Skeletons (34 page)

"One night on my way home from classes I bought a gun. I told the clerk in the store my name was George Wong. I went back to the woods and shot my uncle while he slept.

"I buried his body deep in the woods. No one ever asked for him.

"I worked hard, and studied hard. I found myself in the middle of a growing movement for world peace. In the beginning I didn't find it ironic. But things grew around me, and I became a focus of attention.

"I had no trouble with my former life in Cambodia as an assassin. Then, I had done the right thing. In the beginning I told myself that what I had done to my uncle was the same.

"But as time went on I came to realize that what I had done to my uncle was different. I had become a monster. I was no better than what he had been. He had come to me broken and old and repentant, and I had murdered him."

I looked at
Reesa
in the firelight. I loved her more now than I had ever loved anyone in my life. I wanted her to purge what was in me, what had eaten at me and would always eat at me until my death.

I took from my pocket the much-creased piece of paper containing my speech.

"On the day the skeletons came," I said, remembering that faraway time as if it had never happened, "when I was to give my speech in front of all those millions of people, I was going to denounce myself instead. The only thing that would have prevented me from doing this was that it would have been a selfish act. Those people needed me at that moment. It would have been selfish of me to remove myself from their hopes and dreams."

I looked at my piece of paper, then put it away. "So I would have given my speech, with words inspired by Abraham Lincoln. But I would have been wearing a mask while I gave it.

"I thought by now, with all that has happened, all of this would seem irrelevant. But it doesn't."

"Oh,
Kral
Kishkin
," she said gently, putting her hand on my head and drawing it down to her shoulder. "
Reesa
, I don't know who I am."

She held me, and as much as she could, she drew out of me the pain that was in me. But the pain was still there. And that night, in the glow of the fire in the cold dark, with my loving wife and growing child beside me, I felt more lonely than I ever had in my life.

Reesa
took sick the next day.

We had slept together near the fire and had been warm all night. But as the sun lipped the horizon I felt her stir beside me, rise, and walk away to vomit near the rock wall behind us. This had happened many times, with the baby.

When she didn't return, I turned and called, "
Reesa
, are you all right?"

There was no answer. I sat up, looked for her, found her collapsed near the rock wall where she had stood.

She was barely conscious. I felt her forehead. She was burning with fever.

"Full moon . . ." she whispered.

"Don't say that."

I carried her back to the embers of the fire. The morning was chilly. I built up the flames.
Reesa
could barely sit up. She began to shiver.

Again she turned and vomited. Her shivering became uncontrollable.

For the next hour she drifted into and out of consciousness. Her fever rose. At one point her eyes became very large.

"
Sashar
,” she called, staring into the fire. "
Sashar
.” She closed her eyes, mumbled to herself, and slept, her body trembling.

All that day and night we stayed where we were. I tried to feed her, but she held nothing down. Frequently I put my hand to her belly, feeling for the baby there. Only when it finally kicked was I content.

During the night she awoke, stared at the rising moon, and cried out.

The next morning she was better, but barely.

"
Reesa
, can you move?"

"I . . . don't know."

It had grown even colder. Clouds had mounted in the west. I was afraid for bad weather.

"
Reesa
, we have to make the village," I said.

She swooned, stared hard at me, trying to focus. "Yes . . ."

I packed, drew everything up onto my own back, made sure
Reesa
was as warm as she could be, and set out.

Our pace was agonizingly slow. We rested every five minutes. Then we walked only a matter of yards before we would have to pause for
Reesa
to regain her breath. Her fever rose as the day wore on, then diminished. She took a small meal at midday. For the first time since the onset of her illness, she kept the food down.

The village grew closer, crawled down off the horizon. Finally it sat a mere kilometer or so from us. "There it is," I said, pointing.

"Yes . . ."

Behind us the weather grew ominous. Black layers of clouds climbed the sky and rolled toward us. The sun shifted through a shadow of haze, then disappeared.

The day grew dark. A chill wind blew at our backs, urging us to hurry.

Finally we entered the town.

Litter and destruction were everywhere. A tractor was planted through the front of one building. Large depressions that proved, on closer inspection, to be dinosaur tracks, peppered the streets. The corners of houses had been torn off. Windows had been smashed, walls staved in. One small automobile lay on the flat roof of a shop, looking as if it had been lifted and thrown there.

I found a shop that was relatively undamaged. One window was broken, but the roof was whole, the door open. We entered. It had been a bakery. There was glass everywhere. Display cases had been smashed, the shelves broken, cabinets overturned. A faint sugary smell permeated everything.

An open door at the back of the shop led up a narrow flight of stairs to a second floor. Here there were living quarters. They were untouched. In one room was a simple bed made up with sheets and a pillow, a wooden table next to it, a tiny window, a crucifix on the wall. A small, round wood stove sat opposite the bed.

I helped
Reesa
to the bed. I pulled the covers back, laid her down, and covered her.

"You must eat something more,
Reesa
, for the baby.”

“Yes . . ."

She sat up, and I fed her from the pack, some canned vegetables, some crackers.

"All right, Peter," she said. She looked tired, but smiled feebly. She kept the food down. When I felt her temple, it had cooled.

"Sleep," I said, kissing her.

"Yes . . ." She laid her head down and soon was asleep.

