Mord McGhee
The Speed of It
Gaines swallowed dread, a deeper fear unknown, terror in its sudden lesson that life was short and violent while it lasted, and what it all meant, in the end, was less important and more turbulent than ever predicted. There was so much more ahead of the young man lying in the box, but now no chance would he have. It was a day of sorrow and regret and wishes unmet.
There, in front of the portrait.
“Was he a smoker?” said someone to Gaines, out of phase, out of focus.
One Hell of a day, Gaines thought he said aloud but didn’t.
The man who asked the question was already moving. Away from the casket. Out the door. Feeling a hand upon his shoulder, which neither was there nor possible anymore, Gaines turned back to the casket.
Emptiness afloat.
He saw Dukes, and she smiled at him. Red-eyed. Terrified. They exchanged between them a dozen shared memories. He smiled back, giving something more. It was all so surreal. There at the center, an assembly of wooden boards. Darkly stained walnut?−he didn’t know−molded within accouterments of brass. Polished.
“Like your Camaro,” Gaines whispered to his friend fixed upon those forever settled eyelids. The young man in the box had lived to work with his hands. He’d made a grandfather clock in shop class. The one Gaines used to ditch. He’d made a chair up at camp, and it was still there ten years after. Somehow, he’d also made his own eternal bed.
“Damn you,” said Gaines to himself.
It was his first open viewing since his cousin Jan back in ‘12. He was four then and only remembered the similarity in rosy, almost cherry lips. Clenched. Thinly drawn. Skin over skull. Dukes came up behind him and tapped his elbow.
“He was so beautiful,” she said.
Gaines nodded, and they hugged. First time ever. Her sweater smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. Her hair didn’t, though. They released, and Dukes knelt on the padded bench below the box. She began to murmur.
Emptiness sinking.
Gaines drifted out of the path. From there, he watched people go up in turn and do their thing. It was too much to process. Too much to own. Then he realized the eyes in his friend’s portrait were watching him. Following like George Washington on the back of a dollar. Then a stiffness spread, silent with effects reverberating.
His little brother had entered, not crying. Dukes and he hugged, then the kid knelt and laid a hand upon the corpse’s chin. They had one last bickering. Gaines rushed out the door. In the next room, he dove into a handkerchief, hiding the rotten world. Weight on his shoulder drew a startled breath, and lo! He thought for a second it was him. Risen alive and back together like old times!
“Hey Larry,” said the young brother with a wide smirk. “Didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay,” Gaines said. “So sorry.”
Gaines knew all along it couldn’t be because he remained in the box.
“Thanks for coming,” said Leroy, and they shook hands. First time ever. The kid had sticky fingers. Maple syrup? The scent of pancakes, of doughnuts.
Emptiness apathetic.
Then smoke was in the air, and Dukes was back with gloom attached. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You know, told him if he woke up, I’d fuck him in front of everyone, right in the goddamn casket.” Her lips a fluttered butterfly. Their connection strangely mutual and darker than it should be. Gaines understood Dukes, and she was more alone now than even he was. Pale. Trembling. A broken lens embodying pain. Wanting to be anywhere in the world!
Except there.
Written clearly in every expression.
Gaines bit his lip and said, “Nice seeing you,” and they parted one final time.
Emptiness awash.
Mord McGhee writes out of the coastal southeastern United States, and his work can be read in four published novels as well as anywhere literary fiction is found. He is currently a board member of Rowayat.org and an associate editor for Ariel Publishing, LLC. Upcoming releases in 2023 are multiple 2022 Claymore Award Finalist novels, a novella “The Stroke of Oars,” and a chapbook “Mind Poker.” On a personal note, Mord collects fossils.