ReTOOLing

I had been writing ahead so I wouldn't get caught in the jam I'm in now, of falling behind. Chapter 4 was a good ways in when I realized I hated where I'd taken it. I think the better option will be to skip what I would have talked about in Chapter 4, save a brief mention or two in new Chapter 4. The problem is, when I think about what I was doing, it was quite tedious, and really didn't need a full chapter to describe how they got to the hospital. The few key revelations that would have resulted can be taken care of in new Chapter 4 through the brief mentions. Updates will continue next week, and we'll address outlining, finals and bar exam review as they come. If you're still checking, thanks for your patience.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 18: At the End of the Day

Recapitulation: Barry has played on the fears of an old man to help him fill up a grave. Jenna is meanwhile incapacitated with a concussion.

***

They scooped the hole closed just as the sun resembled an inverted fish bowl, bottom seventh still obscured by the gentle horizon. Barry moved the grass divots by hand into place, fitting them with the care and precision of a Mayan wallbuilder. He could not have slipped a knife between the divots. Not that he ever carried a knife.

Barry and the old man sank to the floor. Jenna wandered over. She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation. “Now that you guys are done, I have to ask, what happened, and why is he clutching his chest?”

Barry looked up from his cross-legged rest. He’d noticed somehow the old man’s grunting had taken on a more anxious tone, yet chalked it up to the hopes he wouldn’t die. Now, his left arm stuck out straight, his fingernails drawing blood from his palm. His right arm clawed at the source of the pain, as if ready to rip through the outer layers of clothing and skin to get to the rib cage, and then the heart, ready to rip it out and perhaps even eat it.

As it stood, Jenna couldn’t remember more than ten seconds into the immediate past. The old man’s body rebelled against his will to live. He had on him a modern treasure map in the form of a hidden will and the old man’s wallet, which he might have stolen. The old man still feared that Barry would kill him. He was covered in filth, as was Jenna, whose head ceased its constant outpouring of blood. The sunrise exposed them for all their illegal glory, casting a bold honey glow across their tired faces. Soon the workers would return and discover them. He needed a nap or fifteen, as the past twenty-four hours presented little more than hard labor and harder stress on him. And, he still couldn’t drive a stick shift, their sole means of transportation and getaway.

The Volvo could fit two of them, and the shovels, or all three of them, and they’d have to leave the shovels behind. Or, Barry could attempt to drive away by himself and crash. Then it became a matter of what to take, among the shovels, Jenna, and the old man.

He groaned. She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation. “What happened? Why are you just sitting there? Answer me.” Her insistence speared through him like bolt lightning. They really were running out of time.

The shovels treated him well, like old dogs unable to hunt, but still able to rush to him when he came home. He’d purchased them after his first day of work at Millken Park. Though one saw more use than the other, they remained his most stolid compatriots. Yes, the conversation lacked, and sometimes they were cold to the touch, but they’d never treated him wrong.

The old man, he didn’t deserve this gripping fate. This morning, probably just like every other morning, he’d trundle down to the graveyard, visit his wife, or his child, or a friend, maybe even his own grave. He just experienced the bad fortune to meet Barry and Jenna, and be placed in mortal fear for his own life. Without Barry, the old man would never have suffered this heart attack, or suffered him. He had to help.

Jenna, his would-be wife, his true annoyance, and he’d pulled her into a grave and given her a concussion. Then again, she’d made him accessory to grave robbery. Hell, he was an accomplice. If there was another person, and now there was, he might even be a conspirator. Oh god, she’d made him a conspirator for grave robbery. How bad would that sentencing be, would he even make it out of prison alive? Better to leave her here, she’d recover eventually. Might not even remember the promises he made to let her live in his apartment, promises now erased by the constant static rushing her head.

How hard would it be to drive away? Then it hit him. He needed her to tell him how to drive, unless.

“Can you drive a manual transmission?”

“I’m dying, get me help, please.”

Barry could carry two out of the three at any one time, and it was probably for the best that he didn’t leave the shovels where they would be linked back to him. Why did Jenna have to packrat her car and keep it chock full of useless crap? Damn.

He looked at Jenna. “I’m going to take a real quick nap. Wake me up in five minutes.”

“Arrgh,” stated the old man.

“Shut up or I’m leaving you here.” He passed out on the cool grass, oblivious to the truth that Jenna would forget to wake him in thirty seconds.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 17: Concussion.

Recapitulation: Barry has knocked Jenna unconscious by pulling her headfirst into Gertrude Wilborough’s grave. In the process of getting them out, an old man sees them. Barry attempts to force the man’s will to his own, not realizing that this particular man was little better than a sick child.

***

The well-worn wallet demonstrated deep depressions outlining a series of credit cards cascading downward. Barry imagined the old man’s face felt just like this dead cow skin. Brown as the dirt below. He slid this into his back pocket, along with the papers already stuffed in there. Lowered himself into the coffin, threw the shovel out, and hefted it back out. They continued their grimy work. The caked dirt on Barry’s face developed shiny ruts as sweat droplets gathered up the soil on its way down his face.

Around this time, Jenna woke up and stumbled over to their anti-archaeological dig. Her drunken weaving made Barry dizzy.

“What happened?” She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation.

The old man took a step back, then dropped his shovel on the firm ground. “You’re not dead.”

“Neither are you, maybe we should wait a little longer. What happened?” She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation.

“You fell on your head pretty bad. Go sit down. And you, pick that shovel up and keep shoveling.” Barry’s arms scorched from within. The shovel handle pricked at his fingers. They threatened to straighten out with each passing second. Holding the shovel got almost as bad as filling the hole.

“Hey, what happened?” She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation.

Barry looked at her. “You didn’t hear me just now?”

“I heard you just now.” Jenna looked around, processing the graveyard. “Who’s he?”

“One question at a time. You fell down, hit your head. Go sit down over there.” He brandished the shovel towards a solid gravestone.

“Ok.” She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation. Jenna weaved through to the gravestone, spun in a tight circle as if caught in a stirred drink, then slumped to the ground. A few seconds later, she wobbled back to Barry on her hands and knees. “I might have already asked this, but what happened?”

“You hit your head. I think you might have a concussion.”

She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation. “Please, I didn’t hit my head, what are you talking about. What happened? Who’s he?”

This day just kept getting better and better.

Barry set the shovel down as he would a child, then walked over to Jenna. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and walked her back to the grave. “Listen, you fell on your head when we were trying to finish the job, alright? I’ll take you to the hospital, but first me and him have to fill the hole back up. So, can you wait here and just sit here for another half hour or so? Remember that one thing, just wait right here.”

She nodded back at him, staring hard at him, her eyes slitted. Her mind was coated in teflon at this point, nothing he said would stick. “Who’s he?”

“Just a helper. Now, please, just wait here, and don’t do anything, don’t wander away, just sit her quietly, alright?”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“I will tell you what happened later, alright? I’ve got to finish this.”

