Shelved Memories

His truck was the only object in the small parking area. The headlights swept across the trees and rocks as he turned into a space. The unload would be easy. He turned the engine off and got out. The gravel crunched under his boots as he walked around to the bed of the truck. He lowered the gate.

Leaning over the tailgate, his stomach almost touched the cool metal. He dragged the load across the bed. As he did, it scraped and dragged grains of sand into the paint. The shrill scrape sent a shiver up his spine. It reminded him of her voice, shrill, scraping and digging. He shook the bumps away, zipped his jacket and turned up the collar.

He pulled the end of the load up onto his shoulder and bounced it to give himself balance. The load already seemed lighter than before. It was certainly easier to handle: no more struggling.

He slammed the gate shut with his free hand and reached for the tools wrapped in two more tarps. He balanced them under his free arm and stepped onto the path. His destination was only a fifteen-minute walk and fifteen minutes closer to freedom.

When he reached the clearing he dropped the load from his shoulder. It landed with a thud and a bounce. He knelt down and carefully set the tools in the grass and began to untie the tarp.

**

Thunder rolled and a streak of lightning lit up the clearing. As quickly as the quiet was disturbed, it returned. Trees and quiet surrounded him once more. He paused from his work to look up at the darkening sky. Soon the dusk would disappear to an almost moonless night and the coming rain would clean his scar from the earth. Gusts of wind sent leaves and branches dancing across the clearing. The breeze was cool but the work was tiring and hot. He shrugged the jacket off, hung it on a branch and returned to work.

As he worked he thought of the many times this same act had been done. Digging a hole was very common work. Digging a hole this size usually required a team of diggers or a machine. But this was different. This way, there would be no loose ends and no unions to pay off.

The work was only half done and he was already exhausted both mentally and physically. But it would be worth it. It already seemed worthwhile. He found peace and retribution for many difficult nights.

The thunder sounded in the distance. The shovel dug deeper with each boot kick and produced a small reverse cone of dirt every time he emptied it onto the pile. Beneath each pile of rock and sand a tarp, which would make refilling much easier, waited.

He paused and stretched his back, listening. He jammed the spade head into the loose ground and held his breath; he wanted nothing to interfere. He heard the rustling of trees and the cry of an owl. Nothing more.

The chance of being discovered was very slim, but he did not want a passerby wandering upon him. Kids came out here to party and make out or whatever other depravity they wanted to conceal from the law-abiding world. Surely the rain would keep them away tonight. He looked over at the rolled and knotted tarp and hoped it would. Content, he leaned over to continue his rhythmic, kick-dig-lift-empty, pattern that had consumed the past hour. There was really no reason to be afraid.

He wasn’t a lawbreaker. He had done the world a favor. He was an emancipator from great evil. He had liberated the world from a leach, a predator, and a malevolent force. It should have been done sooner, but no one had accepted the mission. It had been left to him. He had succeeded where others failed. But such thoughts shouldn’t consume him now.

A movie from childhood came to mind. He remembered dwarves working and whistling. The tune almost escaped, but silence remained. It must. The smile grew as he dug, though he still felt compelled to whistle. Whistling might bring unwanted guests, and that would create more work. He had no time to dig another hole tonight.

The thunder clapped once more. The storm was close. Fortunately, his task was nearly complete. The sky was dark and the rain would come soon. Hopefully, not before he was out of the hole. Being soaked, while standing in a hole with mud and water rising around his ankles, was not on his agenda tonight. There was no time to be stuck. He was not the intended tenant, just the landlord.

**

The cool rain tapped at his neck and shoulders. It was a relief to feel something other than tension building on his back. He began to move his shoulders in a circular motion to relieve some tension. He had not realized how tight they had become until now. The rain met his face as he looked up. He stabbed the shovel into the earth once more and rested upon the handle. This part of the work was done and he saw that it was good.

He climbed out of the hole and considered sitting on the edge for a break, but there was no time to rest just now. He pulled the shovel out and jammed it to rest in a pile at one end of the hole. He rolled the bundled tarp next to the hole and untied the knots.

The tarp unrolled like a carpet and its contents rolled into the hole. The hole was instantly transformed into a grave, complete with a shovel headstone. The body hit the bottom of the grave with a thud. It was dull but satisfying. He looked over the edge. An arm was caught on a root. It appeared to be reaching upward, past him and to the sky. The likelihood of the soul also reaching upward was not even considered. Such evil would never be allowed an audience at The Gates.

