By Mathew Channer

Emilia stepped carefully over the garbage bags on the porch and went down the stairs onto the weedy lawn. She didn’t look at her brother—still digging, the hole as deep as his chest now—as she passed the remains of last year’s garden. At the end of the garden was the bench her husband had built for her so she could look out over the valley. She sank into its familiarity, imagining the non-existent depression her body had carved over the years.

Shunk. Shunk. Shunk. Pete’s shovel stabbed the unsuspecting earth. Emilia refused to look. It was easier to gaze south over endless fallow fields and fence posts, the glimmering strip of Route 50 an un-sutured wound stretching toward the state line. All the land stank of rot, the fields blotted with mud as winter slipped slowly into creeks and ditches and slithered away. 

Emilia picked at the bench, peeling up little strips of damp wood. They had painted it to match the summer grass, but snow and sun had flayed its skin, its demise aided these last few seasons by anxious fingers.

Shunk. Shunk. Shunk. Like a heartbeat. Emilia pushed her fingers into her ears, but her own heart took up the rhythm. Da-dunk. Da-dunk. Da-dunk.

Emilia groaned and ripped her hands away. Her brother’s boots clomped onto the porch, then back down the stairs with slow, measured steps. Two, three times more. His breath heavy with effort. Plastic rustled against his clothes. Emilia stared at the sky. Dark clouds hung over the land, muttering to each other between horizons. 

Shunk. Shunk. Sh-

‘Shut up!’ Emilia screamed. 

The shovel clattered. A waft of damp earth, and then her brother sat beside her. Dirt clung to his pants and boots and plaid jacket. They were her husband’s clothes. Pete’s shirt and jeans had already gone into the garbage bags.

Silence stretched like a chasm, then collapsed inward as Emilia’s brother sighed. His breath misted the air. 

‘Don’t suppose you’ve thought up a good explanation, yet?’

Emilia hated his pragmatism. Perfect pragmatic Pete. If she had eaten anything these last forty-eight hours, she would have vomited all over him just to make a point. 

Pete’s eyes wandered the sepia fields, Emilia’s sepia garden, her strained, sepia face. Blonde hair poked from beneath his blue woollen cap.

‘I guess this is why you haven’t called for a while,’ he said. ‘Seems a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?’

‘What would you know?’ 

Pete frowned and returned his gaze south, his head slightly tilted as though listening to the muffled thunder. Emilia tore another splinter from the bench. 

‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffed.

Pete seemed not to have heard. He was watching a bus glide gently along Route 50.

‘I never wanted this, you know,’ Emilia said.

‘Of course not.’

‘I never wanted it.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘But I didn’t want anything else either. I was just wandering around, waiting for something to happen. What did it matter if it was Montana or Wyoming or South Dakota? Wheat or pigs or poultry?’ 

She pressed her shaking hands to her lips and peered over them like a rabbit peeking from its burrow. 

‘You know, when he brought me here, I stood in this spot and looked over all this land, all mine now, and I promised myself I would never let myself get used to it. I wouldn’t stay a moment longer than it took to get comfortable. The old fool thought I was crying with joy and built me this bench. And what did I do? I sat on it.’

She saw a streak of blood on the back of Pete’s hand and tried to wipe it off with her sweater, but it was dry and stuck to the skin. She gave up and wrapped her arms around her chest. 

‘And now I’ve dragged you into all this. I’m so sorry, Pete. You were always so good. So level-headed. Think about your career. They’ll make you sergeant soon. You should take me in. I’ll tell them everything. I’ll tell them this was never my life.’ 

Pete didn’t reply. 

‘Did you hear me, Peter? I said this was never my life. Not really.’

It was late afternoon, the sun setting unseen beyond the clouds. The cold wind picked up the skeletons of long-dead leaves and carried them around the garden until they settled in some new place. 

Pete drew a deep, slow breath. 

‘Maybe this isn’t my life either,’ he said.

He got up and walked through the garden and began filling the hole. Emilia remained, peeling strips from the bench and dropping them between her feet. Among the piled splinters, the first tiny buds were unfolding, little bursts of green climbing daringly upward. Suddenly a robin broke into song, another answered it from across the garden. Emilia watched as the two birds met in mid-air, swooped around each other, and flew away south.  

She stood and went inside to pack a suitcase. 

*   *   *

Mathew Channer is a full-time writer from small town Western Australia. He is both creative writer and journalist and is widely published in Australia and North America. He is a staff editor at Flash Fiction Magazine. Recently his fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, Reedsy, Flash Fiction Magazine, and the 2022 Revolutionaries Anthology It Begins With Us. His debut speculative fiction novella, Last Train North, was released this year. He lives in Canada with his partner, Hayley, and his dog, Nymeria. You can read more of his work and stay up to date on new releases at http://www.mathewchanner.com.