I went back downstairs. I looked out of the front window.

The sky was almost black and it had begun to snow.

A chill breeze was whipping through the broken glass. A pantry in the corner of the shop provided a broom and a heavy parka. I swept the broken glass into one corner, then retrieved from the rubble a few planks of wood that had been used as shelves. A crude door led down into a dirt cellar. There was nothing down there of use, save for a few jars of preserves and pickles.

I left the shop, bundled in the baker's parka against the whipping snow, which had already begun to fill the dinosaur tracks.

Two shops down was a hardware shop. Soon I returned to the bakery laden with a hammer and nails and a few more planks of wood.

The next hour I spent sealing the shop window. Snow blew in around me. My hands began to feel numb. In the end, though, I succeeded in closing the shop against the weather.

Outside, around back, I found a small woodpile and gathered an armful.

I climbed the stairs, filled the wood stove in the bedroom, and lit a fire. While the room warmed I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand on
Reesa's
covered body. I watched the snow fall outside the tiny window.

A sudden weariness overcame me. I lay down next to my wife, my hand on the moving child in her belly, and slept.

When I arose, it was dark. A rosy glow from the stove lit the room warmly.

My hand on
Reesa's
belly felt no movement. The baby had stopped kicking.

I pulled back the covers and shook my wife. "Wake up!" I shouted. "
Reesa
, the baby! Wake up!"

She rose out of a deep slumber. I felt her forehead. The fever had broken. When she opened her eyes, they were clear and she knew me.

"Peter . . .

"The baby!"

She pushed strands of sweaty hair back from her face and sat up. She put her hand to her belly.

"Quickly, Peter," she said. "Listen for it."

I put my ear to her belly and held my breath. There was nothing: not the tiny snick of heartbeat, the quick moving jab of a kick.

"It's . . ."
Reesa
said.

"Wait.

Now, out of the silence, I felt something jab out, move, heard the tiny faraway murmur of a tiny heart. "I felt it!"
Reesa
said.

I lay back, next to her. "Thank God." I looked at her, felt the coolness of her cheeks.

I said, "You're better."

"Yes. I feel weak, but . . ."

"We'll stay as long as we have to. I'm sure there's food here in the village. There's wood, everything else we need." I pointed to the window, frosted, cuffed with snow.

Reesa
examined the room. "I don't even remember coming here."

I kissed her. "This full moon has passed."

"Yes . . ."

She smiled, closed her eyes, and I kissed them. Suddenly her eyes flew wide and she gasped with pain. "
Owwww
. . ."

I put my hand to her belly. The baby jabbed violently against me.

"Is it all right?"

She clutched my hand, gasping. "Something's . . . wrong."

She lay back. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. "My God . . ."

She spread her legs. I watched her belly heave.

"Peter, the baby is coming . . ."

"
Reesa
, it's too soon—"

"Inside! It's hurting me inside!"

She arched back. Her face flushed red with pain. She held her breath and then gasped.

"Peter, help me!"

I stripped the bed back. I helped her through the next spasm, pushed the pillows behind her. She screamed, arched, and pushed. Below, I saw her widen, saw the first round tiny white patch of head.

She clutched my hand, arched, screamed. "
Oh, Peter
!”

The baby's head appeared. It was smeared with blood. I reached down to help ease it out as
Reesa
tensed and pushed again.

"Oh, God, it's hurting me!"

The baby came halfway out. I recoiled. It was a perfect little skeleton, tiny jaw snapping open and closed. It clawed at
Reesa
with its tiny hands.

“
Reesa
!"

She looked down, screamed. Then she was overcome by a final spasm of pushing as the baby slid out, followed by a flow of blood and a twisting, dried life cord.

She would not stop bleeding. The baby lay there, blood-covered, eye sockets staring blindly, tiny jaw opening and closing. The faintest of shrouds, the features of a tiny, wrinkled human thing, surrounded it.

"Oh, Peter . . ."

The baby clawed at the air, arched, and melted to dust before my eyes, leaving the shriveled life cord behind.

Reesa
was white and pale.

"Peter, the blood . . ."

I tried to stop the bleeding. In a rush the birth sack slid out, followed by a new river of crimson. The sheets, the bed, were dripping red.

"I'm going to die, Peter . . ."

"No!”

She reached a pale, weak hand down and clutched me. "It will be over in a few minutes."

"I will not let you die!"

She pulled me close to her. In her fading eyes I saw all the love I ever needed. With both of her hands she pulled me close to her and kissed me. She looked deep into my eyes and smiled.

"
Kral
Kishkin
," she said weakly. "It was written; it must happen." Her voice had become a feathery whisper. "Remember that I loved you. There will be another who will be with you, and you must go on . . ."

"I will die here with you!" I said.

"No!" Her eyes gained life. She tried to rise, still holding me. Then she fell back against the pillows. "There were promises you made to me. You must keep them. You must honor them. There is more than you or me to think of.
Kral
Kishkin
. . ."

She closed her eyes, but continued to hold me.

"I will not let you die!"

For a moment she opened her eyes. "Do what you must." She let one hand fall away from me and pointed weakly to the wood stove. "Now, before it is too late. Be-fore I reawaken. You promised, with your blood . . ."