The body looked cold and alone; and of course it was. Lifeless. Inanimate. “But is that so unusual?” he thought. “Could the evil that formerly possessed this now mercifully cold form actually qualify as life? Should one consider . . .” His philosophical musings ended abruptly. Reality nudged them away. Back on task. He tossed the tarp aside, not caring if the wind caught it. It would not reveal his fingerprints. He was wearing work gloves. Still, he would not leave the tarp. Nothing would be left to chance. He would stay with his plan.

He kicked the shovel into the pile, disrupting its cone, and tossed the first load onto the body. The dirt scattered onto the form in a mock “ashes to ashes.” The irony brought another smile. No service would be held at this site.

He began to work on the quick fill method he had developed. First, he jammed the shovel into the ground and retrieved the ropes tied to each corner of the tarp. The two closest to the grave were knotted and placed around the head of the shovel, at the ground. These would be the anchor. The other two ropes were tied together and he pulled these so the far end would lift. This created a makeshift tarp/shovel with one scoopful to refill the hole. The first pile was easy and as his adrenaline grew, the other two would be even easier.

After dumping the first load he glanced into the hole. The pile covered the body, almost. The rest would completely fill the hole. Only the arm, still reaching upward, was visible. As he contemplated the next task, the rain began to fall harder. It was perfect. Mud would encase the body. Nature would finish his work. God was smiling.

He repeated the task of pulling the remaining pile into the hole before it became too heavy to move. He was a little surprised at the size of the mound, but not unprepared. The shovel and rake were used to compact the soil. Then he raked over his scar and spread some seed. He raked the leftover soil into the surrounding grass.

He smiled as he turned. He dropped the rake onto a tarp and surveyed the clearing. Making a bundle of the tools and tarps, he rolled it into a carpet form again and carried it to the corner of the clearing.

He surveyed the area once more and was satisfied. This would be the perfect resting spot. She loved the woods so much; maybe she could be happy. The thought touched him. He was so giving and forgiving, even at the end.

He made his way back to the trail. It was a little difficult to find his way through the trees, but he made it without too many broken branches. The main trail was dark, yet easy to follow.

At his truck he tossed the bundle into the bed and reached for his keys. He patted his front pockets, but they were empty. He didn’t remember taking the keys out of his pocket. They could have fallen out anywhere. Bounced out in the walk through the trees. Fallen into the hole as he was digging. Jostled out when he was dumping the body. They could even be locked in with his jacket.

He tried the door. It was locked. He put is face to the glass and saw his jacket was not there. Then he remembered. The tree that was a makeshift coat rack. He turned to run.

As he ran he thought: “Jacket Only Clue at Mysterious Gravesite.” He chuckled. If he had not put the keys in his jacket pocket, that might have been the headline. Tomorrow, after the rain, there would be no gravesite, just a place where an animal had apparently dug. Next month, just a grass covered clearing. No clues and no headlines.

**

He ran past a trail marker and glanced over his shoulder before he went into the trees. He circled past the gravesite then back into the clearing. His jacket was still hanging on the branch and he ran to it with the happiness of seeing a relative returning after a long trip. He embraced it and slid his arms into its cool sleeves. He patted the pocket and felt the key ring bounce against his tapping. He walked another maze of trees back to the main walkway, making sure not to walk the same path twice.

On the trail, he noted with some interest that his previous hope of staying dry no longer mattered. In fact, the rain was a welcome friend. He was cool and just looked like a man caught out in the rain.

The edge of the path was dark from the tree cover and he stood in its safety to survey the parking lot. It was still empty, so he walked to his truck.

He fumbled for the keys and realized his gloves were still on. He pulled each finger from its wrap and moved them in the cool air. His fingers were liberated once more. They were quite dirty though. The gloves had not protected his fingernails from collecting a small line of gray under the tips. He pressed the key into the lock.

He grabbed the steering wheel, pulled himself into the seat and laid his gloves on the dashboard. He leaned forward, peeled the jacket off, and laid it in the passenger seat. The wet jacket would be his only passenger tonight.

Starting the truck, he backed out of the space. He was out onto a side street before he realized his headlights were not on. He turned the intermittent wipers on to clear the droplets from the window. The trees receded in the side mirror as the city approached over the horizon.

He leaned over to turn on the radio, but then reconsidered. The road and his thoughts would do him well. Besides, he still had work to do and three stops to make. The writer in him knew this.

**

The city emerged in a haze of yellow lights on the horizon. He was not yet close enough to see the forms of the buildings, but he could see the city light. He was still on the dark side of the mountain.

The drizzle had accelerated into a welcome, steady downpour. The ground back at the freedom site would be concealed even more. The grass seeds would quickly spring to life. His excitement grew.

