Page 6 of Embers

It’s something.

One of us needs to say something, and Cal sure as hell isn’t going to do it. So I open Derek’s mom’s Bible. Derek read it all the time before he was too sick to read anymore. What it says meant something to him. My mom wasn’t a churchgoer, and I know almost nothing about religion, so I have no idea how to find the passages that are normally read at funerals. But this morning when I started to look, the Bible opened to the book of Isaiah. To a passage that someone underlined twice and next to which Derek scrawled a bunch of illegible notes. When I fanned through the rest of the Bible, I couldn’t find any passage as marked up as this one, so I decide this is the one he’d want me to read.

I clear my throat and glance up at Cal beside me. “I’m going to read this. For him.”

Cal nods, as stern and silent as ever but almost achingly so right now. I don’t know why I think that—what details I see in him that make me believe it—but I do.

I clear my throat and read. “On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wine, of rich food full of marrow, of aged wine well refined. And he will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations. He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces…”

My voice breaks, and for a moment I don’t think I can keep reading. I take a couple of deep breaths. Cal doesn’t move beside me.

Finally I’m able to go on. “And the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. It will be said on that day, ‘Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us. This is the Lord; we have waited for him; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.’”

When I get to the end, Cal makes a weird, stifled sound and jerks his head to the side. Away from me.

“Goodbye, Derek,” I whisper. “We love you. And we hope you’re on that mountain now.”

I wait, but Cal doesn’t say anything.

It’s okay. I know he’s feeling it too.

I reach down to pick up a handful of dirt and drop it on top of the coffin the way I used to see people do in movies. Then I walk back to the house while Cal picks up his shovel to fill in the hole.

* * *

That evening is the worst I’ve ever known.

There’s been almost nothing good about the past year for me, ever since Derek’s mom died and even the semblance of life we were living fell apart. And it got even worse when we ended up in this shack on the mountain. But tonight is worse than all of that.

Cal and I are alone. I have nothing to do. We go through our normal routine of feeding the chickens and pigs. He works in his garden, trying to scrounge a few vegetables out of the pitiful growth in the bad air, too-low temperatures, and lack of sun.

He’d given Derek his bed, so I move things in the house back into their original positions, with Cal’s bed in one corner and the old mattress he found for me on the opposite side of the room near the kitchen. With no power, we can’t use any of the kitchen appliances anyway.

The big woodstove is in the middle of the room, and I like the way it provides a barrier between me and Cal.

Not that he’d ever touch me. At least I don’t have to worry about that.

A couple of days ago, when Derek was still able to croak out a few words, I overheard a conversation between him and Cal.

Derek said, “Dad, when I’m gone—”

“Don’t be talkin’ that way.” Cal had been sitting by his son’s bed for an hour or so while I was washing up and stretching my legs. I’d left the front door open, so I could hear their voices as I stood right outside.

“Please, Dad. You know…” Derek had to break to cough. “You know I don’t have long. And I’m worried about Rachel. She’s all alone. She doesn’t have anyone.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“She won’t be all right unless you take care of her. Promise you will. Please.”

Cal sounded almost choked up. “Course I will.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. She’ll be okay. I’ll look out for her.”

“Th-thank you.” More coughing. “I’m glad… I’m glad we had some time together. Now. At the end. I never knew you cared… before now.”

“I always cared.” His mutter was so low I could barely hear him outside the door. I was almost frozen with so many different emotions. “Should’ve made sure you knew… before.”

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