Recapitulation: Though Barry is more physically suited to unearth a grave, he has tired of Jenna’s attitude, crushing her spirit and forcing her into digging. Through their combined efforts, they hit paydirt, only to discover a sheaf of papers which give them pause. With that, we hit the play button.
Barry raised the smooth papers to his face, close enough to kiss them, started reading. The faint light distinguished broad forms, not precise shapes, yet the oversized Gothic font confirmed they were looking at Gertrude Wilborough’s “Last Will and Testement.” He wondered if the spelling error would invalidate the entire thing. He also wondered what Jenna opened Ms. Wilborough’s bodice for.
“Necklaces and pendants jackass.” These Jenna brandished at Barry, a veritable host of precious metal and fine craftsmanship. Then, with a shrug, she looped them about her neck, hiding them beneath her blouse.
Now they needed time as a friend, needed her to descend down the stairs with the grace and posture of a princess. Instead, she stumbled on the second step, lost her balance and spun out of control down the steps. The brash red sun dialed the intensity up. Barry yawned. He kept reading the fine text, too small for even a child’s eyes to decipher. Page after page of it, but why was it buried with her? They would have to analyze it later. He stuffed the papers into his back pocket, much as if they were his working schedule, then pulled his way out of the grave. Rather, he attempted to, but a large clot of dirt smacked into his face. It carried him back into the grave like a claw from the depths of hell.
He came to rest staring at a stretched parchment face. Part of him knew that he needed out of this grave, that there were forces that would conspire to keep him trapped here until proper authorities would turn up. Part of him wanted to just go to sleep here, forget about the long night of digging. The greatest part of him had to reach out to her, understand her. No matter what else would happen, he had to find out.
Barry’s unsure fingers stroked Ms. Wilborough’s forehead. Cool, not icy, and dry, like a Siberian woman’s forehead might feel. Despite the post-mortem stretch, he still recognized where the crenulations traced across her brow. Moving down, the eyes behind those blank eyelids remained stiff and unforgiving. He pressed down and thought of marbles in a silk sack.
Another shovelful of dirt bombed down, splashing against his left arm. He stroked the loam away and continued his caress. The nose pressed in like a calculator button. There was no structure behind it. Somewhere in her life, all the cartilage had broken away. Was this a parlor trick that she demonstrated to scare the grandchildren and grandnephews and grandnieces? Had Hardy had to lick that nose, only to feel it give way?
Her cheeks were like chalkboards, an unnatural smoothness and basic frigidity giving him pause. They might have taken the face-lift too far, must have pinned her cheeks back to her spinal cord. Her wax-coated lips crackled a bit beneath his touch, their inferior wax starting to disintegrate. Though it wouldn’t disappear for a few more days, this was the first sign of decay, the first indication that the mortician’s efforts would not stave away the inevitable. His fingers traced through the bleached stubble on her chin, so fine it might have been peach fuzz.
Another series of dirt pellets riddled him. He would not be buried in this fashion, alive, oh no. He would make sure Jenna learned a lesson.
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