The last stop was about a half an hour from his apartment. The other two had been less than a minute each, just long enough to discard incriminating evidence. This stop was at a small convenience store that closed early because it was off the road and out of the way. He sat in front of the store with the interior lights on, feigning a look at a map, to be sure no one was following. When the way was clear he turned the lights off and pulled to the rear of the store where the paved lot turned into a gravel drive. He drove across it slow enough to hear the crunch of the rock under the tires. It was dark behind the store but he could still see the dumpster silhouetted against the trees.

He paused to listen and watch. He saw no movement in the trees and could hear nothing but the calming pitter of raindrops on the windshield and the quiet swooshes of the wipers.

He leaned across the seat and rolled down the passenger window. The sound of the rain grew louder and he could hear a steady stream in a drainpipe at the corner of the store. He removed the right glove from the dash and tossed it into the dumpster. He heard the glove hit the back of the dumpster but not its landing. This meant the dumpster was partially full. More trash was sure to be tossed in before it was emptied. Perfect. He rolled the window up and straightened up. He drove around to the front of the store and pulled into the street. There was no traffic tonight and he felt even more confident. In his mind, “The End” by “The Doors” played. This is the end, my only friend, the end. This is the end, of our elaborate plan, the end. I’ll never look into your eyes, again.

“That tape should be in my glove box,” he thought. He leaned over and rummaged through papers and other items. He found a tin of mints and popped one in. No tape though. His mind would have to find the words.

**

The bright lights of the city contrasted his stint in the woods with literary perfection. The woods, quiet and dark; the city, loud and bright. He smiled. Inspiration was again flowing freely. And he was only a few hours out of bondage.

He pulled down the street toward his apartment building. The rain was still streaking across the windshield as he turned into a free space. Most of the lights were on in the building. Some apartments were illuminated by yellow lamplight, others with the blue flicker of television. He found his window. It was dark. He leaned back and turned the ignition off. The wipers stopped halfway between resting and clearing. The rain ran down the channel it created. He sat and listened to the rain patter against the roof of the truck for a while, thinking.

He leaned forward and took the left glove from the dash. He opened the door and grabbed his jacket as he slid down to the pavement. After shrugging it back on, he stuffed the glove in one pocket and his keys in another. He locked the door and slammed it shut.

The rain matted his still damp hair down again. He trotted to the awning that protruded from his apartment building and stood under its dry covering. His feet were not moving, but his mind was speeding through every option. He could walk inside or stay out here for a few minutes. No one was waiting to nag or criticize. He looked out into the night and watched as the rain fell onto the sidewalk.

Tonight, the rain was his friend. It was his helper. A walk together seemed appropriate. He had no destination, no real thought of where he was going. But he knew he did not want to go upstairs and start cleaning; not yet.

As the rain streamed down his face he mused. Only a few hours before he would have neglected the idea of walking in the rain for leisure. Things were definitely changing.

**

The door to a restaurant opened. A man walked out and a woman staggered out behind him. Her shoe caught something and she tumbled onto the pavement, laughing. The sounds from inside spilled onto the pavement behind the woman. She was drunk and yelling, “Where are we going Roger? Back to your place? Where are we going?”

Roger stuck out his arm to hail a taxi, then placed his arm around her waist as she staggered to her feet. The taxi sped past.

The drunken woman seemed fascinated by the water splashing around her. Apparently she was oblivious to the rain pouring on her. Roger looked over his shoulder and smirked, probably thinking the dirty, wet man was there to beg for change. He hugged his date closer. She looked up into his eyes and belched. She covered her mouth after he jerked his head away. She giggled with drunken glee. Roger looked down the street and waived his arm at another taxi. The taxi stopped. Roger and the drunken woman road away.

Rain soaked, he turned to go back home. He was surprised as he passed the entrance to the now dark park, intrigued that cutting through had not crossed his mind. It was shorter, but he did not want those memories. Not tonight. Not yet.

About a half-hour later he was again standing in front of his apartment building. He was soaked and letting the water drain a little before walking across the tile. He didn’t want to slip. It would be quite ironic to be as careful as he had tonight, just to slip on wet tile and split his head. He would have to write it down. The irony screamed for another story.

He pushed the door open and stepped onto the mat; the night guard’s head was down. She was reading. Her headphones were loud enough to hear a little din of music in the foyer. The guard glanced up at the movement she caught out of the corner of her eye. Only a glance, then she returned to her magazine. He was familiar.

