PIT

“And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold,” said the Reverend Greene in my ear. 

It was sundown in Natchitoches. A small wooden house, beset with ruin. Look at me. Look at me sitting there in that dusty old recliner. My cheeks are sallow and pale. My eyes are bloodshot and humorless. And the Reverend Greene, reading feverishly from his open Bible. 

The mourners are scuttling to their cars underneath the pecan trees. Leaving the house with a tip of their hat, and a “m’condolences ma’am.” Stepping out into the mud. Some had come all the way from Beaux Bridge to see me cry, to see my husband lying in that small wooden box. 

I hear scraping, a mourner is using a rusty fork to shove half-eaten food into the trash. I stare at the fork, the teeth rubbing against ceramic. My sister is working with soap and water on my husband’s favorite mug. I’d set the cup aside so it wouldn’t be washed. He never used to wash it, he’d just rinse it and say, “there, good as new.” Now I just watch. I watch as the deeds of his life are eroding away. Even only after a few days. 

Several hours later, the Reverend Greene, who had become hoarse, clapped shut the pages of his King James Bible and left, along with everyone else. It was only me and my sister. She was staying with me, “till things get better,” she said. She always hated sleeping in this house.

I leave a clean towel by the door in the back room for her when she wakes and switch on the hallway light in case she gets scared. 

I lie there in bed. I can’t remember the last thing I said to him. We always used to fight in this room, bout money, just before bed. But after, when I was too tired to yell, and I faced away from him pretending to sleep, he’d slip a hand in mine. A rough workman’s hand, big and warm. But the night before he died, the humidity made me pull my hand away, as sweat pooled between us. I think he thought I didn’t love him anymore. 

I feel myself beginning to retch. I ran out of the house, on the dingy porch out front. My hand over my mouth, trying to keep it down. There’s a crowd of insects dive-bombing the porch light. There’s crickets and June bugs, flying termites and click beetles, and me. 

I begin to sob. 

Then, just in the distance, bout thirty feet back from the house, I noticed there was a man standing there. He was facing away from me. 

“Your husband's grandpappy sure would be concerned about this house this time of year. The bayou will flood,” said the man. 

He was just putting his clothes on. As if he was previously naked before I noticed him. He was huge and pale. He was one of those Dixie Southern gentlemen, wearing an ivory seersuckered suit, and gator boots. 

I wiped the tears away from my face.

“My husband’s? …you knew em?” I said.

I’m not sure why I spoke back. But in truth, I hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. They were tiptoeing around me like I was a broken piece of glass on the floor. 

“Yeah I knew him. He was one of my contemporaries,” he said as he turned to face me. He flashed a smile. It was wide and showed too many teeth with several gaps between them.

“I hope you enjoyed the food, it wasn’t much of a wake, but I…” I trailed off.

“Oh of course, the food was wonderful, Carolynn. Say, have you been getting enough sleep these past couple of days, since your husband passed? You look tired,” he said with concern. 

“I sleep just fine,” I say, collecting myself.

“It’s the waking that’s doin me trouble. I wake up and I forget he’s dead. Then I spend the whole day reliving that he is. Then the cycle repeats. It's only been a few days, but I’m tired of it already,” I continue. 

He doesn’t say anything. He comes to stand near me, as the trees go quiet. It is then I realize how tall he is, towering over me and the bugs. 

“I could help with that. I could take it all away,” he says suddenly, bellowing a small laugh.

I laugh too, grateful for the distraction from what I was saying. No one had joked with me either, not even my sister. They think grief will work its way through me, and swiftly exit. Like a poison expelled at the sight of sugar. 

“I would love that, I wouldn’t have to mope around here all day, scaring my sister,” I giggle in reply. 

I look over to him, and he looks at me square. There’s a brief pause, and suddenly the crickets start chirping again.

“Then it’s done. Don’t worry, you’ll sleep good tonight,” he says as he takes a few steps away from me towards the street. Placing his large-brimmed hat on. 

“You take care now,” he continues as he walks away. 

“Hold on, I didn’t get your name,” I say in confusion.

He stops mid-stride. Frozen. 

Then he turns, his face pale and greasy.

“Legion, and I work at Legion Boardhouse, for we are many,” he says as he tips his hat and disappears into the darkness.

“What a strange man,” I think. However, it's nice to be treated normally for once. 

As I head to bed, I see my sister pop her head out of her room. 

“I’m scared, can I sleep with you?” she asks.

I know she is telling a half-truth, she’s worried about me. I agree to let her sleep with me, even though the bed is small. My husband's feet used to dangle off the end of it at night. As I fall asleep, my mind goes to dread again. I know I’ll wake up forgetting, and then have to relive his death all over again. As my mind spirals, I feel a hand slip into mine. 

My sister. Her hands are warm and comforting just like his. A small tear falls from me as I fall asleep. 

---

I woke up feeling hungry for the first time since he died. I cook up a large meal. They don’t tell you that your hunger is the first thing to go. In times of deep grief an animal stops feeling the need to take care of itself. I’m not singing gospel, but cooking is a start. 

I glance over and catch my husband's work boots in the corner of my eye. Still caked with mud. The memories of him untying them at the dinner table flash before me. Out of all the things I remember about him, I remember that. Small little details about him, little quirks that no one got to see. I move the boots into a sale bin. 

“I need to move on,” I think. 