“Alright.” She sat down, her back to the gravestone, staring up at the sky. Barry walked back to Ms. Wilborough’s resting place and started shoveling. A few seconds later, Jenna popped up behind him. Barry turned around. She held her hand to her head, as if she could push out the swirling sensation. “What happened?”

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 16: It Pours

Recapitulation: Barry and Jenna managed to steal their prizes from Gertrude Wilborough’s dead body, but in the process Barry managed to knock out Jenna. While extricating the two of them from the grave, an elderly man has come upon them, and is willing to do whatever it takes to leave under his own power.

***

He didn’t want to do this, but there wasn’t much he could do. Jenna might have had some brain damage in addition to whatever residual injury made her act the way she did. Barry knew exhaustion as he would a lover, panting and wheezing, arms wrapped around it, needing to lie down and go to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to shovel the dirt in by himself in an hour or two, not by himself.

“Come here.” He tried to speak the words with malice, but came off sounding weak. The old man still approached, his Hush Puppies scraping on the grass. Barry wiped the sweat and dirt from his face, then stopped, his forearm still pressed against his nose. That grime might be the only thing keeping the old man from a positive identification. Barry smeared his hand on his coveralls, then rewiped with his left hand, obscuring his true self even more.

“Pick up the shovel.” Barry’s voice wept into the high register, more suited to a castrati in one of Mr. Waller’s older records. The old man trudged to the shovel, still planted in the mound, picked it up.

“Start filling that hole.” The man moved without using his joints, every gesture straight armed, straight legged, straight torsoed. Scoop, turn, empty, turn, scoop, turn, empty. Barry nodded. He walked over and knelt down before Jenna before raising her up in his arms. She slumped through the gaps like a sleeping cat, but remained borne. The old man gasped, but said nothing. Barry took her a bit removed from Ms. Wilborough’s grave, off to Larry Javaad (1958-1994). Laid her down so that she at least wouldn’t have to endure a pelting from random dirt. Stumbled back to the grave and started helping. The old man held Barry’s shovel, Ol’ Rusty. This reserve felt foreign in his hands, too smooth and too clean, too cold. Still, what choice did he have?

Now they raced their exhaustion. Barry should have taken a nap. The old man should have not thought fond thoughts of whomever he was here to visit. The only situation they would have wheezed harder in would be a near vacuum, trying to extract the last particles of breathable air.

“What, what are you going to do to me?”

The only response Barry gave was the continued huffing and shoveling.

“I won’t tell anyone about this, really. I’m old, I don’t have much time. Please, please just let me have what little time I have left.” At this, he dropped the shovel, fell to his knees crying. “Please have mercy on me, please.” The shovel teetered on the edge of the grave before spilling inward.

Damn. “All you had to do was keep on digging and you were going to be fine. Now look at what you’ve done.” Barry threw down the shovel. “Look at what you’re going to have to make me do.”

“No, please.”

“Go get it.”

“What?”

“Get the shovel. I’ll wait right here.”

The old man, his eyes redder than the sunrise stared into the pit. “How do I know you won’t bury me down there? You dropped that shovel in there on purpose.”

“You dropped it, you get it.”

“No, no. Please.” He fell on his face, mumbling incoherent supplications to Barry.

“Fine. I’m going to go down there to get that shovel. When I come back up, if you’re not here, I’m going to hunt you down and slit your throat.” Then he thought for a second. “Give me your wallet.”

“What?”

“Call it insurance.”

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 15: When It Rains

Recapitulation: Slapstick abounds with exhaustion. After exhuming Gertrude Wilborough’s grave, they’ve unearthed several treasures, including a possible last will which may change Ms. Wilborough’s estate distribution. In the process, Barry has gotten trapped in the hole, and after making a compromise to get out, Jenna has fallen in with him after he pulled on her hand far too hard.

***

For as long as they’d known each other, all these long hours, it seemed like they’d been pulling each other down, scrabbling over each other to get to the top of their two-person heap. Once again, the subtle tracings sketching out their life stories laid some subtle irony at their feet. Barry rubbed his lower back, now aflame with pain, and looked over to a quiet-for-once Jenna, blood oozing from her temple. Somewhere within, he wondered if this all happened quite different in another universe.

Even knocked out, her hair exuded signs of a life independent of the body they became attached to. It may have been more an effect of the scattered dirt bed she’d come to rest on, it might have been how, despite the shadows filling the hole, each strand delineated itself. The bright blood, seeping forward, colored everything in its path a duller hue of the incipient sunrise above them.

Always forgetful of just how light she was, Barry scooped her into his arms, then pressed her body above his head, tipping her forward onto the ground above. A simple euphoria flooded his body, much as harsh exhaustion threaded his musculature. Stepping to the other side of the grave, Barry traded up, passing through the air in order to get himself to a more tenable position. He rolled onto his back, right arm draped over his chest, left arm still dangling into the pit. Wheezed, wheezed, wheezed. What a race.

His vision gained an unfocused quality. The golden-red sun bled indistinct, its edges blurring into a vague arc, the blue-black sky beyond finishing the cold irradiated burst. a few clouds stranded through this smooth color schema, little more than what might have been early-onset cataracts cottoning his eyeballs. His head lolled, and broad basic colors gave way to cold slate and granite slabs peppering the faded piney green grass. An inch from his face, sharper grass extruded from the ground, and Barry counted the uniform veins striping the length of each blade. Somewhere in the distance, a large blob, white and tan and brown and large and filled with so many color gradations it stood out for its uniqueness, looked very out of place. It took Barry a few efforts to focus in on the elderly man holding a flower bouquet, and an additional try to recognize the utter lack of movement at all, signifying what?

He turned his head the other way, saw the pile of dirt, the fresh grave, the unconscious woman bleeding out from her heard. Turned back to the old man. Turned back to Jenna. Even if she was in any shape to explain this, she wouldn’t have explained this. No, it fell to him to assuage this man’s fears, explain that he wasn’t a murderer. He loved mornings.

Barry edged into a semi-sitting position much more appropriate for a chaise lounge than an exposition. He turned to the old man, still frozen in a temporal amber, preserved in the scene that he drew his own conclusion for. “Everything’s okay, there’s a perfect explanation for all this.” He beckoned across the field, across the dirt heap and the half-dead woman and the open grave. “There’s no perfect explanation for all this. But I have an explanation for you, if you’ll just give me a chance.” In the old man’s shoes, Barry would have worn off the soles gunning for the nearest constable.

“Don’t hurt me, please. I’m not seeing anything, there is nothing to see here.” The old man raised the flowers before his face.

Barry nodded. “Well, yes, this is true, this is all completely ordinary, everyday run-of-the-mill business.” He sighed.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

The phrase, fraught with potential, yet extended with such desperation, didn’t register in Barry’s mind for a few seconds. He’d just been in the old man’s position. Now it was time to take some advantage of the situation.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 14: Getting Out of a Well

April 1 fell on a Saturday this year, and I do not update during the weekendYou’ll note that “Chapter 4, Part 1” corresponds quite well to 4/1 (April 1), and “oil or flaps” is an anagram of April Fool’s. In addition, by not putting “Act 1” in the title, I hope at least some of you were tipped off as to the true nature of my post.

