Wandering Eye

CW: Suicide or self harm, Physical violence, gore or abuse, Mental health

Darkness is just beginning to weave its spell on the world when I climb out of bed. Gripping the banister, I make the slow trek down to the rear hall. Left foot, right foot, slide hand down the rail. Left foot, right foot, slide hand down the rail. The way a small child would do it.

I pause halfway down, listening. Down the hall Marthe snores, and I relax. She worries that I sleep all day only because she assumes I also sleep all night.

Thrust upon me by inconvenienced townies after my last collapse, Marthe is all I could want in a companion. Oblivious. Superstitious. Dumb as a stump. Pretty, too. A French-Canadian flower in this barren wasteland, blooming even as this prairie rose slowly dies.

All the more reason to keep her away from Roddy.

In a perfect world, Roddy and I would be left to ourselves. We don’t need anyone; we are fine as we are, though for one brief hiccup in time, that wasn’t the case. No matter. By dawn, all will be made right again. I can think of no finer way to celebrate my triumph.

A soft nick and the back door closes behind me. The barn owl hoots his welcome. Autumn is in the air, and I shiver as I step into the garden, barefoot under the full moon in my white cotton gown, smiling to myself as I imagine what the townies would say if they saw me.

Poor old Izobel. First the market crash, then no-good Roddy running off with the trollop. That ramshackle house is all she has left.

Dirty thirties, indeed.

The townies. Curious enough to stare as they pass the front gate, cautious enough to give it a wide berth.

The moon lights my path. The greenhouse door swings open, and I glide like a ghost between the potting benches to where my garden tools wait. Hand-held tools mean slow progress, but my damaged heart can no longer stand the unwieldy heft of full-size models. It’s a relief, really. Better for me to work on my hands and knees. Closer to the earth. Closer to Roddy. I choose the trowel and three-pronged hand rake but leave the scoop behind. Tonight, I dig, and leave the burying to someone else.

I pick my way to the far end of the garden. Frost covers the ground and clings to dying vines like lace. I reach the depression and bow my head in prayer, clasp my hands in supplication.

On this night, Lord, let my will be done.

The excavation takes little time. Nightly tilling with a practiced hand has kept the soil loose. I’m no longer the plump morsel I was in the days before Roddy’s gaze first wandered. This ritual has made me sinewy and strong. It’s my broken heart that fails me.

Though I’ve dug my grave countless times over, this is the first time I crawl in. I curl up on my side and draw my knees to my chest, a mirror image of Roddy at rest in the adjacent grave.

Above, a bird’s wings slice the air. A cottontail peers down at me, pink nose twitching. The earth smells not only of death, but of the life that will spring from the rot Roddy and I leave behind.

To spend not only this life but all of eternity together, that is the vow I made. The vow Roddy and I made together. A good swing with the cast iron pan put an end to his wandering eye, a shotgun blast finished the trollop. I dragged her body to the fire pit and set it aflame—may she burn in hell—but my Roddy I buried with care.

I’m grateful for the foresight not to bury him too deep. Grateful, too, that I was able to remove the barbed wire cage I’d made to keep animals from scrounging while nature ran it course. It was a burdensome, prickly thing that I wouldn’t be able to manage now.

The sky is fully dark now. I climb from my grave and set to work. I am under no illusions. Insects made quick work of Roddy’s flesh years ago. Over the years, strawberry vines have stretched across his bones, their shallow roots twining with the fibers of his clothes.

Exposing his full skeleton is such an impossible task, I don’t even try. I brush the dirt from his skull and, convinced his empty sockets are aimed where they rightfully should be, crawl back into my grave and stroke Roddy’s cheekbone. Now that I have taken my place beside him, his gaze will never wander again.

“Miss Izobel?”

Of all nights, Marthe picks this one to roam. This night to find me in a shallow hole next to Roddy’s remains. Marthe, who sleeps like the dead. Marthe, for whom the townies’ superstitions are never far from mind.

I clamor to sit, clutching the rake before Marthe can realize my plan. “Turn around, Marthe.” Though I am winded from my efforts, my voice is determined, if not strong.

Marthe doesn’t look at me, doesn’t appear to hear. She creeps closer, her eyes not on my grave but on Roddy’s.

I forget Marthe and position the rake beneath my ribcage. The moon, hidden for the last hour, breaks free—a sign that this is the moment.

I don’t hesitate.

I gasp as three steel prongs penetrate my chest, then muster what strength I have to fall into position. I look at Roddy and smile. After all the years and all the longing, the ritual is complete.

Almost.

Stupid Marthe. She bends over Roddy, too mesmerized by his exposed skull to register what I have done. Moonlight illuminates her face, her fascination, her horror.

With a snap, Marthe breaks Roddy’s skull free of its stem and cradles it in trembling hands. Higher and higher she lifts him. Soon they are eye to eye. God’s last laugh.

I try to cry out but my punctured lungs fail me. I feel myself slipping away, amused in spite of myself.

Roddy’s eye has wandered once again.