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Marvin Wise was not a tall man at about five feet eight inches, but there was something about him that made people notice as he walked into the University Center auditorium. Perhaps it was his clear green eyes, which the slight tint of his contacts shifted to blue. Maybe it was the dark brown, sun-bleached hair he wore just below shoulder length, or maybe it was just the way he walked, with an easiness reserved for those who know who they are and where their lives are going. Whatever the cause, something about him commanded the attention of everyone in the room. As he dodged his way through the crowd, nodding here and there in response to various greetings, his knee-length black trench coat fluttered behind him, revealing a faded pair of blue jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. He made his way to the front of the room, taking a seat, as someone stepped up to the podium.
"Excuse me, folks. If you could all please take your seats, we'll get started in a moment," began the speaker, waiting for the buzz of polite conversation to ebb from the group as they settled into their seats. "Ok, let's get started shall we? The English Department, along with the English Society, welcomes you to this week's Fiction Reading. Just a reminder that next weeks guest author will be Bobbie Ann Mason. Ms. Mason will be here next Thursday at 1 p.m. And now, I'm pleased to introduce you to today's guest speaker, Mr. Marvin G. Wise, Jr."
The speaker led the crowd in applause as Marvin strode onto the stage, stepped up to the microphone, and rested his hands on either side of the podium. Nodding his head in recognition of the applause, he began, "Thank you, thank you so very much. I would like to thank all of you for coming, and I'm very pleased to have this opportunity to read to you something that means so much to me. Although I can't presume to think my fiction worthy to be included in the same breath as that of Ms. Mason, I hope that at the very least I can share a part of myself with all of you, and perhaps entertain you a bit. The story I'm going to read to you today, entitled "Don't Tell Me You Love Me," holds very personal meaning in my life, and so I hope that you will all be patient with me if perhaps I stumble along the way. Ok, I guess that's about enough rambling out of me," he grinned, "so let's get started."
"Don't Tell Me You Love Me. Michael sat behind his friend Beatrice, thinking to himself how beautiful her long brown hair was. The smell of her perfume wafted back to him on the slight breeze coming through the open classroom door. He had only begun talking with her a couple of weeks before, when she found out that he was also going through a divorce. Since then they had spent so much time talking about anything and everything, and they seemed to have so much in common, that he had fallen hopelessly in love with the poor girl. Professor Wall was lecturing about some eighteenth century poet, but Michael was lost in thought about how happy he would be when Beatrice finally got her life together and could perhaps tell him that she returned his love, although his pessimistic nature argued against this ever happening. He thought about the fact that she didn't have any children, which made divorce a little easier to deal with, and started thinking about his three children.
His reverie, or argument as the case may be, came to a halt when a couple of police officers knocked on the door. Professor Wall looked towards the door, and asked the officers if he could help them.
"Um, yes, sir," one of the officers replied. "We're looking for a Mr. Michael Wilson."
Michael's face held a look of fear and puzzlement as he rose from his seat, joining the officers in the hallway. An officer closed the door behind them, and began, "Mr. Wilson, I really don't know how to tell you this, but there's been an automobile accident involving your wife and children. We're going to need you to come downtown with us."
"What?" he cried, "Are they ok? Where are they?"
"Mr. Wilson," said the other officer, "they're dead sir. We need you to come downtown and identify the bodies."
Michael's heart simply vanished. He began to hyperventilate, and the officers had to grab his arms to keep him from hitting the floor. Thoughts of his children raced through his mind, threatening to drive him mad. He let the whirlwind of thought and emotion drag him deep into himself, his only audible response a drawn out, "No….", as he sank to the floor. Time passed, he did not know exactly how much, and he found himself in the center of his being, telling himself to get up, that he had to keep going, had to go downtown and say goodbye to the only good things to ever come from his life. He took hold of himself, giving his oath that he would not cry, and forced himself to his feet.
