Castles and Caskets
“Why would you even say that?” asked Travis, “You are not dying, not until you’re old and I’m already gone.” He steered the car with the toughened and capable hands of a woodworker.
“I want it to be simple, so it shouldn’t take you long.” Travis knew she was looking intently at him, but he kept his eyes riveted to the path ahead. He never looked at anything but the road when he drove. “Maybe we could stop at the lumber yard and look at wood?” Marian asked. Never in her lifetime had Marian suggested a visit to a lumber or hardware store. Travis tightened his hold on the steering wheel and fought the familiar tightening and irritation that seemed to quickly rise in his chest.
“I have a whole garage full of lumber, and projects that I am years behind with, and then you ask me…something like that.” He found he couldn’t say the words: to build your casket.
“Travis, stop the car and look at me,” Marian’s voice was softer than her usual give-me-what-I-want voice, and he knew she was serious and did as she asked. “There are no more treatments left.” She appeared so calm when he turned his head, refusing to let go of the wheel, “I’ve done them all, and it’s helped, I’m better, but it’s back. I’m done.”
“Nonsense,” Travis reverted to his favorite word to stop Marian’s illogical requests. She wanted white cupboards when stained would hide fingerprints, she wanted a lumbering Labrador to walk instead of a small dog that wouldn’t pull her over. It was all nonsense. “The doctor said he will find another treatment, and he will.”
“He said, there might be another treatment, but not to count on it.” Marian put her hand on Travis’s resistant arm. He swallowed hard and looked at her familiar face, the same face he had married nearly thirty-five years ago. In spite of her middle age and lingering illness, he marveled that she retained her youthfulness. She smiled slightly with a look a mother might give a stubborn child. “You don’t have to have to do it right away, I’m not that excited about a new casket.”
“I’m not doing it at all and that’s it! Now, we can sit here and argue about it or we can go home and have some lunch.” He glanced over his shoulder to look for traffic and pulled out onto the road, knowing he would—build a casket.
“What about this? It’s lovely.” Marian was smoothing her hand over a model of cherry wood. After wandering around the sample area, closing her eyes, touching and smelling the wood samples for the last quarter of an hour she settled on a dark red sample, “I like the red.”
“It’s cherry and it’s stained.” Travis’s voice came out more gruff and angry than he intended, Marian was just enjoying this way too much. “This is a damned shopping spree for her,” he muttered to himself, turning his back in a pretense of looking at sandpaper he didn’t need. He’d always enjoyed the smell of unfinished wood, the sound of the boards being tossed together, looking down their lengths to make sure they were true, but this…this was pure torture and she was enjoying every moment. He was sure this monstrosity he was required to build would sit in his garage for years, taking up valuable space, because you just can’t put a doily on a casket and expect it to look like furniture. “Oak is better, nicer grain,” he told her with an attempt at not biting his words.
“Hmmm, I think cherry.” She looked at him pointedly, “Stained red.”
“Can I help you folks?” asked a perspiring young man who, after hefting long lengths of lumber like they were matchsticks, seemed energized. His name tag boasted the moniker “Todd.”
“Well, Todd, let me see,” Travis pulled out his pencil-sketched design, and did a quick check on his calculations. Todd looked over his shoulder at the drawing, “I’ll need about sixty board feet of cherry, and…
“Wow, is that a hope chest? You may need to recalculate; that’s going to be big.” Todd jabbed at the sketch with a dirty nailed finger. “A lot of hope going in there, I guess.” He laughed at his own joke and the chuckle died as he watched Travis’s face reddened and turn hot. Travis felt the muscles around his spine pulling his back up straight and his hands tensing into fists, he leaned forward, “There is no hope,” he hissed, “just pull the damn lumber.”
The silence of the workshop was deafening when Travis shut down his planing machine. Even with ear protection the screaming of the blades against the wood filled his head and left no empty place for unwanted thoughts. Perhaps that was why Travis spent so many hours fellowshipping with wood and the sound of his machines. He could focus his attention and thoughts toward the creation of his most recent project and concerns about credit card payments, diet regimens and high blood pressure were nonexistent. He hated the process of growing older; achy knees and stiff finger joints were afflictions he never anticipated. Somehow he thought he might grow older without all the complaints of aging, but here they were. He reached for an over the counter pain reliever, tumbled three instead of the recommended two, tablets into his hand and swallowed them dry, assuring himself that in fifteen minutes his aches and pains would be dissolved.
