"In consequence again of those accursed laws of consciousness, anger in me is subject to chemical desintegration."

--Fyodor Dostoevsky "Notes from Underground"

---

The air was crisp, still and silent...only interrupted periodically by the quick and visible exhalations of a woman fighting to control her emotions, tears dripping down her face and leaving black threads of mascara–Maybellene–in their wake.

It was cold.

And though that--coupled with the woman’s periodic sniffing and clutching of his jacket-- was saddening and mildly discomforting, it wasn’t what tore Lloyd up inside.

It might’ve been the pain he had been feeling in his back–a gnawing sensation that was beginning to make him slowly shift weight from foot-to-foot after standing stiff for so long–but that wasn’t it, either.

No. It was the coffin being lowered in front of him, a mere five feet away.

The coffin was, like most things involved in American funerals--a simple yet elegant ordeal. Black coating, gold bands sealing the death-box shut, flowers–Carnations and lace–perched precariously on the top, slowly swaying with the jerky and unsure motions of the pallbearers lowering the coffin. The coffin was heavy, Lloyd knew, but if he hadn’t known the old man inside the coffin, he would’ve thought that the corpse had once been a fat man by the way his final bed was being handled.

Unfortunately, that had not been the dead guy’s case here.

Another sniffle. Lloyd blinked, his amber eyes quickly shuttering beneath tired lids and the dim purple hallows of insomnia, and focused away from the coffin, instead turning to Wendy. She was grasping Lloyd’s jacket like Death slowly turning the cuff in a dying man’s blood-pressure reading up. She was in ruins, barely keeping on her own feet and in the process dragging down Lloyd–her beloved husband’s-- somewhat gawky frame.

The hubby instinct kicked in:

Comfort her.

Lloyd--who already had been leaning towards Wendy in a worried manner--brought an

arm around her small shoulders and pulled her closer, quietly whispering mutterings of nothing

into her (currently) red hair and telling her that her father would be happy in the Living-Room-In-The-Sky, where he could watch all the old TV Land reruns he wanted and not have to worry about cable bills.

Wendy gave a strangled yelp–which Lloyd could only guess was her immeadiate version of laughter–and inched closer, though this time, instead of focusing entirely on the coffin in front of her, she tilted her head upwards and gave her husband a tearful smile, reaching out with a white-gloved hand and giving him a pat on the chest.

Lloyd replied by giving a small squeeze.

The husband instinct had done good.

...But it still could not prevent the torn-up feeling he was experiencing at the sight of the coffin.

Wendy’s psychiratrist--a kind, petite young woman who Wendy insisted they should invite over for dinner sometime--would later tell Wendy that the empty feeling she was experiencing--a “snake” writhing in her belly--was the space obviously unoccupied now by her father. In Wendy’s delicate case, it might have been very well true.

But what Lloyd felt in that ravaged gap was his marriage slowly disintegrating. As the dirt beneath one of the bearers shifted and he gave a small stagger, Lloyd felt his heart jump up into his throat and felt as though it was HE who was losing his traction, losing his grip. As the men carefully tied up the coffin and braced themselves to lower it, slowly bringing the death-box below Lloyd’s line of sight, it was as if Lloyd was the one being lowered into a pit, trapped on all four sides by dirt more than six feet high.

And then when the dirt came down–quietly, quickly, and without pause–Lloyd experienced a drowning sensation in his lungs and coughed once, just to clarify that he was breathing and not be buried alive.

Not being buried under his own onslaught of guilt.

Wendy gently shook his arm, snapping Lloyd back to reality and to her worried features.

“Honey?”

Lloyd coughed again--hoping that it wasn’t dirt that was backing up his esophagus–and gave a small smile.

“Yeah?”

Wendy took a step back and looked up, peering around her husband’s outrageously sized nose in an attempt to stare him in the eye.

“Are you feeling alright?’

“Fine, Wen.” Lloyd smiled once again. “I’m feeling fine. Really.”

Wendy gave a shuddering sigh--obviously still trying to keep a lid on her own fading reality–and patted his hand.

“That’s good, dear. That’s very good.”

---

The ceremony was over, the coffin at ease in its final resting place. Slowly the group of mourners–like a flock of crows–began to file their way past the grave, with some giving solemn nods of respect while others simply looked on, not wanting to comprehend the never-ending cycle of life. And death.

Wendy had gotten a better control of herself, shoulders held back, eyes still streaked with mascara but slightly more clear. Lloyd, the ever-faithful guard dog, stood by her side and looked down at the dirt. Sub-consciously, his ring finger began to twitch.

“You never were worthy of my daughter...”

“Lloyd?”

“...Lloyd?”

He shook himself off. “Yes, Wendy?”

She gave a small smile and unsteadily put one of her feet forward. “Let’s go.”

Wendy was never known for being quick to snap back from sorrow. It had always, as Lloyd remembered, taken her days, weeks...sometimes months...to snap out of a funk and regain herself and yet, here, something different seemed to be happening. The fact that Wendy was making the first move said something large. The fact that she even took a second step said another thing far above that.

But Lloyd, being the wise, quiet husband he was, stayed low about his observation. She would tell him in enough time.

...If he was still around, that is.

Slowly the two began their travel back to the car, stopping periodically to be consoled by a mourner, telling them how sorry they were for their “great loss.” Both Wendy and Lloyd gave thin smiles–impatient smiles–and nodded in understanding. Indeed, it was a sorrowful event. Most sorrowful to anyone, especially a strong couple like those two...Poor things...

The car.

Finally they were in the car.

Lloyd shifted himself in the driver’s seat, that Malibu driver’s seat from hell, the itchy, squeaky faux-leather grinding into his already irritated backside, and glanced over at Wendy. In the uncomfortable silence of the vehicle, they both gave each other another small, empathetic nods.

Lloyd, trying to break free of the quiet that pervaded the conversation, glanced down at the clock on the radio.

“What time to we have to pick up the kids, again?” The clock read four-fifty, and Lloyd wasn’t sure if the time to retrieve their children–darling Lily and Ian, four and six–was five-fifteen or five thirty.

Wendy hmmed for a moment, pondering with a frown, before she spoke.

“Five-fifteen.”

A beat. Lloyd, keys in hand, reached for the ignition only to stop in midmotion, pivoting his head to stare at his wife of seven years.

“Are you ready to go, Wendy?”

Wendy took a long, shuddering breath, turning her gaze away from him and towards the window, watching the cemetery outside for a few moments. Another long inhalation. She turned back, though her eyes were surprisingly dry, and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Wendy nodded slowly, the tilt of her head gaining speed rapidly as the seconds dragged on.

“Yes. I am.”

Lloyd went through, then, with the keys, stabbing them into the ignition and, with a jerk of the wrist, starting the car with a low growl. He looked back at Wendy. They held each others eyes solidly before Lloyd turned his attention back to the road.

Pull the car out of park.

Punch down the emergency break.

Lloyd grunted.

“Let’s go.”