"I. Have to go get my things," he croaked, and, turning, crept back into the room. Professor Wall stopped, and the whole class seemed to be watching him. He didn't care. He walked as if he weren't even there, slipped his books into the black duffle bag, closed the zipper, and slung it over his right shoulder. As he passed Beatrice, he swung his head around until his eyes met hers, like a tank cannon taking aim at its next target. Without really seeing her, he ripped the cross from around his neck, took the earring from his left ear, and dropped them onto her desk. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, "Beatrice, I need you to do something for me. I need you to go to my Creative Writing class and tell my professor that I won't be there. My kids have been in an accident and I have to go downtown."
She backed away from him, looking into his eyes with sudden alarm. Before she could ask if they were ok, he whispered, "They're dead. They're all dead."
He didn't wait for a response, but merely walked toward the door. He said something about having to go as he passed Professor Wall, walked into the hallway, and closed the door behind him. Following the officers to a waiting cruiser, he began the journey downtown. He didn't feel anything as they drove, his mind blank. Were it not for the steady movement of his chest, they would have thought him dead.
The breeze seemed to slice through him as they left the car and headed into the building. He followed the officers down the sterile corridor to a set of large double doors. The word "Morgue" was destroyed as the doors swung inward, and a smell not unlike high school biology class jumped out at him. The doctor waiting for them was a fat bald man, his apron spattered here and there with blood. The officer who'd first spoken turned the sheets down on four bodies, and looked up at Michael, asking if those four husks had been his family. Michael looked at the faces of his loved ones, barely recognizable through the cuts and marks. The blood had been mostly wiped away, but some remained. The face of his wife seemed grotesque because part of her nose had been ripped away, and her lower jaw rested on her chest. His children's faces, once so vibrant and full of smiles, were pallid, almost as if they had been sleeping all night outside in the middle of winter. The scalp of his sixteen-month-old daughter had been ripped away, and he could still see the gaps between the plates of her skull where the soft spot had been. The officer asked again if this was his family, to which he could only nod, and run out of the room. He knelt in the corridor outside, leaning his head on the wall, and tried not to vomit.
When the officers joined him in the hallway, he brought himself under control, stood, and asked them to take him home. After they dropped him off in front of the dormitory, he looked at the building for a while before deciding that he'd rather go to class. He walked across campus without really thinking about where he was going. His concentration was fixed on making sure no one saw the anguish roiling around inside. He walked into the classroom just as Beatrice was explaining things to the professor, both of them turning looks of amazement on him as he strolled into the room. Beatrice started to say something, but Michael held up his hand, walked around to the far side of the room, and took his customary seat in the back. Professor Dawes walked over to him, and said, "Michael, what are you doing here? I don't expect you to be here after what's just happened." When he didn't answer, she continued, "Michael, you should go home."
"No," he grated, "If I go back to my room right now, I'm going to kill myself. Let's just have class ok? I have to keep it together, it's the least I can do for my kids."
"Ok," she sighed, "But if you need to leave, do it."
She went back to the front of the room, and Beatrice sat down next to him, her concern very evident on her face. Michael just sat there, listening but not listening. Living but not living. He felt like his soul was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do or say to bring it back. Every time he tried to think about anything, he would begin to feel faint, at which point he would simply shake his head, fix his eyes on some distant object, and melt back into himself. After class, Beatrice offered to come back to his room with him so that he wouldn't be alone, and they left together.
He walked home without caring whether she could keep up or not, but kept his pace steady, his body moving of its own accord. He walked through the dorm lobby without speaking to anyone, without bothering to check Beatrice in. She said something to the person working the front desk, then hurried to catch up with him. He used the hand rails to pull himself up all four flights of stairs, slid along the wall to his room, and unlocked the door, letting it swing open until it banged into the trash can behind it. Keeping his eyes averted from the photograph of his children that hung just inside the door, he silently grabbed his cigarettes, lit one, and sat down on the small couch.