“I heard the planer turn off so I brought you a cookie and some coffee,” Marian stood in the doorway of the shop. She hadn’t ventured into the shop in, well, years. This was his domain and he appreciated her staying clear. The last time she brought him a snack, she flipped the light switch to get his attention as he concentrated on pushing wood through a rip saw. He turned at her and yelled, “Never do that again! I could have cut a finger off!” She flinched beneath his anger, but she really did need to understand. But, now here she was, making sure the sound of machinery was quiet and he was well away from dangerous tools. “So, how’s it going?” she asked setting the cookies, his favorite he noticed, on the workbench.
“There’s nothing to see, just planks.” He took a bite of oatmeal cookie and wondered why she always skimped on the nuts, “There’s a lot prep before the actual building.” Marian smoothed her hand over the raw lumber, much as she had the sample at the lumber yard. Her face seemed resigned and yet deeply troubled. He wished he could walk up behind her and slip his arms around her, feeling the recently acquired boniness of her ribs, bury his nose into her fine, wispy hair, now curly and baby like. He would smell the lavender scent of her shampoo, and whisper words of encouragement. And then, then she would cry, racking sobs that he would not know what to do with. Instead of the sympathy and tenderness she craved, he would feel helplessness and anger. He could feel it rising already, and he stood to hide behind the barrier his machines afforded him. Instead, she wrapped her own arms around her own waist, sighed deeply and went back from where she had come from without saying a word or turning to look at him. He failed her again. In his frustration he picked a piece of scrap and chucked it across the shop with a muttered oath of self-loathing.
Travis heard voices coming from the house and listened with curiosity. He had not expected anyone and Marian was keeping visitors to a minimum. He opened the connecting door of his shop and heard his son’s voice coming from the living room. Chris was taller than Travis, more handsome and, somehow his relationship with his mother was more affectionate than Travis and Marian’s. Chris had spent his growing years pouring over nursery rhymes, fairy tales, mysteries and now science fiction, of all things, with Marian, who accepted all kinds of literature as educational. “Who actually reads science fiction?” Travis wondered with a roll of his eyes. Adult fairy tales, he’d always called it. Chris was sharing something silly one of the grandchildren said the other day with his mom and Travis could hear the adoration in Marian’s full-fledged laugh. Travis had never been able to make her laugh with abandon, at least not since they were newlyweds. He knew if he were to cross the threshold and make his presence known the laughter would quickly die, the subject would be changed, and he would be excluded. Not that he minded, the story would be cute, but really not that funny.
“So,” Travis heard Marian say to Chris, “This is what I want you to remember. When I die, and don’t give me that ‘you’ll live forever’ nonsense, I want you to be the one to put me into my casket.” Travis heard Chris make a weak protest and then a mild joke about Sleeping Beauty and the awkward prince.
“Fine, mom, but don’t blame me if I drop you.”
“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll just practice.” Travis looked through the doorway and he saw Marian throw herself dramatically down on the couch and fling one arm over her eyes. “I’m now dead. Pick me up and move me to the loveseat which will be the casket for now.” There was a silence, and Travis saw Chris’s face turn a brilliant red.
“Are you serious, mom? I mean, it’s weird picking up your mother, I’m just saying.”
“Chris,” Marian replied without breaking character, “Do as your told.” Her arm lifted and she winked at him. Chris wiped his hands down his pant legs as if his palms were sweating and looked at his mother’s inert body as if contemplating the best way to accomplish the task given him. He slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other behind her knees. “Be sure to lift with your knees, sweetie.”
“Mom,” Chris said with just a hint of irritation in his voice, “You're supposed to be dead so stop telling me how to do my job.” He carefully lifted her with ease that surprised Travis, and suddenly Marian dramatically flung her arms and head back, catching Chris a little off balance, “Mom,” Chris said for the second time with more irritation and fright, “You almost made me drop you. What are you doing?”
“I’m dead! And don’t yell at your deceased mother, it’s not nice,” Chris moved the three steps to the loveseat and unceremoniously dropped his mother onto the cushions. Marian gave a little whoop of surprise. They looked at each other, and suddenly they were both laughing, great guffawing sounds, satisfying sounds, nourishing sounds.