***

Recapitulation: The contents of Gertrude Wilborough’s grave included more than mere jewelry. Barry and Jenna also discovered a “Last Will and Testement,” perhaps her final will, which could change the entire distribution of her estate. As Barry peruses the document, Jenna sneaks out of the grave and starts throwing dirt in on Barry. Trapped, he takes a few seconds to reach out and touch the face of the woman whose funeral he first attended.

***

We learn lessons best via repetition, which is part of why life’s simple lessons are so painful to learn. Only the lucky few understand it the first time, while the mass of people are forced to make mistakes again and again until they get it right. Barry knew that with enough time and effort, he could change Jenna. It was just the process that would kill him. Another dirt clod whacked him in the face. He spit out black chunks and what was either a worm or a rootlet, thin and stringy and wriggling past his lips.

Barry shut the casket and stood up on the lower half. Jenna planted the shovel deep into the pile, ready to fling another pile into the hole. Her arms shook under the strain, her knees quivered. He looked down at his shaky hands. Like two prizefighters in the twelfth round, they both continued on, neither sure of what they were doing it for, only knowing that there were a few minutes left before they could stop.

He pushed up on the ground, hefted his body up from the edge of the grave, and met with facefull of the brown stuff. Back down he went. Jenna heaved with a master shoveler’s fury.

“You going to bury me down here? You think you can get away with it?”

Another rain of dirt. He could hear her puffing from above. She couldn’t keep this up for much longer. Barry nestled up against the side. He’d have to time this just right.

Jenna tossed another shovelful into the hole. Barry leapt up and used his momentum to carry himself up. Jenna, still at the edge of the hole, put her foot out and kicked his face, shoving him back down. The casket creaked beneath the sudden jolt, but remained intact.

He recalled an old puzzle, concerning a frog stuck in a well twenty feet deep. Every day he would climb three feet up the side, every night he would slide back down two feet. How many days would it take him to get out? The obvious answer is twenty days, one foot of progress a day. The right answer is eighteen days. Once the frog hits twenty feet, it can escape and not fall back down two feet. The lesson? Frogs can cling to walls. The important lesson? Always think through a problem, don’t assume the immediate answer is the best answer.

The sky fell some more. Barry wanted out of the hole, so he kept trying to force his way out, but Jenna kept shoving him back in. The better way to do it would be to have Jenna help him out. Jenna was pissed at him. Furious even. He had to give her something she wanted. Otherwise, they would get caught. There wasn’t much time, and they would need every harsh second to fill the grave.

“Move in with me.” Why did he say that? The words tasted sour in his mouth.

“I already live with you.”

“I mean for good. Not just for right now. You can keep running your jobs and you don’t have to live out of your car. Move your stuff into my apartment.”

He heard a faint metal sound, like a shovel blade spiked into the ground. “Not good enough.”

A start, but he needed more. What more could she want? What more would she want? And it hit him, living out of a car, moving from place to place, working alone. Always taunting him, always trying to keep him at arm distance, or trying to draw him in, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he knew what she wanted.

“I’ll be your partner, I’ll be your subordinate, I’ll help you, just please, help me out and let’s fill this hole and get home.”

Pavlovian conditioning made him close his eyes. A quiet throat clearing made him open them. Jenna crouched by the edge, her hand outstretched, the oversized emerald ring keeping her pinky and middle finger from touching her ring finger. He reached out and she yanked her head back.

“I keep the bed?”

He nodded and grabbed her hand. Barry pulled himself up, or so he thought, until he realized that her shaky hand was moving downward. With his simple tug, Barry dragged Jenna over the edge. He fell down and broke his crown, and she came tumbling after.

Chapter 4, Part 1: oil or flaps

Recapitulation: The contents of Gertrude Wilborough’s grave included more than mere jewelry. Barry and Jenna also discovered a “Last Will and Testement,” perhaps her final will, which could change the entire distribution of her estate. As Barry peruses the document, Jenna sneaks out of the grave and starts throwing dirt in on Barry. Trapped, he takes a few seconds to reach out and touch the face of the woman whose funeral he first attended.

***

He grew weary of her attitude, her childishness, the way she blackmailed him. Tired of not working, tired of not getting paid, tired of having to get dirt dumped on him from above. Tired of it all. Barry had enough. Fury borne of frustration infused his muscles, his lungs, his heart. He snorted like a bull, the air flowing through him, generating more and more power. Dirt rained downward, but he didn’t feel it. Registered it only as unimportant information. Right now, the two things that mattered were the wall in front of him and the woman beyond.

He crouched down, far deeper than he normally would, and sprang to, catching the wall and hefting himself forward in one fluid motion. Like a dolphin, he sprang up from the ground, landed on his feet in a crouch. Jenna just stood there, the shovel in her hands shaking, little groundling droplets tipping from the pile on the shovel blade. Her mouth hung open, disbelief cramming it wide.

“How, how did you, how.” She just stared at him. “How?”

Barry closed the gap between them and wrenched the shovel from her hands. She cried out, so swift and final was his move. Barry smiled. The weight in his hands made him feel whole. That he was in power again made him feel whole. Made him feel holy even. At this moment, things had changed, and he could do no wrong here. He was in charge.

“You’re going to tell me how to drive that stick shift of yours, right now.”

“Huh?”

“Listen, wifey,” and he spat the word as if venom coated every letter, “you’re not the only person that can make stupid demands. You tell me how to drive that car of mine.”

“That Volvo’s mine.” Jenna’s defiant lip curled, but Barry saw right through it, saw Jenna for what she was, some punk little bitch.

“No, that car is mine now.” He crossed his arms, the shovel slanting diagonal across his body, the blade next to his ear. His feet planted should width apart, Barry now looked for all the world like an enforcer. Jenna cowered, backed up a step. She’d never seen him like this.

“Alright, here’s how you drive it.” For the next five minutes, she walked him through the basic mechanics of operating a manual transmission, the nuances involved with the clutch on this car, even how to back out of a parking space. She threw words out faster and faster, trying to give him the information, trying to push him away with her soft reedy breaths.

“Thanks dear.” Barry laughed. “As if I’d ever get married to someone like you. You screwed with the wrong man honey.” Quick as the weather, he whipped himself and the shovel into a batter’s stance. Jenna’s eyes popped out of her head, and her valiant effort to run worked for a second. Mid-stride, the blade flat shattered the side of her skull. On the follow-through, Jenna’s body carried into the air for a few feet, before smashing into a gravestone, upending over the top, slumping upside down into the ground.

He set into the dirt, collapsing the hole into itself, when Jenna groaned from behind the gravestone. Barry looked up at her, flat on her back, her dress hiked up around her thighs, a small revolver strapped to her leg. What a sneak, she had a gun all this time.

Barry peered to his right, then to his left. Still no one there. Perfect. With confident strides Barry met Jenna, still alive in the most clinical sense of the word. He reached down between her legs, pulled out the revolver. Thumbed the hammer, pressed the barrel against her temple, or what he thought was her temple; the crushed skull made finding landmarks hard.

