Tribute Tales: O Tempora, O Mores

Short fiction seems particularly suited to the absence of resolution. Leaving us without the comfort of conclusion, or at least the sense of it, is often a story's most effective tool for making sure it gets prime real estate inside our brains. Some of my favorite stories take particular delight in doing little more than drawing the reader in and engaging them, then walking away. Paolo Bacigalupi's "The Fluted Girl," available online, is a great example of this.

Even stories that present a definitive ending often do so in a way that feels...shall we say, emotionally unresolved. To use a more well-known example, Shirley Jackson gives us an ending to "The Lottery" that leaves us with almost as many questions as if she'd finished the story with the phrase, "Show us her paper, Bill."

I really had no intention of resolving "In Memoriam." I like the way it plays out, and I like even better the idea of seeing how someone else might draw it towards something resembling conclusion. Let them play god with my little characters. I like collaboration.

However, after posting the story I was...encouraged...to reevaluate. I had expected to get an e-mail or two about the tale, not fifty-seven of them. And the fact that some of them were from authors on this site who I enjoy and respect, and that so many asked for some kind of a conclusion, made me feel...well, maybe like I was being rude. It wouldn't be the first time.

So I encourage you to either leave the story as it was, reading no further, or to write your own ending. But here is my ending and you're welcome to it.

Many thanks for the feedback.

Andrea sat down at the clay-red table, opposite the thing that was her husband and was not her husband, and tried not to look at It or the empty chair to Its right. She didn't want to see either of these things. She knew that they defined her, and she knew that they were dangerous.

Instead, to keep from obsessing over the unseen, she focused her senses on minutia. The combined smell of meat and vegetables. A faint dark spot on the tablecloth where something was spilled. The prism of colors that could be found in the crystal chandelier overhead. The ticking of the clock that she and her sister had picked out years ago, when Amy and John had first moved into this house.

No. That was wrong. "I was alone," she chided herself. "When I bought it I was alone. I am Amy. I am my dead sister."

She shook her head, scattering these thoughts like feeding insects and drawing concerned glances from across the table. She refocused her attentions on the unimportant. This technique had protected her for weeks. Why was it failing her now?

Concentrate.

The clink of the silverware as she cut her food. The coolness of it in her hand. The muscle, or perhaps tendon, in her left forearm that was twitching quietly. She'd first noticed it two days after William had been taken away. Sometimes it would stop for a few seconds, as though recovering, but mostly it just patiently continued its simple beat. For twenty-seven days now it had pulsed, intermittently, without sensation.

Like a beacon.

Like a reminder.

Andrea finally looked up at the thing across the table from her. It was watching her with sad, sunken eyes. She felt neither pity nor empathy for it, but studied it carefully. It had been sleeping poorly lately, tossing and turning deep into the night and often waking early the next morning. It had taken to drinking coffee in the evening and spending most of the night watching TV or reading books. Still, It must be sleeping sometime. Maybe at work, or when it was supposed to be at the gym. Regardless, It rarely slept at home.

And It was wise to stay awake.

It saw that It had her attention, and stopped eating. "We can't go on like this," It said. "There's got to be something we can do. I know there is. If you would just tell me what he said..."

"I did tell you, John," she thought her own voice sounded dry, husked of all tone. Aged and timeless. "He didn't say anything."

It sighed, and leaned back away from Its food, looking up at the ceiling. "Goddamn it, Andrea," It said without conviction, "you've got to let me help you."

"Amy." She raised one eyebrow challengingly, "You're supposed to call me Amy."

Silence. "Please. Amy. I know he said something, a...a threat, or some kind of condition, or something. You were crying so hard, I couldn't understand what you said. But I know you tried to tell me then. What changed? Why have you decided to keep this from me? Why am I not allowed to help?"

She almost laughed at that. "He didn't say anything."