“You are crazy,” Chris said as he helped Marian up from her awkward position on the loveseat, “and I love you for it,” as he lifted her hand to his lips he gave a slight bow, “Queen Mother.”
“And I love you, Prince Awkward,” she replied with the tears of laughter still shining in her eyes.
Travis felt it odd that Chris understood Marian’s need for the fairy tale element in everyday life, and, evidently in death. Marian made sure he had grown up with quests and dragon hunts, gauntlets and stuffed steeds for Halloween dress up, wooden swords with duct-tape handles for acts of valor, but Travis always watched from the other side of the story, making sure the boy raked the yard and fed the dog. He enforced the chores that made life run and would make Chris a young man, not Prince Awkward, as he had feared. He was drawn and entertained by Marian’s dreamy-eyed naivety when she was a sweet and innocent young woman, and even enjoyed playing the quiet Beast to her lively Beauty. However, there was a time when making a living, raising children and life pushed pretending to the back burner. Marian couldn’t quite bring herself to the point of abandoning the castle. He had built her a beautiful home, it needed updating now, but it was still better than the homes of most of their friends and families owned, and she seemed satisfied, most of the time, but she still wanted what he could not give her: romance. Even in the event of her death, she would plan the sweet passing of the Queen Mother, making him the quiet background character, her foil, her one failure. Travis’s anger began to tighten his chest but there was a different nuance to the sensation, there was pain. It throbbed behind his breast bone and made him rub his chest with the heel of his hand. His eyes burned and he was suddenly afraid the throbbing might turn into a sob. Quickly he pulled a chisel from his tool belt. He placed the blade where the marking for the hinge placement had been carefully measured and swung the mallet with his other hand. He never really understood what happened, or felt the sting of the slice, but the chisel and the mallet clattered to the top of the box and he wrapped his hand with the cloth he used to wipe sawdust from the wood. Too late, the blood stained the cloth, but drips of sanguine splashed onto the lid of Marian’s casket.
Marian drove him to the clinic to have his hand stitched. He was rarely sick or injured, but the doctor on duty recognized him, “Hey, I see you need a few stitches there.” He peeled back the sterile gauze that replaced the dirty shop rag, “Aren’t you the guy that shot his finger with a nail gun a couple of years ago?” he asked with a slight smirk. “Yeah, I thought so.” Travis breathed deeply and tried to concentrate on the throbbing of his hand instead of the anger that was constantly lying under the surface. This was becoming a regular battle, this anger. How long could he tamp it down and not explode? “No wetness on the bandage for one week, and one antibiotic tablet a day for the next 10 days. We’ll remove stitches when the bandage comes off.” The doctor shook Travis’s uninjured hand and made his way out the door leaving him and Marian alone to prepare for the drive home.
“I’m so sorry you hurt your hand.” Marian held the sleeve of Travis’s jacket. He hated having someone hold his coat for him and shrugged the jacket out of her hand.
“I’ll be fine, I need to get home and clean that stain up before it gets too dry.” He walked toward the car, struggling with his jacket. He’d rather struggle on his own than admit he should have allowed the assistance. He wasn’t a child and she wasn’t his mother. He was supposed to be taking care of her, but how? A lifetime of security, comfort, commitment, a castle, a casket. He watched her walking ahead of him, shaking the car keys as if they were jingle bells, happy to be of use to him. He knew what she wanted: her hand held while they crossed the parking lot, a kiss goodbye in the morning and a kiss hello in the evening, a cuddle at night without the demands of sex. All the things that were difficult for him. He had never learned how to be at ease with affection. His own father showed no interest in his mother, and she had learned to accept that fact. They were normal. Their normal. Marian never learned to accept that normal. She was still the princess, and he the woodsman. He couldn’t save her.
Travis went directly to the shop, and Marian followed him, “I’ll do that, you aren’t supposed to get that bandage dirty,” she said as she took the cloth, damp with wood soap from his good hand. She gently wiped the cloth over the splashes of blood.
“You’ll have to scrub harder than that to get that stain out, and then I’ll still need to sand it down.” Travis took the cloth from her hand and started to briskly rub the blemished wood.
“Wait! What if we just left it there?” Marian put her hand over his. “No one would even know it was there but you and me. A covenant of sorts.” She looked up at him with dreamy eyes.