“Good night Jenna.” He pulled the trigger. A quick report echoed through the graveyard, heralding Jenna’s transition from present tense to past tense. Blood, bone chips, skin, hair fanned out across the ground like a malfunctioning firework. Barry pocketed the snub-nose, then resumed shoveling the dirt back into the hole. Part of him wanted to just throw her in, but that would be too easy. As he took handfuls of dirt to mop up the human residue now cooling next to Jenna’s head, he thought about the possibilities, before deciding on the best choice: his own grave.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 13: Face-to-face Confrontation

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.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 12: Coercion

Recapitulation: Sometimes, when you want to rob a grave, you have to do it the old fashioned way. Barry and Jenna have found their way to Gertrude Wilborough’s grave at night, and proceed to dig it up. However, they’ve come to an impasse as to which of them will do the actual work.

***

Being buried alive constitutes one of the most traumatic experiences to most humans, indeed most living creatures that do not burrow underground. Even more frustrating is the tantalizing proposition that freedom is but two hundred and thirty pounds away. The woman, trapped beneath the hulk of a man, writhes beneath him, as much to release her legs from the dirt and to gain unhindered access to fresh air as to get out from beneath the overbearing weight of the man.

For his part, he moves the dirt with the dispassionate motions befitting a sloth. At this rate, he could move a mountain, but it would take years. Nonetheless, he has time, as well as a superior position to the woman. The manufacturers constructed their caskets well; the casket’s integrity resisted the additional weight of two people wrestling atop it. In the alternative, the casket collapsed while the legitimate diggers heaped their dirt atop the casket, shifting the dirt downward into a more permanent position.

They have another breathless conversation, this time with the man in the dominant position, the woman’s lungs compressed flat. His terms brook no compromise, she will dig half the dirt, he will dig the other half. They will loot the corpse, replace the dirt, and leave this place. He will wait out his three and a half weeks until his reinstatement, she will go off and do whatever the hell she wants. Unwilling to die from asphyxiation, she assents to the new plan.

Repetition is the watchword by which they execute their duty. The shovel blade pierces the earth, the shovel blade removes some of the earth, the shovel blade dumps the dirt onto the pile. Given enough time, and a sufficient protection system, and a means by which to bypass the crushing gravity at the center of the earth, these two could dig through the earth to the other side. Of course, their petty bickering has robbed them of the needed time, and now they must grapple with the oncoming sunrise.

He jumps into the hole, now up to his waist, and commences helping. She moves for the edge, but he grabs her by her hair and drags her back down. Together they orchestrate a deep enough hole, and clack their shovels against the coffin. Well done, well done. She ducks down to fiddle with the lid, while he hefts himself off of the casket in order to allow her more room to unlock the lid. The man sits with his legs dangling over the edge, hands holding on. There is some more movement, and she pops up holding a sheaf of papers. The man takes the sheaf, flips through them, assimilating the information. As the sun has now started to rise, and the graveyard is cast into soft focus, we shall move in closer for a more detailed examination of these mysterious papers.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 11: Moon Watchers

Recapitulation: Jenna’s blatant daytime tactics to sneak out the wealth of riches from Gertrude Wilborough’s coffin are only partly successful. To compensate for his sudden fears of being discovered, Barry proposes a more covert operation at night, using much more blunt methods of theft.

***

They set aside the plots of grass like children in a nursery, side by side, lowered gently onto the earth, out of sight, but never far from their mind. As she continues to lean on her shovel and oversee the unearthing process, he continues to shovel deep down, tossing aside each shovelful of dirt into an increasing mound, burrowing down deeper. Once the mound reaches waist-high, the man throws down his shovel, gesticulates at the woman, waving his fingers and pointing back down at the dirt. Making a grand gesture, slow exaggerated movements dominating her posture, she steps to the edge of the grave, where he just stood, and continues the growing hole.

She manages but four repetitions of the basic action before letting the shovel go. It tumbles into the rut. The woman takes a few steps away and sits down against the back of the headstone, stretching her arms out and taking a rest. The man throws his shovel down onto the pile, audible even at this distance, a slight clump. He walks around the grave, grabs her bird-like wrist, and yanks her to her feet. She yells out of surprise, moreso than pain.

The gist of their conversation revolves around his opinion that she does little, always letting things happen around her while she reacts and hodgepodges together some possible solution. She feels that he does too much, that by regimenting every detail and attempting to anticipate every last moment, he ruins the spontaneity and wonder of life. Underlying it all, someone has to exhume Ms. Wilborough’s grave, and neither of them would take that step tonight.

You can watch the moon move more than either of them. Close your left eye and just wait, lining up the moon with a stationary point on the earth, the two of them. Wait and see which will move more over the next hour. Go ahead and keep waiting.

***

You see? We maintain the status quo between the two of them, yet the moon has carved further in its lonely arc, and still she sits against the gravestone, and still he lies in the rut that the two have created, his feet nearest Ms. Wilborough’s head, his head perhaps five and a half feet above Ms. Wilborough’s bare feet. Both do their damnedest to focus their attention anywhere but upon each other, and both are forced to fixate upon the only thing that offers any interest: the moon. The three-quarters full moon, pockmarked and pale yellow, orbiting much faster than either could detect from the graveyard. That moon, looking down on their incomplete venture, faux-frowning upon their work.

You can find it obvious that neither one will move unless the other changes their mind. You can also determine that neither will change their mind. The man realizes this, realizes this too well, knows that she responds to impulse more than thought out arguments. Now, impulse and reaction must combine to impel a new course of action. He rises from the grave, grabs those bird-like wrists again, lifts her up. She is dead weight, and dangles so, until he throws her down face-first into the pit they, he, has dug.

Before she can move, he lays on her back cross-wise, careful not to break it by exerting his full force, but keeping her pinned. From this position, he can reach out to the dirt pile, and his shovel. While his feet spread out and his left arm keep her alive, his right hand starts to move dirt from the pile onto her legs. She squirms, she struggles, she spasms. He continues the pseudo-entombment, every so often layering dirt upon her beautiful hair, soon indistinguishable from the loam he applies to her.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 10: The Eternal Struggle

Recapitulation: Barry and Jenna’s run at Gertrude Wilborough’s funeral have resulted in partial success. Jenna managed to nab an emerald ring from Ms. Wilborough’s finger before fear of discovery pushed Barry into getting them out of Willow Grove funeral home as soon as possible. Now, he plans to affect a more old school grave robbery.

***

A graveyard makes more sense at night. Absent strong light, absent signs of sentient life, absent anything that would disturb the solemn still layered over the graveyard, the gravemarkers are free to do what they do best: commemorate the existence of the body interred within the grave. Cast in a faint glow from the moon, maybe even pulled by the moon, the graves stand a quiet vigil, unable to halt any that would trespass upon their land, their birthright.