It put Its elbows up on the table and buried a sagging face in two large hands. It still wore a wedding ring on the left index finger, like a bad practical joke that everyone has grown tired of but the idiot keeps on going. Andrea and Amy had taken the matching ring off weeks ago. There had been some heated discussion at first, but now both agreed that it was no longer appropriate.

It spoke: "Are...are you planning on going back to him? Is that it? Are you just buying time until you can leave? I...I understand, if..." A sob. Jesus. It was crying.

"He wouldn't take me back, or I'd already be gone." Her eyes unwillingly flickered to the empty seat. To William's absent smile.

Her dear William. Could she live without watching him grow into a young man? Would he care about her at all, as years progressed and he became a man? Surely his understanding of what had happened, what she had done, would change as he grew accustomed to life with his father. Or, as he grew old enough to imagine himself in his father's place. What would he have done? How would he have felt? He would ask those questions. And she would be more easily judged as a memory, as something no longer in his life, than if she were there with him, caring and loving.

She had already prepared to face the pain, as most mothers do, of knowing that the little boy clings to mother while the young man seeks out the father. But this was so much more than that, to know that your child is growing up without you in his life. To know that every second away from you is eroding your importance to him.

And Chris...how long would it take before he would meet someone new? The last one, he'd considered marrying. Watching him parade her around, seeing the light in his eyes when he turned them on her, had been more than she could stomach. Where was Chris right now? The grocery store, passing by hungry single women as he shopped? At work, building the earliest emotional bridges with a female coworker through idle conversation? Coming home, introducing William to the woman he met last week? The woman who will be spending the night sometime very soon?

If it took Andrea six months to accomplish her task, would it already be too late?

Andrea realized that the thing across the table from her was speaking, but she didn't care, so Amy excused the two of them hastily and Andrea ran them up to the bedroom and locked the door.

Staggering to the vanity mirror, she lifted her shirt and touched the tender wound high on her stomach, near the underside of her right breast. The gauze was pink, soaked through with blood. The tape clung tenaciously to her skin, though it too was shaded red. Pulling back the bandage, she examined the partially scabbed injury. Her fingers pulled and pushed at it with a mortician's indifference, testing the size, the shape. Hunting for any sign of infection.

She looked up into the mirror, and there was Amy smiling back at her.

"It looks good," the smiling face said. "You're really doing a good job with it."

"Thank you," Andrea replied. "Do you think we'll be ready soon?"

"Patience, Sis. It still has to have time to scar over."

"I know," Andrea sighed. "I just miss them so much. I can't stand the waiting."

Amy gave her a stern look. "You have to. Otherwise how am I going to help you? Besides, you've been away from Chris for a long time, and William's only been gone a month. You can manage a little longer."

"But It's getting more and more upset. There's no way It's going to stick around for another four months! Not the way things are going. If It leaves, then what do we do?"

"It has a name, you know."

"Then you say it," Andrea snapped bitterly. "You say it, and see if that helps you. See what difference it makes."

Amy bit her lower lip, deep in thought. "You're going to have to placate John a little. It's the only way."

Andrea wrinkled her forehead. "Placate?"

"Calm him, if you'd prefer. Make him think that you're on his side, that everything is going to be okay if he just hangs in there."

"How do I do that?"

"He's a man. Sex usually works. Act like you're trying to communicate with him, from time to time. And let him hold you at night."

Andrea touched the crusted edge of her injured skin. "It would...see..."

"He doesn't have to. Tell him you're dealing with grief issues, and it upsets you to see the part of your body that marked you as different from me. Tell him you're trying, and you want to give yourself to him, but the shirt has to stay on. You can even go in to see a counselor. That might be good anyway."

"How would that be good?"

"Well obviously you can talk to this counselor about the loss of your dead sister, how you miss seeing your sister's only child, and...more importantly...how your husband seems to be withdrawing from you. It will all help me a great deal, when this is all over." She got a sly grin on her face. "Or you could just use your mouth to help me in other ways, if you'd rather."