Beatrice sat down next to Michael and looked at him. He could feel her soft brown eyes searching him for some sign as to what he was feeling or thinking. He cringed when she placed one hand on his shoulder, keeping his face steady, his gaze forward. She rubbed his arm and said, "Michael, talk to me. Tell me what's going through your mind. Please." Her efforts were in vain, though, and he continued to stare straight ahead, his fists clenched in his lap.
With a slight hesitation she whispered, "Please, Michael, I love you."
That broke him. He leapt from the couch, spun around, his face contorted in pure anger. "Don't tell me that you love me! I don't ever want to hear you say that again!"
He ran around the small circular table in the middle of the room, slamming his fists against the sliding door of his closet. His eyes locked on the picture of his children, their faces permanently fixed in those beguiling smiles, which he would never see again. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped, and he murmured, "Everyone that has ever loved me gets hurt, or worse. Don't you ever tell me that you love me!"
Marvin stopped for a drink of water, the light reflecting off the tears running down his face. He cleared his throat, and continued, "He jumped slightly when he felt her hand slide up his back, but gave in as she turned him to face her. She pulled him back over to the couch and sat down. Holding his hands, she eased him down next to her, and he rested his head on her shoulder. She held him while he cried, and watched him drop off to sleep.
The next few days, Michael kept his mind busy with planning the funeral. There was the argument with his in-laws about where they were to be buried, but Michael remained adamant that the burial be at home, in Indiana, where the rest of his family was buried. Her family was against this idea, but Michael wouldn't budge. He told them that they were his children, so they would be buried with his family, and that they would not be buried without their mother close by. With little choice, the family gave in and the arrangements were set.
Michael finished out the week going to every one of his classes. Beatrice tried to convince him to stay home, but he refused. He felt that he had to go on, that he had to keep his life going so that his children hadn't died for nothing. He decided that he was going to make something great of his life in their memory. Beatrice supported him as best she could, staying with him whenever none of his other friends could. Sometimes she would hold him while he cried, or watch him while he slept.
The visitation was scheduled for around 2 p.m. on Saturday, with the funeral beginning at 3 p.m. on Sunday, so he, Beatrice, his friend Dylan, and his best friend Amy drove to Indiana Friday evening, spending the night in his father's trailer. He walked into the funeral home around noon on Saturday, alone, to make the final arrangements and so that no one else would see his family before he. Everyone began to arrive around 2, offering condolences and paying their respects. Beatrice, Amy, and Dylan arrived around 4, and they walked Michael into the room, all of them looking at the innocent faces so soon deprived of everything they had to live for.
Michael looked at all of them in turn, thinking to himself that the morticians had done a really good job of reconstructing them. He remembered all of the fun times he'd had with the children, the way his daughter used to grin whenever he would tell her he loved her, the way they would all run up and give him a hug, hollering "Daddy!", whenever he came to pick them up. He remembered the Father-Daughter dance he'd just gone to with his seven year old, the basket his son had scored in the last basketball game of the season, the last time the baby had fallen asleep on his chest. He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from losing control, and he began to focus on his wife. They had made her look very beautiful, and he was glad that everyone would remember her this way. He almost laughed when he thought, 'Well, at least we never finished the divorce.' He stared at her, thinking, 'Even this way, she still turns me on,' then cursed himself for being such an asshole. He let a gasping laugh escape, and then stifled it before it could breed. He let his friends take him out of the room, and handled the customary "thank yous" and "I'm so sorrys" until it was time to go home.
Sunday morning, Michael got out of bed around 9 a.m. He shaved, showered, and brushed his teeth. He pulled his black turtleneck sweater over his head, sliding his arms through the sleeves. He slipped on his black pants, tucking the shirt in and pulling the woven-rope-style belt tight. He stepped into his black boots, lacing them up nice and tight. Then he got out the makeup kit he had used while working at the haunted house, and began to paint his face. He spread the lipstick over his lips, pressing them together to smear it around, until his lips were a dark black. Then he used the cream makeup to paint his eyelids black. He looked in the mirrour to see if he still looked like himself. Satisfied, he drove over to the funeral home to make the final preparations.