Clarity seeps through the brisk midnight air. In an ironic fashion, you can see further in the darkness than you could in the day, when artificial lights and technology conspire to draw your attention Here, instead of There. Look off into the graveyard. Through the graves weave two figures. One a huskier individual, toting a large shovel in one hand, moving with surprising grace. The other more slight, her dress flowing and drifting as she moves as you would expect the larger man to move, grunting as she bogs down in the grass, or stumbles upon something on the ground. Her shovel looks larger as she carries it in both hands, like a child carrying a broom.

It is so quiet you could hear your own shallow breaths skirting past your nostrils. From a distance, their footfalls are more soft swishes, basketballs through nets. Occasional curses from the woman as she continues awkwarding her path through the field. Though she hurls expletives at the ground, it continues not to pay her heed. It is full, enriched with the collected nutrients and preservatives of bodies, once encapsulated within wooden and metallic boxes.

He is a homing pigeon come to roost. It is nothing to find the site that they need. She whispers to him. No, she whispers at him. She muffles her indistinct words, and he points down towards the ground beneath them. Always down, always ground. The grass bulges in this spot; the only tamping has been of shovels this afternoon, so the grave still juts outwards.

They exchange more words, though not a true exchange, as neither can hear the other all that well, despite the quiet, and even from this distance, their crossed arms and bodies leaning away from each other imply that they do not want to hear each other. Faint, wispy clouds cross the moon, etching dark swaths across, darkening further the field. He chucks the shovel into the ground blade first, leans his elbows on the handle. She tries the same, but the shovel is too tall, she cannot get enough leverage, and must content herself with resting her chin upon that handle. She wobbles, her weak strike could not plant the blade down into the soft earth.

They confront each other, their weapons of choice at the ready. They do not battle on the man’s familiar grounds, with words and compromise, but on the woman’s terms, with cold stares and an unyielding nature. In such a situation, as it has been since time immemorial, man can hope to triumph, but the eventual outcome will disappoint man. Such is the natural order, such is it when he lifts his elbows from the shovel, wields his weapon, and starts to dig into the dirt.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 9: A Measure of Success

Recapitulation: Hardy’s peculiar revelations about Great-Aunt Gertie’s life and fears have thrown Barry into a sort of upheaval. He ushers Jenna from the funeral home in an acute sense of desperation.

***

Still they had to cleave the assemblage to retreat, which proved more difficult than you would think. Though the flow worked with them, the slow pace did not. Hands around her shoulders, they moved like a smooth rock placed on a gentle downslope, each step measured and deliberate.

“What are you doing?” Jenna hissed at Barry, a black handkerchief covering her mouth. “Let me go, I was right there.”

“Let’s wait until we get outside dear.” Enlightened Barry looked around at all of them, still unable to decipher the subtle code that would distinguish poor and rich. Ms. Wilborough’s final bequest encoded those tells so well he might as well have been blind.

They emerged through the double doors into the parking lot. Jenna started smacking him with her ringed hands, clacking with each hit. “We had a plan, we had a plan you ass.”

“And now we have a new plan. It got too dangerous in there.”

She stuck her middle finger up at him.

“Very mature.”

“Look closer.”

A polished gold ring, more dazzling than any of their cheap knockoffs, encircled the base of the finger. He leaned around her hand, and a giant emerald greeted him, glistening in the morning sunshine, almost wet in its sharp faceted reflections.

“Could have had three more like this if you hadn’t pulled me out like that.” Jenna rotated the ring around, then stopped to admire her new acquisition.

“They were all in there for the money, every single one of them. It was worse than I thought. Nobody cared about her, everyone just wanted a piece of the pie. Someone would have noticed.” He wiped his brow, the sleeve buttons redistributing the sweat.

“Don’t blame them for your cold feet.”

“Are you alright?” Hardy burst through the doors, his compact body uncoiling like a spring. “The service is about to start.”

“Oh, I just needed some air. We’ll be right there.”

“I’ve saved you and your daughter some seats in the front, just come up the side.” He disappeared back into Willow Grove.

Jenna smirked at him. “So Dad, what’s the plan now? We lost our best chance to get the goods.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re probably even older than he thought. Whatever. What are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to go back in there and pretend that we care about Ms. Wilborough. We’re going to sit and cry and make all the right statements. Then, we’re going to go back to my apartment and make another plan.”

“Plan plan plan. We had your plan and then you broke your plan. Things happen.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t think you would’ve happened though. It’s all part of the game.”

“Not a game, never a game.”

“And we’re about to do what now? Pretend we care? Sounds like a game to me.”

Barry had stopped processing Jenna’s words. Static to his ears, wild magpie chatter. He’d cultivated relationships with his fellow diggers over the years, and after this funeral, he’d have to start drawing on them. In his view, the plan had only shifted to a marginal degree. They’d still go grave robbing, they’d just do it a little later with fewer crowds. Just the way he liked it.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 8: A Questioned Insanity

Recapitulation: Still trying to keep Hardy’s attention, Barry unintentionally coaxes a horror story from him about Great-Aunt Gertie and a bowl of cold prune oatmeal. They draw ever closer in the queue to the old woman, and he must continue on this crazy path.

***

Barry blinked. “Oh.” He’d always oatmeal, though he’d never garnished prunes atop the muddy surface.

Hardy let go of his hands, but dropped them to his sides, still clenched tight. “Rich people are always eccentric. Poor people are always insane. Simple as that. She controlled the money. We had to deal with it, once a year, every year. Now look at it, this is the second time we’re all seeing each other.” Hardy made an exaggerated show of viewing the crowd. “We’ve all got our stories, and we all let it happen. This is what people will do for a common goal.” He wiped his mustache with thumb and index finger.

“You mentioned she willed all her money away to everyone?”

Hardy chuckled. “That was the best part. She had her moments, brief passing moments, but when they came, she was a totally different person. Regretful, nostalgic. That was when she changed the will. Had all her lawyers and witnesses and everything there. It was all on the up and up. Gave half her money to charity.”

“Well, charities aren’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“The ASPCA? She never even owned a cat. She hated animals. I remember one summer, she stepped on cousin Mitchie’s hamster. Said it got loose, but she smashed it. The other half of the money, well, she just started listing everyone she wronged, and didn’t stop. Three pages on the will. Three pages. God. Do you know how much money I was supposed to get?”

Barry shook his head.

“Over five million dollars. U.S. Then she kept spreading it out, and now I’m only going to get around three hundred thousand. The old biddy.” He pulled out a plastic baggie from his suit pocket. It squished with the force of cold, pruney oatmeal. “She’s not getting the last laugh. I’m leaving something with her.” And he smiled like the devil. Hardy slipped the baggie back, then pointed. Now Barry stood near the head of the casket.

“So, who else got money besides your family?”

Hardy sighed. “Schoolteachers, crossing guards, checkout cashiers, salespeople, she must’ve had some list of people she wronged. She even willed all of them nice clothing. That’s how I knew you weren’t in the will. You and your girlfriend are the only two here that weren’t dressed by Great-Aunt Gertie’s clothiers. Look around, you can’t tell anyone apart.”

Barry made the requisite scan of the room, and realized that he couldn’t tell them apart. Dressed in the same finery, their conversations indistinguishable, he couldn’t separate the honest from the greedy at all.

