Requiem [COMPLETED]

Shadow of the Valley of Death

            It was almost the final deadline when I finished my applications for graduate school and sent them off in December. Sven had told me, belatedly, about his confrontation with grandpa. It was then I realized that hearing of grandpa's evilness no longer gave me the pain such stories had before; I was no longer tethered emotionally to him. I felt only relief that Sven was safe, and no sorrow or guilt for the man he had refused to vindicate by murder. But I was also exhausted. I was trying to cobble together some kind of project on the farm, without giving away all my deceit, and having little luck finding other trails of evidence to use instead of schlepping in tubs of bodies and saying "here." I also realized that archaeology was what I really wanted to do, right when I was most afraid of disappointing the woman who would hopefully write recommendations for me.

All of the applications had an essay, or letter of intent portion. I wanted to write: Take me away from all this death.

The irony of wanting to escape death that seemed so personal, only to delve into death as an acient societal level, to look at it clinically and study it as if it were a molecule, like lithium or CO2 was not lost on me. But what I did write was something rather dry and jargon filled, and to the point about my academic interests. I said nothing personal.

Luckily my project wasn't due until the end of the semester, and the recommendations were due ASAP. I ordered transcripts, mailed off the applications and laid on my bed exhausted. I thought I'd be happy having another thing checked off my to-do list, but I felt rotten. When Sven got home, I was still in the same position, staring at the ceiling. I heard him moving around and Ranger's dog collar tinkle. Then he came in the bedroom.

"I didn't realize you were home... Sigrid--did you hear already?"

I rolled over to look at him, still clutching my pillow to my chest.

"Heard what?"

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he insisted.

"Sven... I could really use a drink. Or a lot." He sat down on the bed.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a rotten person and I'm going to get caught and it's going to ruin the rest of my life and it's my own fault."

He sighed. "Is this about your project?"

"Yes. She's my advisor you know and I kind of need recommendation letters."

"Shit... Well, I'll help you. We'll come up with something together."

"You can't make up stuff for archaeology Sven, you've actually got to cite evidence. I'm afraid you can't help me this time."

"I know how to search old records," he replied. "Come on. I promise. We'll go down to the country seat and look through their old records and land grants. We'll find something."

"What were you going to tell me?"

Sven got quiet. "I called to talk with grandma at the retirement home... She had a stroke. She's dead."

"...I'm still going to need that drink then."

"Me too."

There was nothing unusual about the day Grandma died. The weather, which had been colder and more snow-filled than most fall season, had experienced a warm front that was leeching away all signs of winter as the snow melted; but it wasn't quite warm enough to reheat the already frozen ground, so puddles grew and grew into shallow ponds that would freeze soon into dangerous rinks of ice on sidewalks and streets. For now, everything was brown and gray, and the cloud cover was so thick that everything was monochrome; even brightly colored cars seemed sepia toned, splashes of dirty water covering everything and making us feel like we were walking through an old black and white photo.