The pallbearers arrived around 1, and the undertaker went over everything that was going to happen during the funeral and internment. Everyone began to arrive around 2, and the seats filled. One of the ministers from his wife's church gave the eulogy, talking about things like heaven and the perfection of God's plan for humanity. Michael kept thinking how full of shit that whole idea was and wondering why he had agreed to let this man preach. Isn't it enough that his family was gone, shouldn't he be able to say goodbye without being told that he shouldn't be sad about it? Then the minister began to talk about how God and Satan were always fighting for our souls, and how we can't let things like the death of a loved one give Satan control over us. Michael thought, "You know, God and Satan are fighting over our souls so much. Someone should sit those two down and teach them how to share." He stifled a laugh, clenching his fists tighter.
No one really said anything about Michael's appearance, though the word "crazy" bounced around quite often. Everyone tried not to stare out of respect, but he knew that all eyes were upon him. He didn't care. He sat in the front row with his in-laws, his family and friends behind him. More than two thirds of the people there were his family, and he found that it helped to have them near. As the minister brought his little fantasy to a close, Michael continued his struggle for composure. He had promised himself that he wouldn't cry, and was determined to keep that promise. His kids had always hated to see him cry.
The undertaker informed everyone about where the internment was to be held, and people began to shuffle out of the room. Michael stayed long enough to watch them close the caskets, then let his friends lead him to the car. The procession stretched for miles, at least a hundred cars long, and they drove the five or ten miles to the cemetery. His friends, some of his cousins, and his father carried the caskets, placing them gently onto the moorings that had been set up over each of the graves. Michael took his place at the front, but didn't sit in the makeshift chairs. He stood, his friends ranged behind and around him, his family massed in the background. The minister gave another little spiel about heaven and such, and then Michael stepped forward. He had written a farewell poem for his family, and he wanted to read it to them, the way he used to read bedtime stories to his kids. He began the poem with slow, stuttering words, picking up momentum as he went along. It took every ounce of his will to maintain his composure, but he managed to finish the poem without breaking down.
He refused to let the tears fall as they fought to escape, and stood above the closed caskets while everyone filed out. Some people offered final condolences as they left, but Michael simply stared at the coffins. He took the poem he had written and placed it underneath the flowers atop his wife's casket. He turned and walked over to the fence, which surrounded the cemetery only a few feet away, feeling the breeze in his hair. The sky formed a dark blue bruise on the sick green of the grass. He climbed atop the fence, standing on one of the larger fence posts. Some would later proclaim that he appeared as something out of a movie, his long black hair blowing in the wind, his black trench coat billowing behind him.
He stood there for a while, his friends watching anxiously, the undertaker waiting for them to leave so he could lower the caskets. Michael yelled over to them, "Do it." The undertaker hesitated, started to say something, and Michael said again, "Do it." He watched as they lowered the caskets into the damp earth, removed the tarps from the dirt mounds, and began shoveling, burying his entire life a little deeper with each shovel full. He looked around at his friends, who stood watching him, concern on their faces. "Don't follow me he said," and jumped to the other side of the fence. He began to walk towards the trees in the distance, slow at first, then picking up speed. He broke into a run and disappeared over the horizon, a black silhouette against the dark green verdure beyond."
Marvin closed the book, wiping tears away and feeling embarrassed that he had cried in front of so many people. The announcer returned to the microphone, soliciting a round of applause from the crowd, and Marvin stepped down from the stage. He made his way to the book-signing table, trying to prepare himself for the barrage of questions to come. He looked over at Beatrice, who smiled, and then at his friend Amy. As the questions began to pour in, he thought, "Just don't ever tell me you love me."
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