Doghouse

The weather has turned foul and grey and rainy, which is Silicon Valley's gloomy stab at autumn and winter weather. The mornings are dark and overcast, inch begrudgingly towards blue skies and puffy white clouds during the day, only to squish any hope of enjoyment by plummeting towards night a few minutes later.

This is rather like my old days in Seattle, where seasonal differences are implied more by gallons and quarts than by actual changes in the weather. Were, I should say; seasonal drought has become fairly commonplace in the Pacific Northwest, for all its ongoing reputation as the Plumbers' Mecca. Global warming has done more than give penguins inexplicable hot flashes. (Which thought inevitably leads to the next one: it may be that the link between penguin population drops and global warming is more insidious than we realize. Hysterical menopause. Think about it.)

Seasonal depression was never my problem in Seattle, or in Rochester for that matter. The seasons were the least of my troubles; there was always mother or school or mother or bills or mother or -- you get the picture. In the balance of enormities, the malice of the elements doesn't hold a candle to the damage that one wide-eyed, well-intentioned little Japanese mother can do.

Now that I am financially secure, living in California, and perfectly happy with a loving husband, I am naturally slipping into an increasingly dark seasonal depression. It would be difficult to tell to the outside eye, I admit. The chief symptoms consist of a generalized apathy, irritability, and the desire to sleep 24 hours a day. These are not significant differences from the norm.

Mom is freshly returned from two-week visit from Japan that started badly. For me. The difficulty was an error in timing on my part; through some freak collusion of calendar mishaps and generalized inattention to conversation, I was under the impression that Mom went to Japan in the beginning of October. This resulted in a period of three weeks during which I neither talked to nor attempted to call her.

When I finally got around to picking up the phone, it was -- by chance -- the night before she was leaving for Japan.

Let's recap, shall we? I didn't call my mother for three weeks. I called the night before she left for Japan. In my mother's book of sins, this trumped my sister dying her hair yellow, which in turn trumped the willful slaughter and maiming of innocents.

"My will is in the freezer," she said. "Just in case anything happens to me, you should know. All the papers are there. The engraving for my gravestone, the life insurance, the bank accounts--"

Oh yeah. Fun conversation.

"I thought you were in Japan all this time," I said, feebly. "I saw that earthquake in the news. I thought you were out there and was all worried--"

"There will probably be aftershocks for days. Terrible aftershocks. I'm leaving tomorrow. So many people have died. It is a great tragedy. You know where my will is."

"Don't be silly. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"You should always be prepared," she said sadly. "Anything could happen to anybody, at any minute. I love you very much. If you talk to your sister, tell her I loved her, too."

I've speculated before that the daughter most distant to her at any time is the one that is closest to my mother's heart. It took the entire Pacific Ocean to worm me back into her graces this time.

If I forget to come home for Christmas, I'll probably have to emigrate to Australia.

Another Nanowrimo snippet...

Snake is beginning to find it tedious being run over by things. Semis. Cars. Even bicycles. The varieties of the experience have lost their savor. He now recognizes every type of tire made by man. He could, he reflects, be a character on a police show, identifying treads left at scenes of crimes. Oh, look. A Michelin XW4 P195/70R14, 24.9 inch diameter with a tread depth of 8.2, commonly used for domestic family cars for all-season wear and reduced road noise, and it’s even under-inflated. Notice that telltale gash across the treads; it should be easy to track that one down.

He is a crime scene. While he is busy thinking about it, the Michelin XW4 P195/70R14, 24.9 inch diameter with a tread depth of 8.2, under-inflated, gashed tire runs over him and crushes the life out of his body.

There is an irony in there, somewhere. Snake twitches a few times for dramatic effect, even though nothing is watching. He has some professional pride left. When he is finished, the car has long gone, leaving behind only the tiniest betraying tread smeared across the road in Snake’s innards.

He lies still for a moment and stares at asphalt. It is morbid lying in the freeway like this. There is hardly any traffic worth mentioning, but still.

There is a serious lack of entertainment in the desert. Snake drifts off the road, leaving behind the evidence of his most recent death, and wraps himself around a rock. He needs entertainment. He needs a distraction.

He needs a pet. He can play fetch with it. Talk with it. Bury it.

An unwary gecko flicks across his line of sight, and Snake grins. He’ll start small, and work his way up the food chain.

