Clay Pigeons
There was otherwise nothing noteworthy about the small lakeside town in Middle America. The houses were built by human hand recently enough that they still stood sturdy, scattered along Main Street. Most of the residents either worked locally at the grocery store or the diner next door or drove in their old Cadillacs they bought brand new decades ago to a factory job in a nearby town. The rest of them were just retired and ready to be buried wherever they died.
They didn’t need the latest advancements in television and enjoyed watching reruns of shows from their youth or going fishing at the pond, with sparkling waves that would shine the rays of the rising sun into the children's bedrooms. Or, at least, it did back before all the children grew up and moved to the cities, some seeking degrees in architecture and one eventually becoming the foreman of the factory, much to the jealousy of some of the residents.
The oldest building in town was the single-room church that was on the verge of collapsing. When the brick wall on the left side of the building began to buckle, the reverend offered to start hosting mass in his backyard with folding chairs for the residents and his wife would always provide a nice hot lunch for anyone who stayed afterward, which they always did.
There was no need for police here, since crime simply never happened. Hell, if anything ever DID happen, they’d know who did it simply by looking at the boot print outside the hypothetical crime scene. Nothing extraordinary ever happened in this small town, and subsequently, no one ever had any reason to question anything. No one ever wondered where the box truck full of groceries and goodies for the grocery store ever came from or went to, and no one ever really cared.
When the Reverend started visiting the local widow-to-be Harlan at night, no one ever questioned that, either.
*****
Something was wrong with Harlan’s husband, Michael, but no one could ever figure out what. One day, he’d be sneezing and wiping his nose till it bled, and the next day he’d be fine. The day after that, he’d be crying endlessly until his eyes dried out, and once again he’d be fine the next day. Random day-long symptoms would spring up and disappear until one day, everyone just stopped seeing him altogether.
If anyone ever saw Harlan out in public or at the factory and asked her how her husband was doing, the ever-patient and loving wife would simply state that her beloved husband “Is fine, just resting” and the conversation would drift away to other topics.
To help Harlan cope with this oddity, the Revered would come over every Saturday night to enjoy a few cups of tea with her and talk about their weeks to help her feel less alone on the weekends.
It’d be the same thing every Saturday. At 8:00 pm, the Reverend would arrive and knock on the front door and after a moment, Harlan would open the door, invite him in, and lead him to the dining room where a pot of tea and snacks would be ready. They’d talk about anything from how her week at the factory was to any bits of gossip in the town such as “Did you hear what happened to Janey’s daughter when she visited from New York City last week,” and at 8:30, Harlan would gather the dishes, they’d bid each other farewell, and the Reverend would go home to get ready for mass in the morning. Any time the Reverend would ask how Michael was doing, Harlan would politely change the subject and the Reverend never took offense.
Tonight started like every other Saturday night. Harlan opened the door and invited the Reverend into the house, leading him to the dining room table. The Reverend sat down and noticed the snacks on the tray weren’t as neatly organized as usual, but wasn’t bothered by this. As they spoke, Harlan seemed bothered and distracted, and occasionally glanced at a door off to the side that the Reverend just realized he’d never seen open.
At one point, the Reverend excused himself to use the restroom (which happened to be right next to the closed door Harlan was eyeing) and the Reverend noticed Harlan hovering near the door to make sure he didn’t get too close to it.
After sitting back down and carrying the conversation with the distracted Harlan a little longer, the Reverend asked politely if tonight was a bad time and offered to come back next week. Harlan sat and thought for a moment, a good long moment, and finally stood and motioned him to the closed door. The Reverend stood up and followed from a distance, confused more than anything.
“Keep the lights off. They hurt him.”
Harlan pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked the door, twisting the handle with one hand and placing the key back in her pocket with the other for safekeeping. Harlan gently pushed the door open, and as it opened, this raspy slow breathing could be heard coming from inside like a large beached fish.
The Reverend stepped into the room with Harlan.
The lights were off.
They stayed off as Harlan asked.
The window against the opposite wall was hastily blocked off with a blanket.
It wasn’t done very well, and shards of moonlight leaked through.
The Revered looked around the room.
He couldn’t see anything until his eyes began to adjust.
A mix of thin moonlight and adjusted eyes helped him make out what was left of Michael.
Michael was in the bed beneath the hastily-covered window.
His arms and legs were gone, with rotten stumps where they should’ve been.
He was emaciated.
He looked like pale flesh pulled over a skeleton’s head and torso.
His skinny head was mostly bald, a few patches of hair left atop it.
The rest of his hair had fallen off in clumps and were scattered about the pillow.
And that breathing.
That horrible, horrible dry breathing he tried to do through collapsed lungs.
The Reverend looked in horror.
He wondered, “Did Harlan do this?”
He looked over at her.
Her look of desperation and soft grief-stricken weeping answered his question.
Between sobs, she softly spoke, “I don’t know. I just don’t know… I just don’t know…”
Michael heard the soft weeping of his loving wife.
Michael lifted his head with all of his strength to look.
They couldn’t see his hemorrhaged eyes, but he could see them.
Michael began to groan, as loud as possible, as if trying to scream.
But he couldn’t scream.
Not without his throat.
Harlan began to cry harder.
The Reverend shook a bit.
He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.
Harlan made her way out of the bedroom and the Reverend followed.
Harlan closed the door behind her and pulled the key out from her back pocket again to lock it behind her. As she did, the Reverend walked back to the dining room, unsure of what to think or say or do, and that was when he noticed the neatly organized pillow and blanket on the couch in the living room.
The two sat down at the dining room table, no need or desire for snacks or tea at this point. They sat in silence for a long, long, long, long time. Finally, Harlan spoke up with a simple request.
“Please. Don’t tell anyone.”
The Reverend nodded softly. “I’ll pray for him.”
Harlan thanked him and began to tidy the dining room before the two headed to the front door. They didn’t know what to say other than the standard “I’ll be seeing you” and then they parted for the week.
*****
Church was canceled the next day, the Reverend citing a food-related illness, processing whatever it was he had seen last night. He knew he couldn’t tell anybody because he’d promised Harlan, and who the hell would believe him anyway? But, after a few days, the Reverend was seen around town again acting as his cheerful self, if not a little distracted.
The following Saturday, the Reverend was standing at Michael and Harlan’s doorstep, somewhat distraught, but hoping to still maintain the friendship with Harlan. He knocked on the door, Harlan greeted him with a smile and waved him on in, and the Reverend sat at his usual spot. The snacks were tidier than last time and the tea was nice and warm.
The conversation was the usual pleasant banter, asking how work was, did you hear about Janey’s daughter out in New York City, and the Reverend meekly slipped in asking “How’s Michael been?” Harlan put on a polite smile and said that he was fine, but he would rather not be bothered. The Reverend understood what she meant by that and knew not to ask again.
The night ended as it usually did at 8:30. Harlan carried the dishes from the dining room to the kitchen and wished the Reverend farewell so he could go home and prepare for mass in the morning.
*****
Months and many visits passed before Harlan announced the closed-casket funeral of Michael to be held in their backyard, since the church was still falling into disrepair. The residents of the lakeside town came to visit, ranging from those who knew him well to not at all, and all shared nostalgic looks at Michael’s life as a beloved husband, friend, and factory worker.
The Reverend conducted the funeral and spoke of him fondly, knowing that he would never know or ask or even get to talk about why Michael was ill. The night Michael was buried, the Reverend went home and realized he had to take this question with him to the grave:
What happened to the man who fell apart?