The Lake

SIX

The mother’s face was hidden behind a black veil, but she felt the eyes on her, watching her, hating her. The preacher, standing beside the grave, spoke calmly of the sure and certain hope of resurrection. The mother, voiceless, damned her.

It’s not my fault. Please.

“And so,” the preacher said, “as the coffin sinks slowly into the ground, we bid a fond farewell…”

The mother started to move. She walked around the end of the grave, slowly.

Stay back.

No, don’t point at me. Oh, my God!

She took a step backward as the mother approached, but bumped into someone behind her.

“You! You did this to him. You filthy whore!” The pointing hand opened and darted, smacking her face. “You murdered him with your lust, you whore! Monster!” To the others, she shouted, “Look at her! Look at the monster! This is what murdered my boy!” The hands clawed at her, ripped her blouse open, tore it from her shoulders, grabbed her naked breasts.

Crying out in agony, she squirmed and tried to pry the fingers loose.

“You should be dead, not him! Not my boy!”

“No! Let go!”

“You killed him, whore!”

She was dragged forward by her breasts, whimpering. Then the mother twisted and flung her. She hit the edge of the grave with her knees. Wildly flailing her arms, she caught her balance. But a shove from behind sent her down.

“That’s where you belong!”

She fell and fell.

She wanted to scream out her terror, but she couldn’t get a breath.

Why is it so deep?

It always is.

She’d been here before. She realized that now. Familiar territory, this bottomless grave.

Only, it’s not bottomless.

She knew that. And she remembered what was below. Choking out a whimper, she flapped her arms and kicked, desperate to stop, to take flight, to get the hell out of here.

Pitch dark. Grave dark.

But she could see in the dark.

The coffin didn’t have a lid. There had been a lid when it was lowered, but not anymore. He wore a necktie and brown suit. His feet were bare. His face, as pale as chalk, glowed beneath her.

Okay now, don’t, she thought as she fell closer. Please don’t.

Oh, but he will.

Oh shit he will he always does but they were dreams before and this is real and he’s really dead so he won’t open his eyes this time, not this time, or reach up like a goddamn zombie to grab me, not this time.

The holes where his eyes had been opened wide.

He reached up.

“NO!”

Leigh heard her voice and opened her eyes as she thrust herself away from him. Below was her powder-blue pillow. She was on her hands and knees, gasping.

It was a dream. Of course.

Thank God.

And thank God morning was here.

Still braced on stiff arms, Leigh lowered her head.

Scratch one nightgown, she thought.

It used to happen a lot. But the last time, Deana was about four.

Talk about Allan’s funeral, that’s what did it. The last thing before sleep.

Leigh rolled off the bed. When she stood, the nightgown slipped the rest of the way down. She stepped out of it, picked it up, and inspected the damage. The gauzy fabric was split down the middle, breast to belly, and one of the straps had been wrenched from its seam. One for the rag bag.

No, better get rid of it. You don’t want Deana seeing it. Deana didn’t know about the dreams. Or about the funeral of Charlie Payne. And finding out wouldn’t do her any good.

Leigh looked down at herself.

She groaned.

Edith Payne didn’t grab her for real in nightmare-land and do this. Leigh had done it to herself.

But this was a new twist.

Not even in the old days when the dream came regularly did she ever wake up to find fingernail marks on her breasts.

Tiny little crescent moons.

They looked a lot like the ones Edith Payne gave her the day of the funeral.