It was a small house hidden from view by overgrown shrubs and trees. Leaves covered Solomon’s shoes as he walked towards the front door. A dirty piece of yellow police tape lay crumbled over the porch, failing to stop Solomon’s shoes from stepping over it, and through the broken door. His hand grazed its jagged edges. It looked like someone had taken an ax to it.
Last time it wasn’t like this at all, he thought.
He ducked under the cobwebs, and into the mess of the living room. A dead fly lay in a congealed pool of blood. He picked up a gold wedding band next to the fly. Through the torn curtains, the sun sparkled off the wind chimes as Solomon put the band in his pocket.
His eyes followed a trail of blood from the congealed pool down the hall into the bathroom. He saw a noose nailed into the ceiling just above the toilet. A man’s shoe lay on the floor. Its tip was covered in dried blood that trailed to the head of an ax.
“It wasn’t like this at all,” he said as he sadly shook his head. Turning away from the torn and bloody sofa, he entered the kitchen. The smell of something rotten hit him like a brick. He forced himself not to gag in any of the putrid air as he staggered back into the living room.
Trying not to lose his lunch, Solomon headed for the one source of fresh air and got a face full of cobwebs. Sputtering as he tried not to breathe, Solomon fell through the broken door, stabbing his hand onto its jagged edges.
“What a bitch!” he screamed.
“Oh my God, not again,” Corra said. She was fed up with Solomon’s bumbling ways. “Enough is enough Solomon.”
She turned on the bedroom light to find Solomon lying on the floor, cradling his hand.
“It was wrong, Corra. Last time it wasn’t like that at all.”
Corra took a deep breath to stop the scream welling up in her. “What was it this time?”
Solomon climbed back into bed. “I should’ve known something was up when there were leaves. There are never leaves in my dreams. And I was right. There was no finger. I always take the wedding ring off a finger next to the fly, but there was no finger. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Corra tried to grab his hands to stop Solomon from pulling his hair. She felt so sick and tired of this routine, his stupid nightmare. She wished he’d get on with it, stay in the kitchen or something to complete this dream.
“The kitchen, then stabbing your hand on the door?”
Solomon nodded his head, trying to covertly get her hands off his hands. He wanted to pull his hair some more, but he knew she’d be mad at him if he did. Oh no, she was giving him that look that said she knew what he was thinking. Without thinking, he stuck his tongue at her.
He stuck his tongue at me, Corra thought in amazement. Without thinking, she lightly bit his tongue. Serves you right for being rude.
She bit my tongue, Solomon thought in amazement. He shoved her onto the bed and rubbed his head on her stomach until she laughed herself into submission.
“Mercy,” he asked. She nodded so he lay next to her, and they cuddled.
After a few moments, Corra said, “Solomon, I think you need to stay in the kitchen long enough to see what’s there. Then maybe this will end.”
“It stinks in there.”
“This is going on too long, Solomon.”
“I know, but it really stinks in there.” Solomon weakly laughed, joking that Freud would have a field day with him.
Corra raised herself on her elbow to look into Solomon’s eyes. “Your parents died in that plane crash almost six months ago. Let it go.”
Solomon looked away. “I can’t stay in that kitchen.”
“Why?”
Solomon tried to push Corra away, but she held tight onto him. Without prying her arms from him, Solomon knew he was trapped. “Look at me,” she said, trying to look into his eyes. “Why? Why? Why, Solomon?”
She kept asking why, why, why. It was driving him crazy. He wanted to scream at her to stop. Shut up, bitch! Stop bugging me, he wanted to scream and beat her until she couldn’t ask him why anymore. Beat her with that bloody shoe, with that ax, with, with, with…
“Him.” The word broke out from Solomon’s lips.
“Him?” Corra asked.
The suppressed tears of six months welled out of Solomon’s eyes. “He’s sitting at the kitchen table, offering me the ring from his rotting hand.”
“Who is it?”
“I can never remember his face. Just that putrid hand offering me the ring.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned this before?” Corra suddenly realized this was why Solomon stumbled out of the kitchen, falling out of the bed to wake up holding a hand he’d stabbed in his dream. “You have to take the ring, Solomon. Put your dad to rest.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“I don’t want to take it, and you can’t make me.”
“Solomon, you will take the ring, and move on.” Corra tried to speak in her best imitation of a general giving orders for his men to charge into battle. Then she softened her voice into a caress. “Honey, you can’t bring them back this way. They’re not coming back.”
“I know.” Solomon knew what she said was right, but doing the right thing was so hard. He hadn’t even visited his parent’s graves since they were buried. “I know, but to let go...”
“I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll be here with you, for better or for worse.”
Solomon smiled at his wife. She gently kissed his cheek as he whispered his promise into her ear.
“And I promise to hold your hand when we visit their graves tomorrow,” she said.
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