Burial of the Dead

NAM

NAM

Former Detective Mark Moraski wakes early on New Years Day, the Sunday morning after the New Year’s Eve he and his wife partied with the partners and associates from the firm he’ll join in two weeks. The night went well, the mine field of booze, bosses and bullshit offered up no victims of consequence as Mark and his wife dodged and weaved and charmed and smiled their way through four hours of “welcome aboard” and “we could use a detective on staff.”

His wife stays in bed, sleeping off the one rum and tonic that was more than enough to remind her why she never drinks liquor. Mark rubs his head, feeling the four drinks, especially the last one that unsettled him, loosened his tongue and allowed him to laugh a genuine laugh, the kind of laugh that rings ten times louder the next morning when a person dissects the prior night’s activities and their potential impact on his career, salary and future.

“Fuck it,” Mark says as his bare foot steps on a small toy made of rubber as hard as a diamond bit. He falls to the side and lands with legs spread on the couch. The Christmas tree looks tired in the morning light. His head aches a little, but he writes it off to a head cold that’s been plaguing him since Thanksgiving. Barney, the bulldog, saunters into the room, his thick tongue folded like the petal of a red flower, panting as if he’d run a mile, looking at Mark the way dogs look, offering whatever they offer, waiting on whatever is offered in return.

“Come here, Barney,” Mark says, and Barney leaps twice before his short legs hoist him to the couch where he snuggles by Mark’s side. “Have a good New Year’s Eve?” Mark asks, and the dog yawns. Mark looks over the packages, some in piles, all opened with the wrapping paper torn in strips, and the little cardboard village from his childhood, set up under the green tree, a real tree, because it would always be a real tree.

“Are we going today, Dad?” It’s Mark’s daughter, Celia, his youngest, and Mark watches as she steps into the room avoiding all the toys and dolls and everything else strewn across the floor, as if she has a sixth sense about toys and where they belong.

“Good morning, my lovely daughter,” Mark says, as Barney raises and lowers his head, debating whether to jump off the couch and join Celia by the tree.

“I told Marnie we probably were,” Celia says.

“Were what?” Mark asks.

“Going to see the kids. It’s Sunday. They’ll be waiting,” and Mark remembers his promise to bring puppies every Sunday for the kids at the Children’s Hospital. He wonders whether New Year’s Day qualifies or relieves him of his promise, and realizing it doesn’t, pulls himself together, makes mental notes about calling the rescue pound, getting the puppies, driving the car, doing what he promised to do.

“I guess we’re going then,” Mark says, and Celia tells him she can’t wait, that it’s her favorite thing to do, that it makes Sunday’s better because she doesn’t spend the whole day worrying about going to school on Monday.

“Why do you worry about going to school?” Mark asks.

“I don’t really,” Celia says, “It’s just because I’d rather stay home and play.”

“School’s no fun?” Mark asks.

“Dad,” Celia says. “It’s school.”

Mark leans back and ponders the wisdom of children.

***

It’s late morning and Mary-Ellen Moraski’s in the kitchen scrambling eggs and making waffles. The two girls are seated at the kitchen table playing with the new dolls Santa brought for Christmas. Mary-Ellen’s talking to Mark about the people she met the night before, and Mark leans against the counter.