Pet.

* * *

The story begins at a funeral.

The old man -- a widower now -- is sitting on a pew next to his son. Or rather, a middle-aged man is sitting next to his father. It is difficult to tell who owns who in the relationship; the younger has the proprietary air, but it could be as much habit than actual intent. He has the pomposity of a successful man, sleek and satisfied and just a little worried.

More somber than worried, today. It is a funeral. His wife sits next to him, blond and blue-eyed, dressed with tasteful understatement. There is nothing of the petty or simply pretty about her. She is a woman of character and refinement. They are a picture postcard couple.

Look at the rest of the mourners now, all in black as they are expected to be, some better dressed than others. Black clothes are not a necessity amongst these people. It is something that is needed suddenly, when needed at all. Curses are thrown at empty wardrobes, and fragments of other outfits are stapled together like cheap store mannequins. Surely nobody will notice if the blacks do not match. Somebody inevitably does, but says nothing.

Only the corpse is allowed to wear color.

Pink.

It would be pink.

There is a large photograph framed by white roses and lilies by the coffin, a stock photograph of the deceased. In color and composition, it makes her utterly alien to those who knew her. The flowers lack imagination, but they are proper, as is the picture, which also lacks imagination. It, too, is proper. Everything is proper, even the widower, who is grey-haired and dignified. For all his son’s possessive lean into his body, he looks absolutely alone, which is as it should be. The mourners sneak surreptitious glances at him through the service. His back is ramrod-straight and motionless, without emotion. It has its own pathos. It soothes the other mourners, who feel keenly the appropriateness of it.

The widower does not speak during the funeral. A friend of the deceased approaches the podium, and shares a brief, innocuous memory that has its touch of poignant humor. A laugh tickles through the audience, half-embarrassed at being present, even if invited. The son rises, and says a few words. He is a skilled speaker, who does not allow the sincerity of grief to disrupt the emotional impact of his speech. There are tears among the audience. Sniffles. Someone in the back blows her nose.

A choir, carefully herded in a nearby corral, stands and makes its own throaty offering to the service, a hymn they will use for the next day’s service. It is what they have been practicing, and they are pragmatic about recycling. Their conductor claims -- without strict adherence to truth -- that it is one of the decedent’s favorite songs. The widower makes no objection. There is singing, and there is more sniffling, and then the choir reseats itself with feeling of vague apology, as though they have intruded on someone else’s rituals.

And then it is time to view the body.

The widower is motionless until his son nudges him, coaxing him to stand by standing himself. He is bewildered at first, and blocks the line that fills up behind him by refusing to comprehend where his feet should take him. Once more it is his son that rescues him, taking him gently by the elbow to steer him forward. The portrait smiles toothily at him as he passes it, two-dimensional, a stranger with his wife’s face.

The body in the casket is three-dimensional, and still an alien. There is nothing in it to trigger the memories of marriage. He pauses by it because his son pauses, and stares down at it, puzzled. She is a cipher in his wife’s clothing, although he is uncertain even of that. He has never seen the pink that she is wearing. Did she ever wear pink? He finds himself unable to recall. His suit itches. His son wavers at his side, and he can feel the boy’s -- the man’s -- expectancy weighing on him.

“Dad?” his son says, and places a gentle hand on his father’s elbow. It is meant for comfort.

The widower glances at him, worried, and is relieved to find that his son’s face, at least, is familiar.

“Do you want to say good-bye, Dad?”

Good-bye? Good-bye to what? He studies the body in the coffin dispassionately. It is an old woman, without personality, as plastic as the casket’s lacquer. His wife would never have allowed herself out of the house with that face, or with that -- what the hell is she wearing? his wife’s voice asks, appalled.

“Are you finished, Dad?”

He nods. He has started nothing, so there is nothing to finish. It does not matter. His son steers him away from the casket, for which he is grateful, and behind them, his son’s wife takes her own silent place at the coffin’s side.

They are a lonely pair in matching black suits, making the long way to the back of the church. The eyes of the waiting mourners flick off them, shying away from detection. After the silence of the memorial service, it is a relief to the audience to be able to stir, to talk -- in whispers, self-conscious of the wooden echoes.

The widower leans his head towards his son. “I don’t think that was her,” he tells the boy.

His son sighs. “Oh, Dad.”