The hole is for Tugboat.
Twenty years is a long time to know anybody, even if it’s a 25-pound tuxedo cat with six extra toes.
He came to her as a kitten, abandoned by a neighbor. Matted, mewling, scratched, scraped – a desperate beggar at her apartment door. Tugboat was just a silly name she chose, never intended to be a case of nominative determinism. But by the time he was one year old, the cat had become a black-and-white behemoth, nearly the weight of a toddler.
The vet said he was healthy despite the generous poundage.
“Some cats just need to be big.”
Or maybe we just grow to fill the space we’re given, she thought at the time.
He was invincible for 17 years. But two years ago, Tugboat went blind. Then, six months later, the arthritis really set in.
Pop, crunch, pop, creak. The sound of deteriorating joints clicking across the house.But Tugboat never complained. Not even when his kidneys started to fail and she squirted acrid medicine into his pried-open maw every morning.
Animals have a different relationship with pain. There’s no story that comes with it – none of the emotional weight that makes physical suffering hurt deeper. They have no sense of wretchedness or pride. But the withering was more than she could bear.
She was going to take him to the vet that morning. She knew it was time to say goodbye. But Tugboat was one step ahead of her; he spared her anguish, even at the end. She found him curled up in his bed, olive eyes half-closed; body unmoving, heart unbeating.
You were all I had left to love in the world.
For an instant, she considered taking his body to the vet for cremation, but the idea of Tugboat tossed into an incinerator with a random assortment of his dead pet peers made her dry heave. She reached for her pen and spiral notebook. This one was already almost full. Good thing I got the five-pack, she thought. She flipped past four months of previous lists.
MESSY FOODS TO AVOID
HOW TO ANSWER THE PHONE
HOW TO LEAVE A VOICEMAIL
WHAT TO DO IF I FALL DOWN THE STAIRS AND BREAK MY LEGS
BOOKS THAT DON’T DEPRESS ME
WHAT TO SAY TO THE MECHANIC
REMINDERS FOR MORNINGS
REMINDERS FOR BED
Finally, she found an empty page and started writing. Her thoughts moved faster than her pen these days – meddlesome commentary that made writing her lists increasingly difficult.
COFFINS FOR TUGBOAT
That old brown suitcase
The box the microwave came in
Ryan’s old cooler
It smells like beer though, she thought as she continued the list.
The laundry basket
But there’s no lid, she noted.
A cello case
Why am I even writing that down?
Outside, she plunged her shovel into the soil, then used fingers to shift, shove, make space for the suitcase that now entombed the cat’s generous remains. Clouds were gathering as she shoveled and shoved. She barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the suitcase while she dug. Memories of his reassuring purr. His “welcome home” mrrrows.
Her world kept shrinking. The dream job fell through. The pregnancy failed. People left.
But even after it all fell away, Tugboat was still there.
She dug faster, throwing clumpy soil aside.
Maybe if she made the hole big enough, she could crawl inside there with him.
2. The hole is for Ryan’s stupid toothbrush.
She finally threw it in the trash this morning.
Then, seven minutes later, she removed it.
Then, five minutes later, she threw it away again.
Then, three minutes later, she removed it again and reached for the spiral notebook.
WHAT TO DO WITH RYAN’S STUPID TOOTHBRUSH
Clean the grout with it
Clean the toilet with it
Mail it to him
Clean the toilet with it and mail it to him
Bury it
Bury it deep.
He left months ago. She hated him for leaving. She wanted to hate him for leaving. But she couldn’t really blame him. Everything changed after the loss. He looked at her differently. Or maybe she looked at him differently when he looked at her. It was impossible to decipher now. Her relationship was suddenly narrated in a language she never understood. No subtitles, no translations.
Maybe he knew that some part of me was actually relieved.
She closed the notebook and set the pen aside.
Not relieved. I just wasn’t ready.
She pulled on a pair of dingy garden gloves – once her mother’s – and headed for the backyard.
They met in a crowded elevator. She was the first to get on, followed by a throng of convention attendees on the next floor, packing her into the farthest corner and blocking her exit. As the elevator descended towards her floor, she wondered if she would have the courage to say “excuse me” to the heads clustered in front of her. Instead, one of the heads turned to her. The head had a face. His face.
She’d spend the next seven years looking at that face.
Marching out to the yard, toothbrush in clenched fist, she remembered his old coat in the downstairs closet, and two of his old t-shirts that she found crumpled at the bottom of their laundry hamper. And his toenail clippers.
Then she remembered the photo album. The vacations, the date nights, the Christmas nights and the gatherings with friends. No wedding photos – no wedding at all – but she never cared about that.
I guess it made the end a little easier for us.
She found a spot as far as possible from Tugboat’s grave and slammed her shovel into the ground.
3. The hole is for pills.
She hadn’t thought about them for years. Hadn’t needed them for years. Getting laid off from her perfect job was a setback, but even then, she didn’t run to the arms of her chemical companions – after all, she was starting a family with her soulmate. So she found another job. A job that was fine, and focused on her future. A shining horizon ahead, even if the career wasn’t quite what she envisioned.
When they lost the baby, the pills returned.
After Ryan left, the pills REALLY returned.
I can’t get past this alone.
The pills would carry her through the heartache – but only through the heartache. That was the contract she signed with Future Her. An opiate bridge. Just until you’re on the other side of hurt, she thought.
But the bridge was weakening.
REASONS TO BURY THE PILLS
Flushing them would be irresponsible
Throwing them away would be irresponsible
I’ll probably need to sell them if I lose this job, too
Jackie’s been asking questions at work
That pill fell out of my pocket in the middle of the department meeting.