Andrea blanched. "I can't."

"It has to be done, either way."

Andrea slammed her open palms against the mirror, rocking it. "I won't do it! I've betrayed Chris enough. I won't do it."

"John will leave."

"Let It leave! I'll track It down wherever It goes."

"You're being stubborn, Sis." Amy's face took on a calm and patient smile. "And you're not thinking clearly. I said it has to be done. I didn't say you had to do it."

"I don't understand."

"Let me be the one. Let me do it."

"You...you would do that? For me?"

"It's not exactly torture, dear. He was my husband, you know. And even if I wasn't going to enjoy it, it will be far easier than what I'll be doing later."

Andrea nodded. "I know. So how..." she trailed off, not even sure what the question was.

"Simple," Amy smiled. "Let me run the show, and I'll go tend to John. In the morning, when he leaves for work, I'll come back and get you. Okay?"

"I...okay. Okay, you're right."

So Andrea watched as Amy retaped the wound, removed her clothes, and put on the snug white tank top that emphasized her cleavage so well. She didn't speak, just looked after her sister as Amy went into the bathroom, peed, and went about the process of shaving her legs and armpits. Andrea had left them untouched all this month, sending It a message of her unavailability. She couldn't help but make a disapproving noise, however, when her sister's shaving efforts moved up to her pubic area.

"Oh, hush," Amy giggled. "Some things feel better when it's bald, and he's so good at the one. Don't you think?"

"You mean You're going to let It..."

"Of course I am. You heard him at supper...he's not hurting because you haven't helped him, he's hurting because you won't let him help you. He wants to feel like he's a part of the healing process. To do that, I have to let him make love to me. In more ways than one. Anyway," she turned away, giving a dismissive wave over her shoulder, "why do you care? You won't be there."

Andrea fought the urge to snap at her sister. "It just feels wrong, that's all."

Amy wiped at herself with a warm washcloth and started the shower. Without saying a word, she stood and closed the curtain.

"Amy," Andrea raised her voice over the sound of the water.

"Just trust me, Sis," Amy called back. "You know I'm doing this for you."

"I'm just uncomfortable, that's all."

"Quit sulking and find something to distract you. I've got a long night ahead of me."

--

The only light in the hallway came from underneath the closed door near the entryway. The silent figure waited until it clicked off before passing through to the open threshold at the far end.

Chris closed the door to his bedroom, but stood and listened until he was sure William wasn't going to try to get up again. After a few silent minutes, he decided to take his chances and climbed into bed.

Will was a trooper, that's for sure. He was doing better all the time. When Chris had first brought him home, the boy had raged and grieved and hated his father with a child's ease and passion. That was all to be expected, and in truth Chris had wondered more than once whether he ought to just give it up and let William go back to live with his mom. But while time does not necessarily heal all wounds, it often leaves one with tough and hardened scar tissue. And scar tissue is not a punishment, but a gift. Between school and counseling, William was beginning to adapt.

The counseling had been a gamble. Chris had wondered what would happen if his son decided to simply spill the proverbial beans. He really knew very little about confidentiality or child abuse reporting laws, so he had no idea what the consequences would be if William walked into his therapist's office one day and explained the whole story about his parents and his aunt and uncle...or as much as he knew about it, anyway. Put simply, Chris wasn't sure how much danger he was inviting.

But it had been necessary for the boy's health, and from what he could tell William talked to the counselor about his mother as if she were dead. He claimed the role of child in grief counseling for the loss of a parent. And, really, that's what he was.

Maybe he was doing it to protect his mom, still guided by words she had said to keep him from revealing the truth to his father. Maybe he was burying his pain. Whatever the reason, talking about his mother as though she were dead...as though he had no choice but to move on in his life without her...seemed to be helping him survive the vast restructuring going on in his world. And more recently, it was helping him rebuild his relationship with his father.

