped and broken, but all 88 of them still there.

There was no bench, and I slid an old ottoman over and sat down, resting my fingers on the keys. Had it been so long since I’d played the hymns at church, or snuck in after school to quietly pick through my favorite rags, or Jerry Lee if I thought I could get away with it? Mom gave me music books for my birthday every year, and I’d spend hours losing myself in nocturnes and waltzes, cutting my teeth on complicated time and key signatures as my fingers stretched easily over the octaves. She never heard a note, feeling only the vibrations and always knowing when to turn the page. Suddenly I missed music so much. And right in front of me was an actual slice of happiness in a very dark place, somewhere I might be able to find myself again.

I played a low C on the piano and the strings warbled and shook, out of tune but not dead yet. I reached for the lowest A, walking my fingers up the keyboard one note at a time—5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - 3, 2, 1—over and over, switching hands in the middle and all the way up to the top—1, 2, 3 - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—ending on the highest C. Most of them worked, but about ten or so made a sort of toneless “thud,” three or four sounding tinny and metallic. It would do just fine. I could remember a handful of songs I’d memorized over the years, but I’d have to ask Mom for my books the next time I saw her.

I did my best to make the trailer a home, finding dishes and towels, dining room chairs underneath more stacks of dirty laundry, a tea kettle and silverware, and even a clean bathroom, though the stains would never come out of the peeling green laminate that encircled the toilet. And between all the scrubbing and folding I broke up the day with music, filling my soul back up a little bit at a time and finding that ounce of peace that I desperately needed to keep up the charade of a happy married life. And he liked the music, often asking me to play for him while he sat and smoked after work. At first I did so unwillingly, but over time I started to see that he was trying in his own naïve way to be a good husband, despite who he was at his core. I didn’t know anything about him really, mentally keeping him at arm’s length for my own safety, but I played along because denial was easier than everything else I might have been feeling. And then, when he went back to work, I could let myself go, shutting my eyes and feeling the keys, stealing away to another place and time.

Rachmaninoff took me there the quickest, my hands almost big enough to play his wild preludes up and down the old piano, but stopping to pick through the troublesome double-clefs. I remembered everything, and imagined floating up and out of the trailer to play in empty concert halls, the notes echoing off the walls and hundreds of folded red-velvet seats disappearing up into the dark. The strings of the grand piano, a hundred times richer than the upright, washed away my fears in waves of colors, different hues of louds and softs painted in the music. Other times it was the beating wings of a million mayflies in a perfect 6/8 time pulling me up to the sky as the melody followed us through the clouds, anywhere but here.

I floated along in this brilliant imaginary world until his rough hands brought me back down to earth, reminding me that none of it was real as he rubbed my shoulders and down inside the front of my shirt. Now I could hear the keys that wouldn’t play on the old piano, the thud of a missing note, a broken string, captive once more and fading back into his empty wife. He softly kissed my neck , and I smelled the motor oil and sweat in his hair as he gently pulled me away from the piano and back to the bedroom like he always did.

I knew he was trying to do things right. His eyes were softer now, his expression more hopeful. But I had nothing to give. As hard as I tried, the best I could do was lay there and not move, letting him have whatever he wanted. I didn’t even feel angry anymore, but I didn’t fight back either, watching him pleasure himself awkwardly around my big stomach. He didn’t say “I love you” or tell me I was pretty; he knew better. But he didn’t hurt me either. And so numb was the best I could do.

Mom came up to the trailer once in a while, stepping in for a quick cup of tea or to gather up the newspapers off the porch. She never stayed long, eyeing the old place over my shoulder quietly with each sip. She didn’t love it for me, never what she’d imagined, but she’d smile and remind me that I was doing a good job, marriage is hard, and what a beautiful little home we had. I knew she was just being nice, but always left too quickly, eager to get away from the smells or the disappointment.

Once a month Mom showed up in the old Squire and dragged me to a meeting of the Eastern Star or social gatherings of one sort or another. She felt like it was an opportunity to participate in the community, the wives and gentlewomen that were the foundation of this town. More likely it was me developing a thicker, more acceptable façade, one that served both my mother and I, but also fed the conversations that continued on long after we were gone. We raised money, baked pies, sold tickets, and mailed ballots, all in the name of civic duty. We stirred great pots of chili and chicken noodle soup, triple recipes seasoned with idle hearsay, feeding the sick, hungry, and unemployed. And I felt like the only one with nothing behind the eyes, no interest in knowing or being the stories they seemed so eager to tell when the kitchen door swung shut.

Daddy and Otis fundraised for the Masons at the local lodge, one royal flush at a time. Every boy in town over 16 sat at the table, beer in hand, too young for the club or the bar, and they raised lots and lots of money. No one ever saw a cent, but the decals in the windows of the grocery store, Post Office, churches, and bowling alley left no question that these men had paid a great debt to society.

The only place Mom never took me was church. It didn’t matter that I was a married woman now, legitimized by a piece of paper signed by my father. He never wanted to see my face again. And the religious leaders of Fort Benton were as thick as thieves. They could be Mormon, Catholic, a Baptist like Daddy—it didn’t really matter—as soon as they locked the sanctuary doors they all landed heavily on the same barstools. I couldn’t cross the threshold at any one of their churches, even if I wanted to. But I didn’t ask, and Mom didn’t offer.

