HOME BURIAL

Four years ago, Amy and her husband’s house was like one you’d find featured in ‘House and Home’ magazine, but years of neglect had allowed cobwebs to knit across absolutely everything apart from the kettle, the door handles and the gin. The duck-egg blue which had breathed light and air into the living room just three summers ago was almost entirely covered with a fetid paste of nicotine and tar. Amy had taken up smoking after it happened and now went through two packets a day. No one visited them anymore, as the atmosphere of the house alone was enough to suck the positivity out of anyone.

Michael spent most of his time in the garage painting excruciatingly detailed pictures of the insides of fruit. Amy hated them; she found them grotesque. It became a sort of secret pleasure of his, to go into the kitchen and smuggle out kiwis and lemons when Amy’s back was turned. He had tried painting flowers and landscapes in an attempt to please her but she always said: “No Michael, I want you to paint our son”. But that was impossible, Michael didn’t have an imagination. Both of them knew that they didn’t really belong together anymore but it was as if some subliminal social code was preventing them from getting a divorce.

It was Monday, and Amy and Michael sat in the damp kitchen like they did everyday. The tap had been dripping for hours and the repetitive banging of water against metal seemed to mock the otherwise soundless kitchen. They sat at the warped table and neither of them got up to turn it off. An Autumnal wind was pushing through the cracks of the windows without making so much as a stifled whistle as it came. Amy was thinking about her son and her husband was wondering whether his birch fence would withstand the wind. They sat in the same position until the light levels outside halved and halved again and they found themselves sitting in a navy-blue darkness. Michael searched through the inky smoke for his wife’s face but could only see the fires of hell that were raging at the end of her cigarette.
“Put that out dear, you’ve had enough today” He said as he reached out slowly to take it from her. She waved it around menacingly to prevent him from getting it. “Please, I can’t see you.”
“Turn the light on then.” Her words spiralled out through a languid curl of smoke and got tangled in the atmosphere. Michael stared at his hands, his thoughts returning to the welfare of his fence.
“I’m going outside.” He said calmly. He stood up and felt his way through the dusty room to the back door. The wind caused it to fling open as soon as he moved the latch, and the moonlight shot painful daggers into the backs of his eyes. Smoke from the kitchen drifted out of the door and produced a momentary fog around his head. Amy didn’t move to watch him leave.

Michael’s worn out slippers shuffled into the moonlit garden and crackled over the frost on the ground. The sound of a frozen puddle fissuring under his scrawny frame moved him on faster towards his birch fence. As he got closer he noticed that one of the panels had splintered and was sticking straight up like a gaunt hand jabbing at the moon.
“Oh no” he muttered. He started to walk towards the garage to get his hammer and nails but his pace slowed down to a halt as he passed the frozen bump underneath the oak tree.
“How can a bump in the garden make me so miserable,” he whispered. He moved closer and touched the stone slab that marked the grave of his son. “You shouldn’t be here like this. I wanted you to be buried next to Granddad at the churchyard in Folkstone. It was your mother that wanted you here with us.” He looked down at his hands again and inspected his cuticles. “Oh I hoped the council weren’t going to allow it. It was horrible; I can remember the neighbours peering over their fences as we lowered the coffin into the ground. They perverted our grief.” He shuffled his feet. It was more like he was talking to himself than to his son. “Yes it was our grief then. Now it’s Amy’s grief and my bad memory. It should be a memory; a memory is in the past, grief is much to present, too painful.” He paced up and down. “I should leave, sell my paintings and pack up. Amy doesn’t love me anymore and I’ve done nothing to deserve being this miserable.” Michael looked up and remembered who he was talking to. “We still love you James; that will never change but things like this happen sometimes. My leaving doesn’t mean I love you less it just means I need some time to think about my feelings towards your mother. Sometimes grownups don’t stay together forever. They like to try to but it doesn’t always work out.”

He stared straight forward in a daze; he was working through all the emotions that Amy hadn’t helped him to release. His index finger starting to twitch and he picked at his nail with his thumb. Then the piercing screech of a barn owl caused him to swing around suddenly to face the house and his eyes fixed on the glowing ember of Amy’s cigarette, a speck of orange in a plain of darkness; the centre of the universe. She was by the window at the top of the stairs looking down at the mound. The window was open. Michael felt a molten anger trickle down the creases of his brain. He rushed across the lawn to the door and stormed into the house. The door banged against the frame as he went through the kitchen to the living room and then across to the bottom of the stairs and he shouted up at Amy, “Our life is so silent! Let me into your grief.” Amy said nothing “It has been four years and you stand by that window every night! We can’t carry on living like this, we have to move on.” He paused, “Why can’t you move on?”

Amy stood motionless at the top of the stairs. She had heard every word that he said outside. She had so much she wanted to say to him but couldn’t form the sentences in her mind. She stood with her mouth open which angered Michael more. He wanted to see the glimmer of some emotion, not the glimmer of a cigarette. He stepped forward as if he was going storm up the stairs and Amy cowered in the corner. But he changed his mind, turned around and walked back towards the kitchen. The door stopped banging and Amy heard the sound of Michael’s speed off down the driveway. She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked calmly down the stairs.

Michael was gone all night. He drove down motorways and through silent villages. He didn’t read any signposts, he just drove until the low petrol light came on and coloured his face and then he made his way back home.

As he stepped out of his car he felt a sense of overwhelming sadness. It felt different to misery and he couldn’t work out which feeling he preferred. He came in through the front door expecting to find the same dusty, uninviting kitchen but it was spotless. The counter tops gleamed in the morning sunshine; everything had been put in its correct place.
Michael walked in slowly and looked around in amazement. Amy came in wearing a brightly coloured dress and smiled at him, “Hello dear,” she said. He totally forgot about the plan he had formulated during his drive. He was going to get his cash from the safe, pack a small bag and leave for at least a month before getting the rest of his things. He wasn’t even going to speak to Amy. He thought it strange how an unexpected change could have the ability to melt away so many intense emotions.
He smiled and said, “Hello darling,” and kissed Amy on the cheek. As he stepped back he noticed that his best painting of the inside of a Satsuma was hanging on the wall above the sink.