Because He Kindly Stopped for Me

Emily Tyman, “A Dead Wasp”

by Abby Carola

Death is Polite

When he comes calling,

it’s him knocking.

Usually only once.

If you’re lucky,

maybe twice.

***

Renee’s thoughts shatter with a knock, a crisp tap echoing on the door. She rises out of bed, despite her aching limbs, and calls out in a rough voice, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” the voice lilts, “I heard you weren’t feeling too well.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The muted response was deafening and telling. 

“Why don’t you open the door and let me in,” he asks sweetly to fill the void. 

Looking around the small excuse of a bedroom, dirty clothes scattered along the floor along with this morning’s breakfast, Renee responds, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m fine alone.”

“Nobody is fine alone, and you’re starting to sound worse to me.” His words caress over her like the body chills that started when her sickness began. “What do you do in there all by yourself? Aren’t you lonely?”

What do you do in bed for days alone, exiled to pace a small cell, she slyly asks herself. “I think.”

“About?”

“I think about when I’ll get out of here. About what I can do if I'm not so damn tired anymore, so that time stops being endless.” A futile desire because she can’t get out of bed, but her voice picks up speed, “I think about what can be or what is, but mostly I think about what was and when this all began.”

The noise of cloth and a metal cane scrape the ground as the presence behind the door settles down, the only separation is a sliver of wood. “And what would you say that the beginning is?”

“I’d say it was when I met them, the pack rats. Yes, that's where I start all my thinking. I can’t help it, and I guess it is where this all began for me, in this room.”

He softens his tone, “Why don’t you tell it to me?”

She clears the phlegm building in her throat, taking in as much air as she can to say:

“Pack Rats

In one night,

It all went.

The paper, the cups,

the rice.

 You name it.

Weirdly it arrived,

but the hoarding--

it only amplified.

Atrocious! Shameful!

They all yelled.

But then,

They joined.

You couldn't say 

no at that point.”

He was patient as he listened to her huff over the words of her story, with no care in the world as if he has all of time itself. 

“Do you know these ‘pack rats’ well?” 

“We all know them and see them. I notice one when I brush my teeth.”

“Tell me, what else do you think about, Renee?”

“I like Ren better.”

“Renee is so elegant,” he contemplates. “So, what else?”

“Tomorrow.” The words come out with finality and are emphasized by a cough.

 The sound of her rolling over in the sheets and a soft snore escaping signals his departure. “Tomorrow,” he says,  and leaves a gaping emptiness in his wake. 

***

“Back so soon?” 

“I couldn’t help myself, my dear Renee,” he says, his voice holding a hint of amusement at her sarcasm. “You paint an interesting picture and so many different ideas about the world. I’m curious what else is on your mind.”

“Well, I contemplate what we did or tried to do this year as well.”

“Who’s we? And did it not go well?”

“‘We’ is all of us, and sometimes it never ends, so it might not be done at the moment.”

“Renee, you're cryptic, and people would usually say I'm worse.” 

With more curiosity and vigor, Renee asks, “What do they call you?”

“Oh, I have many names,” the words slither from a mouthless tone as he ponders himself, “But that’s not why I’m here tonight. I’m here because I want to know what you did.”

“Well, we all walked, and we walked like this:

Enough, isn’t it?

A rhythmic stampede.

Voices yelling,

ranging high and deep.

A beacon of fist,

often beaten and hit.

What good is it?

You clearly weren’t

listening, especially when

the lungs stopped working.”

“Frightening,” he declares.

“Others would say necessary,” Renee argues. 

“Doesn’t make it any less so,” he agrees. “You never told me about ‘what was?’ in your endless thoughts.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Renee,” he patronizes, “It's not fair to keep a friend waiting or pushing me off.” 

“Friend?” her voice shakes, “I don’t even know your name.”

A coughing fit sends them both into the silence of her strange constricting noises.

“Tomorrow,” he says, leaving her to fade into a sleepless night. 

***

“Are you ready for the next story?” she asks him as she hears the usual grunts of him settling down in his favorite spot.

“You’re eager today. And you sound much better.” 

“Disappointed?” she fights back.

“Of course not, just surprised.” 

She jumps back to the small window of energy she has been granted, explaining, “This is something that was, and I hope it stays that way:

A Festering Fiend

A chicken disguised.

All hidden and wrapped

in a bull skin’s hide.

Plainly despised.

Yet, doesn’t qualify,

Holding office, or 

an oval throne?

Golden whisps

glazed in age.

Oiled back--

gilded, covering decay.”

“I’d say I'm not a fan of that character,” he responds.

“Most were not.”

“These are some dark stories, Renee,” he states. “Do you have anything more lighthearted?”

“I didn't peg you as a dreamer?” She laughs.

“Aren’t we all?” A hint of a smile echoes softly in his voice.

“Friend, as our tradition states, I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“I think I’m beginning to like you more, my delicate Renee. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

A knock rattles the door. “Renee?”

Silence.

The emptiness is interrupted by him settling down behind the door, “Tonight, you promised another story, but one a bit lighter.”

He taps again, this time with his cane and with more purpose. The silence echoes its response.

“Hello, is that you?” Renee finally responds. Her voice is light and frail, and each word challenges her. “Did I miss our time?”

“No, I wasn’t waiting long.”

“I don’t know if I have a story tonight.” She sighs, “I don't--” 

A coughing fit rattles through her body, and drains the thoughts away. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers, “why don’t I come back tomorrow, one day more won’t hurt.”

“No.”

After a pause to build her strength, Renee offers, “Come in. I can let a friend in.”

“I don’t think it's a good idea. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she agrees, “but now it's time for you to tell a story.”

“Me?” he laughs.

“Yes, tell me about one of your good ones filled with light.”

“Of course, Renee. It’s not as exciting or harrowing as yours. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

The click of the door is the only signal of his entrance. He glides over to the bed that lingers in the corner of a damp room shrouded in darkness bleaker than him. The bed creaks as he sits on the edge to tell his story, her body tangled in the sheets drenched in sweat as she now sleeps eternally. And he states:

“A Dreamer

The ethereal ether

and glistening lights.

Once a beacon, 

now encompassed in night.

Goodnight Ren.”