The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Shoot the Horses First by Leah Angstman

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One Night, When the Breath of August Blew Hotter

               “It isn’t as if you liked him. I hardly think you can feel sorry that he’s lying six feet under.”

               “He’s not exactly six feet under,” Richard said to the haughty woman, as he tugged on her dead husband’s limp arms and battled to keep the overcoat sleeves from slipping free. The battle lost, the dead man’s arms dropped from the sleeves, and a pocketwatch fell from the pocket, bouncing off Richard’s polished wingtip, splattering mud droplets up his spats. Its tick-tock-tick-tock amplified in the darkness, the sound thudding against Richard’s chest like Elda’s heartbeats.

               Elda. What a dame. Any man would die for her, and one did. What a dame; what a shame, Richard had always said. Yet, here he was, lifting Elda’s fourth husband into an early grave without the bravery of questions. He watched her clench the shovel like she would a man’s heart, twisting its handle, jabbing it into the ground with repeated blows. His heart hurt from the careless repetitions, hurt like a heart would hurt if she squeezed it or drove a shovel through it.

               As he turned, he glimpsed a flat object leave her hand and wing through the air and land with a soft thud inside the grave. He squinted to make it out, a shadowy square, then looked at her, and one eyebrow rose on the face that lit like a hovering star.

               “What was that?” he asked and threw a shovelful of dirt on it, then another.                “A souvenir.”

               Dawn creased the horizon by the time he’d kicked the last batch of dirt and leaves over the hidden grave. Streaks of light parted the trees like physical fingers, and Richard panted, wiped his brow, and could see the sweat on the back of his hand. They had to leave. The spot had been carelessly chosen, he saw now, the road rather closer than he’d remembered.                “You didn’t like him,” Elda whispered again.

               “No.” He mopped his face with his cuff. “No, I never liked the man.”

               There again, the tick-tock-tick-tock repeated like a creature scratching initials into tree bark, and Richard eyed the timepiece resting near the toe of his shoe. “Might I have this watch?”

               “For memories, Rick?” she chuckled coldly. “Old times’ sake?”

               “For payoff,” he returned. “Lord knows I’m not getting what was promised from you. So you oughta think real hard about keeping me quiet.”

               Elda raised a brow and her pretty lips curled. Void of thought, her hands clenched tighter on the shovel. She liked that pocketwatch.

               “I’m going for my coffee at the Depot. Have to keep routine.” He dropped the watch in his coat pocket and patted it, then patted his pockets further. His face scrunched. He felt his breast pockets, then his inside pockets, then his outer ones again. Only the outline of the watch, but not … Where was … It was empty. He dipped back into the pocket where it should be, then looked up at Elda.

               She winked, then dropped the shovel, turned, and stepped lightly through the woods until her form disappeared. He stared at the mound like it would awaken, so much more obvious in the brightening light, and the blue of an Amilcar passed through the mouths of trees along the road. He stared and stared down at the grave. A souvenir.

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