“Not to be disrespectful, but really, what did they ever do to deserve it? Hell, I find it hard to believe that she could have really offended everyone.” Hardy sniffed, turned his nose up. Then, Barry thought, maybe Great-Aunt Gertie wasn’t so insane.

He nodded at Hardy. “Excuse me.” Barry turned around as Jenna poised herself over Ms. Wilborough’s body, whispering softly into the casket. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her away, whispering “I’m sorry” to the remains of the woman.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 7: Prune Oatmeal

Recapitulation: The people you meet in line. Barry, while waiting to pay his final respects to Gertrude Wilborough, and have her pay his final notice bill, strikes up a conversation with Hardy Wilborough, a disenchanted relative of the elder matron Wilborough. He has also learned that not a single soul in the hall, perhaps not even the minister, is there for any reason other than base avarice.

***

“So, what was she like?” Barry scratched his chest, trying further to engage Hardy. Open-ended, vague questions that he couldn’t answer himself. Sympathetic tones, laced with that underlying notion that it all came down to the pursuit of the almighty dollar here.

“Senile. Off. I’m sure she wasn’t always like that. She might have been playing with all of us. Sometimes, she was the sweetest woman.” Hardy’s eyes looked through Barry. Scared that somehow he’d become transparent in some fashion, he wiped his mouth.

“And the other times?”

Hardy started frowning. “I remember once, must’ve been eight or so. That was the summer I broke my leg. Never ridden a bike since, not even an exercise bike. We visited Great-Aunt Gertie that summer. This was when she still lived in New Hampshire, and it was a big thing to travel up there. We’d go up there, the entire family, from all over the place, for a week. I never realized it then, but the reason we all went was so we wouldn’t have to interact with each other for the rest of the year.

“She always got up first, around five in the morning, and she’d go into the kitchen, clatter around, knocking around pots and pans. I slept downstairs, and I couldn’t ever get any sleep. Don’t know why I didn’t sleep upstairs, it must’ve been the cast, that damn cast. She’d wake me up, and I’d go to the kitchen, and she’d make me some oatmeal.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I hate oatmeal.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, Barry took a step backward when Hardy pointed. Closer now than ever before.

“She always made it lukewarm, because that was how she liked it. And she always included prunes because she needed them in her diet. I didn’t need the extra flow-through, but I always got it. Cold prune oatmeal at five in the morning. Sitting in darkness, because she didn’t want to waste the money when the sun would come up soon enough. That was why she clattered, it was all in the dark, and her night vision, well.

“It was Thursday I guess, after a few days of eating that cold mush in the dark. It slithered down your throat like a chopped up snake. All those chunks, that mush, that goo. She wouldn’t let me go without breakfast, but she also wouldn’t stop making noise. I tried lying there on the couch, but she just kept throwing and tossing the pots. I had to go into the kitchen and tell her to shut up, crutched in there, she ushered me to the dining room table, slopped a bowlful in front of me, took her seat.

“I had enough of it. I just sat there in the dark, my arms folded. She asked me, ‘Aren’t you going to eat your oatmeal dear?’ I told her it was horrible. She told me that if I wanted to grow big and tall I needed to eat my oatmeal. I did what any kid would’ve done in that situation.”

“You ate it?”

“I threw it at her.”

“Ah.”

Hardy’s hands were grasped together, as if he were performing isometric exercises. Through the fabric of his suit, Barry could watch the muscles writhe like mice.

“It was the damn crutch. Before I could say anything, she caught me. She was real strong, real strong. I think it was that summer I got interested in weight lifting. Wasn’t ever going to let anyone grab me like that again. She clamped her hand over my mouth, grabbed me by the arm and twisted. ‘Big boys need their oatmeal,’ she said.

“Then she made me lick it off of her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Every last prune.”

“Why didn’t you scream?”

“She told me she’d break my arm. She would have. Grabbed me by the wrists, dangled me off the ground, and I had to lick it off her face and her nightgown.” Hardy licked his lips. “Her skin was like dried prunes, and she was cold. Too cold.”

Barry glanced at the open casket, wondering what that desiccated flesh must have felt like to an eight year old.

“I had to make myself vomit in the bathroom. My finger wouldn’t stay so I used a toothbrush. Then I realized it was hers and had to vomit again. I told my parents, and they joked it off. I respect now what they were doing. They wanted to ensure my future, and they came close, if it wasn’t for her giving everything to everyone.”

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 6: Sharing

Recapitulation: Line-waiting tasks even the strongest of us. So too does it task Barry and Jenna, hardly able to count themselves among the lofty ranks of the strong ones. So they wait in line, in order to confront Gertrude Wilborough, and exchange their cheap rings with her expensive ones.

***

“Feels like the MVA, huh?”

Barry didn’t want to turn around. Why interact? But if he didn’t, that could sink them. He turned around, looked down at a man around five feet tall, sporting a genuine handlebar mustache. Blonde as the sun, bushy as a rabbit’s tail. The man would not have been out of place in a barbershop quartet, but for the light hair. The deep whisper that rushed its way out from behind that impressive tuft should have emerged from a man a foot and a half taller.

“We’re not all uptight.” He proferred a stumpy-fingered hand. Barry took it, felt the bones in his hands become better acquainted, much closer. “Hardy Wilborough. Grandnephew.”

Uh oh. “Austin Keppler. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Hardy breathed deep, his mustache twitching beneath his nose. “How did you know Great-Aunt Gertrude?”

“In her final days, we were visiting my grandparents, she was nearby, we talked briefly.”

Barry’s eyes popped. His hand crunched inward, collapsing under the power of Hardy’s grasp. “We thought she was never going to speak.” Like a winch, he drew Barry down to his nipple level, or closer to Hardy’s eye level. “What did she say?”

“Oh, uh, well, we talked about clouds. I think we did, she was indistinct. All the life support.”

“Did she mention the will?” Like a snake through grass, the words hissed through his mustache. In that moment, Barry experienced a perverse kinship with all these people.

“No, I’m sorry. She sounded happy at least.”

“Damn.” Anger clouded his face as his eyebrows veed inward. He released Barry from the death-grip. Barry blinked, and a genial man reappeared in Hardy’s place. “I’m surprised we managed to get Father Patterson, he’s usually booked at this time of year.”

“I can imagine.” Barry rubbed his hand. Hardy pointed behind him as the line progressed, and Barry stepped backwards. They were a few away. “Did she have a will?” Anything to keep him off-balance, distracted, fuming like a teakettle.

“She had one that left everything to family only. Then, before she died, had some attack of philanthropy.” Hardy peered left, peered right, got on his toes to whisper. “You’re probably the only one in here that didn’t get anything, and if she’d survived a few more days, she probably would’ve wrote you in.” He flat-footed himself, tilted his head. “We always had someone near her. Who was in there when you talked to her?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall. There were so many faces that I can’t remember, so many names that, that.” Barry pursed his lips, looked off and away to the left. “I’m sorry, it was a hard time, I wasn’t in a right state of mind. For all I know, I got mixed up with another elderly lady, and I never met Ms. Wilborough.” Barry scratched his head.