There were still a lot of small acts of defiance...sneaking out late at night was the newest one, but even that one was a small blessing in its way. William had friends. He'd been so quiet and withdrawn when they'd first arrived, almost afraid to let people in. Chris had a very hard time being upset with his son for building a new social support system. Let the boy have a little escape. Pick your battles.

Let him learn to live without a mother.

After all, Andrea had made her decision. That was obvious. Or maybe in her mind there'd never been a decision to make. Chris didn't think often on the mandate he'd set before her that terrible day. It was...shaming isn't the word. It was simply one of those things that can be known, but not thought of directly. And after six months, it was obvious to him that Andrea had turned him down. She had decided to continue on without him, opting for a life with John. Away from her true husband, and away from her son. She probably figured it was better than becoming a murderer. She too had become one of those things that can be known but not thought of. He kept her out of his mind when he could. She had no place there anymore.

As he was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang. It startled him. He glanced at the clock. Past eleven. Who would be calling at this hour? Nobody he knew. Maybe a friend of William's, or a telemarketer.

He flicked on the light and sat up. Against his better judgement, he picked up the receiver. "Hello?" he feigned greater weariness than he felt. Let them think they'd woken a sleeping man. Let them feel a little guilt.

"Chris?" It was Andrea's voice.

He was wide awake now. "Andrea? It's late. Why are you calling."

"Listen, Chris. I'm sorry it took me so long. But, I finally did it. I really did it!" She sounded giddy, like someone on caffeine pills or a kid about to take their first rollercoaster ride.

"Did what? What did you do, Andrea?"

She was silent a moment, and when her voice returned she sounded confused. "You know. It."

Oh, he thought. Shit. Was she trying to be funny? "Andrea, knock it off. Let me talk to John."

She giggled, a high pitched sound that would stay with him a long time. For years. "It's okay. I did it. It's over. I'm coming to be with you. You and William."

"I don't understand."

"We'll be a family again!" Another giggle. Like a little girl, he realized. She was giggling like a little girl.

"Andrea, what the fuck are you talking about?" His mind was rolling now. Was this a prank? Her idea of a joke? Did she think it would punish him to think she had cracked?

"I...you know...I killed John." Chris realized his lungs felt shallow, ineffective. She sounded so earnest. He didn't speak, so she continued. "It's okay. We have a plan. I already called the cops, and they're on their way. Amy is going to take the fall for it. Isn't that incredible, Chris? She's is going to take the blame for me so we can be together!"

"Amy...Jesus, Andrea. Amy is dead. This isn't funny."

Andrea continued on, unphased. "She's going to tell them it was her that...you know, that did it. She's going to say that he wanted a divorce and she couldn't stand the thought of losing him, so she just snapped and...and killed him. Amy feels so bad for what happened. And she knows we've all been so miserable, you and I and John. William, too. So she's going to go to jail and I am going to come and be with you."

"Andrea, how is Amy going to go to fucking jail? She's fucking dead!" His voice raised an octave as he spoke. "Andrea, just stop. It's not funny. Put John on the phone."

Silence on the other end. Distantly, through the receiver, he thought he could hear sirens.

"Andrea?"

"It's okay, Chris. Everything will be okay. I have to go now. I have to help Amy."

"Andrea..." there were definitely sirens, now clearly audible. Chris was suddenly, unequivocally, positive that Andrea had meant every word she had said.

"I have to go Chris. I have to help Amy. Everything is going to be fine. I'll see you soon, honey!"

A click. A dial tone. Andrea was gone, again and forever.

He set the phone down.

The night crawled slowly along. Chris sat on the edge of his bed and did the only thing he could do: he let it pass. His eyes stared down into the floor, neither wide nor weary, fixed on some unremarkable point. He watched the shadows that fell across it, the ghost of a police siren in his head. He remained there all night, a lonely sentinel, weaponless and certain that whatever he was looking for was coming for him eventually.