Later in the day, I’m still thinking about the boots. Why did I put them in the bin? I take it as a sign that I’m getting better. I think I better capitalize on this energy while I can. I start looking around the house. So many of his things, all useless now.

My sister catches me sorting through his dresser. Throwing his clothes in the sale bin. 

“Shouldn’t we wait?” she says with concern. 

I continue sorting and ignore her. 

She moves towards me and stops my hand from throwing another piece of clothing into the bin.

“What?” I state. 

“It’s just so soon, Carolynn,” she pleads.

“I don’t see why a dead man needs clothes. He ain’t getting any more alive,” I snap.

She removes her hand and studies me for a moment, before leaving the room.

Can’t she see I’m making progress? It’s like she wants me to be crying. Crying. I haven’t cried today either, I think idly. I look at one of the shirts. This one's what he wore for a fishing trip he took two months ago. I press my face into it, and breathe deep. I can smell his soap, a faint coffee smell too. But nothing, no tears. I throw the shirt in the bin. 

That night I lay on my side. Feeling empty. No tears all day. Got rid of almost all his things too. As I drift to sleep, I feel my sister's hand slip into mine again. Suddenly, I feel my eyes water. The feelings I had pent up all day come rushing back. I clutch onto the hand tightly. I fall asleep that way. 

---

It had been raining for a week, and Georgia, my childhood best friend, came to visit, and it was raining yet. I was still in the same house, all but empty, but me and my sister. Georgia came up from the road, her flower coat flowing from her shoulders, except down the middle where it was pulled back showing a yellow dress. She held a Bible loosely in one hand.

We talked for most of the day about my husband. I kept waiting for the meeting to be over. I began to act out of courtesy alone. I codified my talk to one word, “leave,” so that she might get the hint and head back out to the mud. I blinked and the day was over. My sister was cooking dinner. I noticed that I didn’t care much for what she was doing. I just was. My sister slipped up and burned her hand on a hot pan. I looked at her stiffly, waiting to see when I would care enough to act concerned. The feeling never came, but I helped all the same. I felt dramshot. I grabbed her hand to wrap some bandages over it, in courtesy. I felt no warmth though. I sensed she knew I felt nothing. 

Although I was cold to her, she did not rise to anger. That night her hand slipped into mine all the same. There was a nightly varnish that was put on our relationship. During the day I felt nothing, acting emotionless. But at night, when her hand slipped into mine, all feelings would flood back between us, and I would cry. I could swear I heard her crying too.

Now came days of nothingness. Days short and long alike. I found myself watching the sunrise, the color of steel on the horizon. I tracked and hailed my own emptiness. My mind took me back to that night of the wake, and that strange man. I knew Legion had taken something from me. I had to seek him out. 

I found him sitting in a dingy rocking chair, outside a roughshod boarding house made of old grey wood. He was watching people pass as I pulled up.

“I need you to return what you took,” I demanded.

Legion smiled, his face shining with grease.

“Why would you have it any other way?” said Legion. 

“The good book says we ought to feel that he will come to us, and not leave us comfortless,” I pleaded.

Grinning hideously and towering over me as he stood.

“It makes no difference what you or the book says. You don’t want it all back. This feeling, this act of violation is temporary. Soon you will no longer miss feeling. Only those who have gone to the end and seen the true pit. The pit of emotion, and have that pit speak to their innermost heart, only they choose what you have chosen. And it is their right, to have it taken away,” he said rapturously. 

“I still love,” I protested.

“And when did you last feel that love?” he said back.

“My sister. Last night. She always makes me FEEL loved,” I said proudly.

It was then I noticed it was getting dark. I saw Legion's face go dull. His smile formed a small thin line. He offered no explanation. He only sat back down in his chair. I backed away, feeling proud of myself. But I had to run, I had to make it in time to go to sleep. So I could feel my sister's loving hand once again. It had become my only solace.

Rushing home, I came back to an empty house. There was no light save for a small fire. A note on the fridge, “went to a friend’s. Dinner in the fridge,” the note read. 

I guess I can’t expect her to be with me every night, I thought, as I locked my door and put the house to bed. Especially since it had been some time since my husband's death. As a matter of fact, most everyone stopped coming by. The pity always wells up to nothing. People stop asking how you are. They stop caring that you ever lost anything, and expect you to go back to living.

I went to sleep alone that night. 

I wake in the middle of the night. I feel her hand wrapping in mine. Immediately relief begins to set in. The love flooding back into my heart. I knew she wasn’t a resentful creature. I lay there, as the room was dark, nothing made a sound, as my heart stood beating. 

But then I heard a commotion. The screen door screeched open. It must have been two in the morning. Who could be visiting the house at this hour?

Then came a knock on my bedroom door. 

“Carolynn, can we talk? I’m real sorry I left for the night,” said my sister pleading.

I remember I had locked the door.

So whose hand was I holding?

I tried to release the hand immediately, but it gripped me tightly. I heard breathing behind me as it squeezed my fingers. I felt the weight of the impression it made in the bed. All tenderness, which had been there every night, faded, as I realized my sister was still knocking from outside.

When I didn’t answer, my sister's voice became frightened. But I didn’t hear her anymore, her panicked voice became a background noise.

I felt the grip pull me in. 

Closer.

Closer.

I began to cry out, but no words escaped me. I was frozen. My face is blank. No fear, no terror. As I lie there about to be consumed, I remember thinking:

“I’m afraid it’ll let go.”