Hardy’s face softened, the wrinkles smoothing themselves away. “Wow. You might be the only person that actually cared about her, and you might’ve never even known her.” Hardy blinked. “You got problems. I feel sorry for you.”

“Thank you.” Hardy pointed, and Barry took another step back. This morbid masquerade would play itself out one way or the other. He just hoped that somehow, his mask wouldn’t fall off before the final curtain.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 5: Linear

Recapitulation: Thus far today, Barry has managed to dent a car, drive away, get sick off of greasy fast food, and fear the possibility he may be harboring an underage runaway. This augurs well for the rest of his day.

***

At least today’s jaunt to Willow Grove involved a more elderly group, rather than the children’s crusade yesterday. Except for what looked to be grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren, Jenna was the youngest person there. Barry wasn’t far behind. Ms. Wilborough’s life left many wakes as it sailed through our world. All these people had been caught up in those waves, and now that the ship stalled out and sank, so too had their companionship. Now they stood ready to fare Gertrude well.

Unlike a concert setting, the high ceilings served to baffle sound rather than amplify it. Barry hadn’t noticed it so much with the children, but now the preponderant adults, more engaged in meaningless talk, served up a chattering babble. Jenna hung onto the crook of his arm as he patted her, trying not to rap her. Like a good club, there was scarce room to move, and so they wedged through the crowd, careful to grant a sympathetic nod to everyone that caught their eye, winding their way to the casket.

Some of these haughty guests snorted when Barry and Jenna passed. From a financial high ground, they deigned to look down on their social underlings, garbed in the finest fashion from 1981. It was just a suit, not even required for his chosen profession, yet he could not help but cringe away, keeping a social distance. He too noticed their finery, their finest finery, removed from display cases and draped right onto them, tailored to their measurements, rather than having to strain one’s belly against a belt. To a man everyone else’s clothes shined, casting a subtle glow that may have illumined only Barry’s imagination, but it was enough.

Imagine a man stirring a cup of water. Much of the water spins around in a vortex, but there will always be a few molecules fighting that irresistible force. Barry and Jenna are fighting that force, in order to make it up to the casket. That the hall is this crowded is better news than either could have hoped for. Though there will be many people watching the casket, few will notice individuals. Yes, they are strangers, but there are ways around being strange.

They did reach the front, where a semi-linear queue snaked towards the casket. Every couple of minutes, the line writhed forward, individuals offering personal benedictions, farewells, hellos. They waited in silence, Jenna in front of Barry, his hands on her shoulders, thumbs touching. All he would have to do was link his index fingers and squeeze, then hope no one noticed. After all, the guest of honor was dead. Would another person be that out of place?

Barry wondered, what exactly is it that people say when they speak to a corpse? Assuming a spirit or soul exists, why would it stay around in the body? You would be incorporeal, hence the statement, the spirit leaving the body. You would be free to float anywhere, do anything. Even if a spirit attended the body’s funeral, would it stay confined within the casket? Wouldn’t it stake out a spot higher up in the venue, or even stand right next to the casket, anywhere but inside the husk? And for those that never believed in souls to begin with, but still feel the need to say something, what are they talking to? Their memories? Their fears? Themselves?

When he walked up to the husk, what would he say?

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 4: Uneasy Age

Recapitulation: On the morning of their big job, Barry managed to smash Jenna’s car into another one. This does not augur well for their later efforts.

***

The comfort from McDonald’s food comes in the first ten minutes of consumption, when the warmth and grease combine to put your body at ease. It tells you that you’re safe, you’re secure, and for a couple of dollars, you’ve satiated your hunger. The problem is outside that ten minute window, when the grease congeals, or you’ve taken in much more than your weekly allotment of grease in a single meal. Then it converges upon your colon, teaching you new lessons about safety and security.

Barry leaned on his forearms, belching like Old Faithful. Jenna meanwhile slipped his half eaten biscuit sandwich away from him and gobbled it down. She even licked the cheese melted onto the wrapping, then cleared off the excess dribbled grease pooled in the nooks and crannies. She wanted as much of the security as she could find, even reaching out for a third sandwich to reset the ten minute clock.

“I feel sick.” Barry groaned and burped again. He tasted a sour melange of bile, stomach acid, oil and potato.

“You should relax, it’s going to be ok. We’ll go in, grab, get out.” She held out her right hand, still holding the sandwich, a ring on each hand, not a single one fitting proper on those bony sticks. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“No, I mean I feel sick from the McDonalds.”

“Tastes okay.” She took another bite of his sandwich. “I don’t think they poisoned it.”

“You won’t be eighteen forever.” He blinked. “How old are you anyways?”

“That’s a horrible thing to ask your wife. You never ask a lady her age.” She spoke these last words with a rarefied tone, as if crystalline sugar floated forth from her lips to seed the clouds, that they might rain sweet rain. Even clasped her hand to her chest, southern belle misplaced in modern America.

“I didn’t ask a lady, I asked you.”

“How you managed to get someone like me, I’ll never know. What does it matter how old I am?”

“Just tell me you’re old enough to get a driver’s license.”

“I’m old enough to get a driver’s license.” She parroted like a pro.

“You’re not actually old enough to get a driver’s license are you?”

“Depends, which state are we talking about here?”

Barry raised his head before letting it fall back down. “Oh God, I’m harboring a runaway.”

“Relax, it’s going to be ok.” She reached into her pocket and flipped him a New York driver’s license. The lamination had curled back, leaving the picture of her sticking her tongue out at the camera.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Alright, what about this one?” Next came a Maryland license. This one had a hologram across it, quite well done.

“Oh god. Just complete this statement: ‘I will blank get in trouble because you are not over eighteen.’”

Jenna cocked her head. “What?”

“How much trouble am I going to get into here?”

“None, we’re not going to get caught.” She took the licenses, slipped them back into her pocket, and danced towards the bedroom. “I’ll be ready in a bit dear.”

The shower hissed. Barry covered his head and tried to pull himself through the table into the ground.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 3: Hit, Wait and Run

Recapitulation: New day, new problems. In an attempt to make sure everything goes right in preparation for their grave robbery, Barry decides to fill Jenna’s car’s gas tank. Without knowledge of how to drive a manual transmission, he proceeds to hit the car parked in front of him.

***

With enough time, you can learn how to do anything. With less than three hours until you leave for a funeral, you can learn how to swallow your pride and wake someone up for help. It only takes ten minutes in that case.

At this point, Jenna had somehow rotated halfway onto the floor, her head and right arm collapsed against it as if propping the rest of her. Her thick hair had splayed out like a five year old pressing a paintbrush deep into the paper. That her snoring wasn’t louder bespoke the depth of her sleep, into which Barry was about to violate.

He shook her on the shoulder. “Jenna, Jenna, wake up, I need your help.”

“Go ‘way. Tired.”

“Jenna, I dented your car.”

“Fix it.”

“I hit another car.”

“So?”

“I can’t drive it away.”