He stood at the door wiping his feet for a while. He didn’t want an imaginary comic blunder to become a reality. He stepped out onto the tile. The floor was still a little slick so he walked toward the elevator with careful steps. He passed the security station. “Wet night huh?” he asked.

No response. Reading.

He paused on his path to the elevator and turned around. He stood in front of the guard’s station. She lifted her eyes from the magazine for a moment, then finished the sentence. She tilted her head up and pulled the headphones to her neck, asking an annoyed, “What?” The music was louder.

“I said, ‘Wet night, huh?’”

She glanced over to the glass door, then back to the distraction. “Oh yeah, I guess it is.” She waited for a second to assess the reason she was disturbed. A conversation about the weather was unworthy. She put her headphones back on and returned to her vicarious enjoyment of movie stars’ lives.

He put his hand in his jacket pocket as he turned to walk to the elevator. He felt the single glove and the grit of the dirt it had deposited there. An inspiration sent him back to the guard’s station.

“Excuse me,” he said when the woman didn’t look up.

She pulled her headphones down, still reading. “Yeah?” She snapped her gum at his intrusion.

“You haven’t found a glove lying around have you?”

“Nope.”

“I seem to have dropped one somewhere. Do you think you could keep an eye out for it?” He produced the glove from his pocket and held it up. The guard merely glanced at the glove, then returned to her reading. Her indifference pleased him.

“Sure will,” she grunted, and turned a page.

He put the glove back in his pocket, turned, and walked to the elevator. When the door opened he stepped in and pressed six, even though he lived on the seventh floor.

When the doors opened on the sixth floor he glanced down the hall both ways and stepped out. He walked down the hall and to the stairs. He walked up the last flight. His footsteps and the brushing together of his wet pant legs were quite loud in the empty stairwell.

He walked down the hallway to his door, slid his key into the lock, and pushed the door open. Lightning flashed and filled the room. Then the darkness returned. The lights were off.

**

It was nothing like the last time he walked in from the rain. That day everything was bright and cheery in the apartment, despite Clark being soaked. He stood at the doorway with his soaked tie in hand, using it to dry some of the water from his glasses. Lex walked from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea. She jumped back, startled.

“Oh, hey baby. I didn’t hear the door. Clark! You’re soaked.”

He stood there for a second. “Have you looked out the window lately?” Clark took a step toward the bathroom.

“No, don’t take another step. I just vacuumed.” She put her cup down and tossed him a towel from the closet. He caught it, stepped back and started to dry his face.

There was another flash of lightning and Clark returned to the present. He looked around the apartment. It was dark and cold. Absolutely nothing like before.

He stepped over the threshold and closed the door. The rug at the door was still bunched into the corner and a few lamps were overturned. He took a few more steps and kicked something hard. The lightning flashed and he saw his coat rack. He bent over to pick it up and hung his wet jacket on a hook.

The disarray he left had been forgotten. The couch was out of place and cushions were strewn about, but he overlooked all of this and walked to the back of his apartment and into the bathroom.

He took off his still wet clothes and let them fall into a pile. He reached behind the shower curtain and turned the water on. He waited until steam rose over the curtain rod, then pulled the curtain back and stepped in.

He let the water clean the night out of his hair and off his back. He let it run down his arms and down the back of his legs. He looked down at his still dirty hands. The water splashing on them formed small circles of clean.

When he got out of the shower he dried off and found a clean set of clothes in the basket that still was full on his bed. He smiled as he pulled on the perfectly folded shirt. She had done well with the folding.

He gathered his wet clothes and draped them over the edge of the tub and over the shower curtain rod. He stepped out of the bathroom and knelt on the floor with a towel. He sopped the pool of water his clothes had left and then draped the towel over the door.

The living room was his next project. He picked up a rogue pillow and tossed it onto the cushionless couch. He walked past the small glass top table that usually held his answering machine and phone, but the table was clear. He looked to the floor; the machine was lying top down. He picked it up. There was one message.

“Hi, Clark. It's me. Look, we need to talk. I . . . I’m sorry . . . I should have . . . Oh, never mind. Just call me when you get this!” The machine clicked, then rewound.

He smiled. There was no need to call her now.

Clark put the machine on the table, picked up the phone, and returned it to its recharging cradle.

“What’s the plan?” Clark asked himself.

“Start along the walls and work toward the center of the room.” He stopped next to one of his bookcases and looked over the trinkets and pictures. A certain picture of him and a girl, both smiling, seemed indecorous. He pushed the picture onto its face and continued cleaning.

When he got to the couch he sat down on the softness to rest. It had been a tiring night.