“No, I will know it’s not right and I can fix it.”
“But I want that stain left right where it is,” Marian looked at him sternly , “You are working for me this time, and I say the stain stays.” She walked toward the door and paused. “I will like having a little bit of you near me. I will feel safe.” She looked at him over her shoulder and held his eyes with hers for a moment. “You have always made me feel safe,” and the door closed behind her.
Travis walked through the front door and found the house eerily quiet. He checked and Marian’s car was parked in the drive, and he knew she must be nearby. He called as he walked toward the kitchen, looked in the backyard and back into the bedroom. He numbered off the possibilities: she’s having coffee with their next-door neighbor, Chris picked her up for lunch and she forgot to tell him, an ambulance trip. No, she would have called him first. The unfamiliar niggling tickle of fear on his scalp caused him to rub his short stubbly grey hair with the palm of his hand. Fear was something he rarely felt and he walked with determination toward the shop door. He would refuse to give in to worry until he knew he had something to worry about.
The light above Travis’s workbench was glowing softly. Quite often he would leave it on if he knew he would be returning to the shop before too long. He set his purchases from the hardware store down on the bench and heard a quiet, breathy sigh come from across the room. He turned hopefully, but the door remained closed and no one stood in the doorway. Again he heard the gentle sigh and looked toward the nearly finished casket. He stepped closer, and there she was. Marian lay inside the casket, her hair falling away from her pale face, her elegant hands neatly folded across her chest. Travis jumped back startled, afraid, angry and suddenly sobbing. He was losing control of his legs, they felt weak and his head began to swim. He reached out his arm toward the casket to steady himself and began to melt onto the sawdust covered floor.
“Travis?” Marian’s sleepy voice penetrated the roar of blood pounding in his ears. “Are you sick?” she asked almost timidly. There was no answer for her, just deep, wrenching sobs. Marian was beside him, sitting on the sawdust floor, waiting with one comforting hand on his shoulder, and as his sobs gradually subsided, he raised his arm and drew her to his side, warm, familiar and alive. He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his shirt and drew a long shaking breath.
“Why? Why would you do such a thing to me?” He asked her.
“I wanted to see if my resting box was a good fit. I just dozed off, and there you were.” She snuggled in a little closer, “Were you crying? I don’t think I have ever seen you cry.” She was quiet for a moment, “You were quite brave to let all that out. You know you can’t put all that emotion back, right?”
“No, I wasn’t crying,” Travis said gruffly, but he sniffed her baby-soft hair and closed his eyes to imprint the scent in his memory, “And don’t tell anybody I was.” The chill of the cement floor was beginning to seep through his jeans and his legs were growing numb, but he felt the need to endure the discomfort for a few more moments. “I haven’t been the prince you wanted, but I’ve always been faithful to you. Everything I have earned or built has been for you and Chris, I’ve always been committed to you, our family.” His voice sounded thick and he swallowed to clear his throat.
“Commitment without love or affection is just an empty house, safe, but cold and more than a little lonely.” Her hand was cool on his face. “I don’t need a castle if the prince is present.” Travis worked his way off the floor, stretching cramped muscles, groaning at the crick in his back, and helped Marian to her feet. She looked toward the wood of the casket, fragrant and glowing in the dim light, “This beautiful box fits perfectly, thank you.” She closed the lid carefully. “Do you think it’s too late for us? Too late for evening walks and talks? Too late for holding hands and familiar touches?”
“Maybe,” Travis replied, although his common sense told him to tell her, probably. “All I can do is try.” He held the door for her. “After all these years I still haven’t gotten it right. I’m not sure I can be repaired.” He gingerly took her hand and felt the ring on her finger, “I’ve always, you know…” she looked at him as if she didn’t know what he was trying to say. She was not going to help him this time, “I’ve always loved you.” The words came out in a rush and he dropped his eyes.
“I know, you told me thirty-five years ago,” Marian teased. “I’ve never forgotten.” She kissed his rough cheek and left a slight lipstick smear, “Come on, Prince Charming, I’ll buy you lunch.”
MELANYA BERG is a senior pursuing a Baccalaureate in Literature. She is a mother of five adult children and a grandmother of eight littles. She has been working towards her degree for several years and is almost done.