She rolled onto the floor, thumped against the floorboards. Jenna moved like an undead, slow, wooden motions shuffling her through the apartment, down the stairs, her bare feet padding until they hit rough concrete. Still dressed in one of Barry’s shirts and nothing more, she walked over to the driver’s side door, kept trying to insert the key into the lock, until Barry removed the key from his pocket and did it for her. Eyes lidded, hair flying off at peculiar angles, Jenna backed the car away, a loud squeal reminiscent of fingernails and chalkboards applauding her effort. Busted shards tumbled from the wound, clattering against the ground. “Huh.” Then, she pulled out.

“Wait, I forgot to leave a note.”

“Don’t you think the dent’s enough? We’re going to McDonald’s, and you’re buying.” She yawned so wide he could have fit his wallet whole inside.

***

Upon their return, laden with paper bags starting to soak in grease, Jenna parked around the corner. A hash brown poised between her lips. She bobbed it up and down, had a breakfast sandwich in her hand as they went back into the building. Aroudn the corner, they could hear someone ranting and raving on the phone about the new dent in his car. They walked a little quicker.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 2: Crashed

Recapitulation: Despite agreeing to partner up to rob graves, Barry and Jenna discover quickly their partnership will be most difficult to work within. After an awkward trial run, they prepare on this day to make a stab at Gertrude Wilborough’s funeral at Willow Grove Funeral Home. It is early, and there is yet much to do.

***

He reached out for the overalls, then caught himself and took a suit from the closet. The loose hangers jangled against each other. Jenna slept like the terminally ill, only a good shake would wake her from her stupor. He left the bedroom to change in the living room, a peculiar proposition, but it made more sense than changing in front of Jenna. Walked back, noticed her keys on his dresser, a stupendous mass of tchotchkes and knick-knacks, a car key ensconced somewhere within that pile. Barry looked down at his charge, still oblivious to the world at large. He noticed yesterday in the car that either her gas gauge had broken, or she was low on gas. Either way, it would do him good to get outside. Slipping her key plus rings into his hand, he stole away from the apartment, leaving her locked inside.

Some wag left a yellow flier on the windshield. Barry went to toss it away, then realized it was a yellow envelope and she’d gotten a parking ticket. Forty dollars. Forty dollars he’d somehow end up paying. He tossed the ticket onto the passenger’s seat. Just another substitute for a dead president. Then, he stepped in, sat down, turned the ignition. Nothing happened Then, he released the parking break, looked for drive. He took his foot off of the brake pedal, and nothing. Then, wondered why there were three pedals. What was wrong with this machine?

He reached over to the glove compartment, sprung it open. A slew of yellow envelopes spilled out, vomited from the dash’s belly. He picked one up at random. Eight years ago, unpaid. This would work out well, as did everything so far with Jenna. Beneath the crumpled pile, he excavated a fresh driver’s manual, pristine and untouched. There were a few brief pages that described how to operate a manual transmission.

Learning how to drive a manual transmission from a book is possible. Learning how to drive a manual transmission well from a book, not so much. Applied theories involve much experimentation, mistakes, practice once you have a handle on the basic theory underpinning the procedures. Barry looked up at his bedroom window and wondered if she could do it, why couldn’t he?

The car, as if controlled by an unwitting master, crashed into the car in front of it. Barry shuddered in his seat, then looked up. The mindless Volvo rolled into the car in front. He stared at the steering wheel, then got out to examine the damage.

Busted taillight, scratched bumper. At least it was a boxy Peugeot from twenty years ago, but the shiny green paint and meticulous finish implied the owner wouldn’t be ecstatic about this development.

Again, book learning for practical things proves impractical. However, necessity and a need to extricate a car from a crash tends to spur one on.

Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 1: A New Day

Recapitulation: Barry and Jenna, partners in grave robbing, have set about to rob Gertrude Wilborough, a wealthy dowager. In preparation, they made a dry run at the funeral of Jimmy Engles, a boy too old for his body. Jenna took offense at Barry’s seriousness, and Barry took offense at Jenna’s frivolity. Now they come together to make a grab at the brass ring.

***

The first rays of gentle sunshine brushed Barry’s wrinkled brow, stirring him from his uneasy slumber. Another night on the lumpy couch, another night tossing and turning and shifting as the clock ticked each second away. That constant metronome set rhythm to his life, but now it kept him from enjoying one night’s sleep. Well, that and Jenna.

Six fifty. The funeral would start at ten. Lots of time. He crept into his bedroom. Jenna lay sprawled all over his bed, as if dropped from a height of fifteen feet and left to rot. Her head lolled towards the mirror while her arms pointed towards the window. Her legs had curled beneath her in a pseudo-fetal form, but they twitched as if she was taking slight shocks to her spine. Whatever clothes remained on the bed when she’d fell asleep, they’d now tangled beneath her, through her limbs, a black sock wrapped up in her brown hair, coal unearthed on a plowed farm. How could anyone this innocent looking be so bitchy while awake?

Barry entered the bathroom, leaving the door askew and placing a cinder block just behind it. How she managed to find a cinder block in fifteen minutes yesterday, he couldn’t figure out. Why he hadn’t tried to lock her out for good, he wasn’t sure. Probably because she’d accuse him of stealing all her stuff, all her remaindered clothing and rejected cast-offs and whatever intangibles she kept in the purse that got hidden somewhere. Strange that she’d hide her purse and never take it anywhere. It was a nice purse, some dark black designer thing, Coach? Nice deep sheen to the leather, deep pouch, thick straps. Never saw it again. Strange that she’d take such good care of something, anything. Everything else she’d owned or controlled exuded an air of disrepair about it.

Including him. Barry stared at himself in the mirror. His hair, what remained, drifted off his head, like smoke frozen in time. The bald scalp shone. He felt it, smooth as a watermelon rind. Closed his eyes, felt the lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and reaching from his nose to his mouth, and all the little wrinkles in between. Like a football pre-curing process. Moved his hands down to his belly, hefted it. A mighty strong child, if he’d been pregnant, which he wasn’t. Hell, when was the last time he could look down and see his toes or his dick? He looked down, and added one to whatever number that was. Then, he reached around behind him, lifted his buttocks up inside his boxers. They felt round and full and saggy in his palms. If only he’d been cupping someone’s breasts.

He left the bathroom after brushing his teeth. Jenna’s head now rested at the foot of the bed, while her feet had propped themselves on the headboard. Her arms twisted up beneath her body. It was cute in a way.

Then, to the kitchen. Whole milk. Chocolate kids’ cereal. Much heavier that skim milk and bran flakes. Each spoonful he dredged up from the bowl turned more and more chocolatey, the milk turning as if left next to a trashcan, or a rendering plant. That brown pollution infused him; he tapped the table to some unheard symphony from downstairs, likely keeping beat as Mr. Waller conducted in 17/3 time or some strange alteration of convention.

Post breakfast, he opened up the several stained sheets that contained their plan. They were really going to do this. Nothing he’d said, nothing he’d done had turned Jenna away from this plan of action. He looked down and read it one more time, the first of many times that morning he’d read it.