She didn’t pry about my life, asking only about the baby once in a while, but wondered did I write? Had I found the little leather journal she’d quietly packed away? “Yes,” I lied, “every day.” But I couldn’t. There was nothing that I wanted to remember.

December 25

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Our first Christmas came and went, a pretty solemn affair. We’d promised no presents this year, just a nice steak dinner with baked potatoes that Otis had paid for out of his meager Christmas bonus from the Garage. I didn’t have much of an appetite, the baby taking up what little space I had left for food or drink, and Otis watched me from across the table.

“It’s good food, Fe. You should eat.” I took a bite and chewed. It was tough steak, all he could afford, and I tried not to make a show of how long it took to swallow. But he seemed satisfied, shoveling a large chunk of potato into his mouth. “Stay here.”

He grabbed something from the pocket of his coat that hung near the door—I couldn’t quite see—and sat down again, shoving it across the table. Whatever it was, was small and wrapped in brown butcher paper.

“What is it?”

“Just open it.”

I peeled open the tiny package to reveal what could only be a ring box, velvet but not new, the corners worn down to the plastic underneath. I knew I didn’t want it, but the look on his face was so eager it felt like kicking a dog, and I opened the box. Inside was indeed a ring, gold metal of some type, no stone.

“What do you think?”

Think? I didn’t think anything.

“It’s nice.”

“Well, put it on.”

No. I put on the ring, disappointed that it fit.

“That looks great, Fe. I just thought, you know, you should have one.” He reached for my hand, missing as I slid it awkwardly into my lap.

“You should eat, your steak is getting cold.”

Otis looked at me, trying to be patient, but the disappointment was hard to mask. We’d said no presents. I hadn’t gotten him anything, and I hadn’t said thank you. Quietly he stood up and took his plate to the sink, pushed in his chair, and kissed me gently on the forehead.

“Merry Christmas.” I nodded, but that was all. And from the back of the house even his footsteps sounded disappointed, kicking off his boots, climbing into bed, turning off the light. As the fire burned down in the stove, I wondered how much harder I should try to be his wife. It felt impossible, made my stomach seize in a familiar round of quiet contractions.

“Can you feel him?” Otis wanted a boy.

“Not right now. It’s asleep.” Still “it” to me.

He rubbed my stomach and leaned his scratchy cheek into my belly button, but I pushed him off to avoid another trip to the bathroom. He flipped around in the bed, massaging my swollen feet, somehow always finding a way to do something for himself. He loved my toes, my butt, the size of my stomach, and what always started as a giddy new father ended in heavy breathing and some part of him rubbing up and down my body as he moaned into my skin.

“I don’t want to tonight,” I begged, but he grinned, licking at the tobacco stains on his teeth.

“Shh, just enjoy it.” And he kept going, even when I told him it hurt, or that I had to pee, or when I complained about the cramping between my hips and below my rib cage. After a minute or two he’d squeal, peaking all over the clean sheets, then lighting a cigarette and falling asleep with it in his mouth. And I’d wait, watching him slump slowly into the pillows and grabbing the smoldering butt before it landed on the bed. I had a hard time imagining how we could keep doing this - well, he could keep doing this; I had all the involvement of an unbaked loaf of bread. But I still had so many weeks left. And the more I grew the more he wanted me, fantasizing about ways to “pleasure [me],” groaning and clutching himself in a tangle of sheets next to me on the bed.

January 8

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That Saturday afternoon we ate early. I had little energy left, exhausted and heavy, even sitting down to eat feeling like an overwhelming chore. We ate in silence, chewing quietly and looking at our plates, and for a minute it reminded me of home and I missed my mother. What a funny reason to miss someone, the silence. I picked at the pale drumstick, a little nauseous from the smell. Across the table, Otis ate like a meat-grinder. Little bits of food stuck to his mustache and chin, and the scraping of silverware on his plate never seemed to bother him like it did me. I’d had just about enough, when he set the fork down, still.

“What is it?”

“Shh.” His eyes shifted back and forth. I started to get up from the table but he shook his head and I sat back down, motionless in the chair. Then I heard it, long and low.

“What was that?” He shook his head again, one hand hovering over the table as if maintaining the silence. Then it came again, closer this time, weaving up and down. A siren, then another, then another. Otis walked to the kitchen window. Outside a thick column of black smoke billowed up from below the bluffs, as siren after siren shot by on the highway.

Autobody News

“That’s in the middle of town,” he said, grabbing his coat. “You stay here.” He ran out the door and I watched him speed backwards down our dirt road, pulling out onto the highway as more smoke filled the valley, drifting up and over the tablelands. A haunting chorus of rural fire vehicles followed him down to the tracks and into town. I thought about Mom as I put his plate back into the oven. Then I waited.

I didn’t know then that someone had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his fingers, or about the pile of oil rags left strewn about next to the couch in the back of the shop. I didn’t know that the Garage had burned to the ground, taking the guy with it. I didn’t know then that we’d lost everything in a smoldering pile of rubble that would never be rebuilt. I wouldn’t know anything for days.

Just after 8 o’clock I heard Otis pull back into the driveway, the sirens quiet now as I pinched the warm dishcloth from his plate and set it back on the table. I smoothed the wrinkles along the edge of the tablecloth and pulled his chair back, waiting for him to open the door, a weak smile on my face. The good wife.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 8

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Ellie is an author, editor, and owner of Red Pencil Transcripts, and works with filmmakers, podcasts, and journalists all over the world. She lives with her family just outside of New York City.