I haven’t had a decent shit in months
Fucking Jackie with her perm and her loud-ass typing.
The itching never stops
Oh I’m fucking fine, Jackie, thanks for asking.
I hit that parked Camry at the grocery store
Jackie. With her fucking duck-of-the-day calendar.
They make my pupils look crazy
Hitting the parked car was a wake-up call. It seemed like the kind of thing that was supposed to be a wake-up call.
She didn’t leave a note. She bought touch-up paint for the sizable scratch on her own car. She resolved to shop at a grocery store across town for at least the rest of the year. And she concluded that she needed to stop taking the pills.
It’s getting too risky.
She held the bottle, gently rattling the tablets inside. They never clouded her judgment before.
Even if they did, would I know?
She set aside a handful, with a plan to painlessly taper until the substance was out of her system. She picked up the dirt-caked shovel and started digging again. She made sure to dig near Ryan’s grave of garbage, a suitable distance away from Tugboat’s resting place.
One shoulder injury and a thousand prescriptions later.
4. The hole is for pills.
REASONS TO DIG UP THE PILLS
It’s not a good time to stop
We’re too busy at work.
Who do I actually need to be healthy for?
I might go through withdrawal and die without them
’m sure it’s medically possible.
They help me relax
I think they also might make me smarter.
Maybe I just hit the car because I was tired
Tired people drive into stuff all the time.
All this digging is making my shoulder hurt
I hate shitting anyway
I won’t mind being alone
I won’t be alone.
5. The hole is for time.
Sleep was impossible. Her brain never stopped chiding, churning, asking, aching. The pills were supposed to suppress all that noise. They were supposed to bring her peace. But at some point, they failed to stifle the relentless commentary in her mind. Now, she could only wait for the nightly 3 a.m. inquest inside her skull.
She picked up her notebook and trudged outside, resenting the tingle of the crisp nighttime air. She glared at the sky – hardly a moon tonight, just some feeble sliver cowering behind a cloud.
Sometimes she would sit against the tree near Tugboat’s grave until it was time to get ready for work. She’d try to write more lists, but they grew frustrating. They failed to comply with her logic now.
Twenty years of Tugboat. Seven years with Ryan. Four years in this home.
She opened the notebook, its pages smudged and stained now, and tore past the scattered scrawl of lists. She flipped to the final page – the only blank space left.
THE YEARS I MISS
Second grade with Mrs. Connor
Living with my mom after graduation
Before she got sick.
The first year with Ryan
Wait. Not second grade. Maybe it was third grade. When did I have Mrs. Connor?
Junior year in high school
Was her name Connor? Maybe it was Connelly.
The year that Ryan and I took three vacations
Prague was perfect.
The year Ryan and I bought this house
The year I got the job
Even the pills gave up on me.
Every year I had that job
Maybe it was fourth grade with Mrs. Conroy.
Every fucking year
They’re all gone.
She scrambled the soft soil with her fingers. Where did the time go? The days blurred. The memories burned. All that time amounted to nothing but devastation. Where did the fucking time go? She couldn’t catch her breath. Where did all the fucking time go? She started digging, barehanded, frenetic. It was so obvious now: her time was interred deep in the ground. She could unearth those years. She just had to find them in the dirt.
Gasping for air, dizzy from exhaustion. But the hole was only a few inches deep. Not deep enough. That’s only a day or two, she thought. The years would be buried deeper. The decades, deeper still.
I’ll do it right next time. If I can just try again.
HOW I’LL DO BETTER
I’ll tell the truth
I’ll fix things instead of replacing them
I’ll wear comfortable shoes
I’ll find a better job
I’ll call Mom more often
Give me one more minute with her.
I’ll meditate
I’ll think about it, anyway.
I’ll talk to my coworkers
Maybe I’ll talk to everyone.
I’ll go to Hawaii
Even if I go alone.
I’ll go to parties
Even if I go alone.
I’ll plant something beautiful back here
Something that will grow.
Suddenly, she sat back on her heels, setting the notebook and pen aside. Her knees were burning. Her shoulder was aching. Her fingers were bleeding. But she sat, unmoving, watching the morning sun creep higher over her roof.
Something that will grow.
6. The hole is for her.
It’s a good morning to dig.
She lifted the grungy shovel and walked towards a far corner of the yard, the only part of the yard she’d left alone so far. She let the June sun soak her skin before she started her final dig.
Sweat pooled in the crook of her elbow, seeped from her scalp. She smiled slightly, shoveling faster. The sweat was purifying.
It was nearly noon when she decided the hole was big enough. She turned to her left, picked up the stack of notebooks, and dropped them into the dirt. Unceremoniously, almost mechanically. It was an unconscious imperative. Years of lists – imposing, suggesting, preparing, curating – all were surrendered to the hole.
WHAT TO BRING ON AIRPLANES
WHY I HATE PARROTS
WORDS I AM AFRAID TO PRONOUNCE
SIDE DISHES PEOPLE DON’T SEEM TO MIND
WHAT TO DO IF I GET THE NEIGHBORS’ MAIL
WHAT TO SAY WHEN SOMEONE COMPLIMENTS ME
A short time later, she finished the burial, tamping down the rounded heap of freshly turned earth. There was no relief, no newfound lightness. Just completion.
She decided that was enough.
Leaning the shovel against the fence, she pulled off her mother’s gloves and headed back into her home – past Ryan’s capsule of forgotten things, past Tugboat’s grave, past the hole for the pills, past the notebooks with their lists.
A few steps away from the patio, in a new garden bed, tiny red strawberries began to bud in the sunlight.
Laura K. Duncan is a Las Vegas–based writer whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and The American Bystander. She is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing and at work on new fiction.
Photo by: Alfo Medeiros