~Sibirskaia Six~
Blood & Water
Ashes & Dust
(November 1st)
I really didn't want to speak, here, today.
I'm having trouble just talking. At all. To anyone. Let alone handling a responsibility like this.
I'd much rather be hiding in the back row -- head down, so I don't have to look anyone in the eye -- and be listening to ANY one of you do this, instead...and hating you...because nothing you have to say would be good enough...
But if I don't do this, who will? Who else is there? Doctor Jones?
My father?
To be honest, I don't even know what to say. What does anyone say, standing up here? What are you supposed to say in a...in a eulogy?
I could talk about her family, I guess. That's the usual topic, right? I could tell you about the husband she lost to war: the grandfather who I never met, and only know from her old stories. I could tell you about her only son...my father...who didn't even bother to show up, today. Or the childless sibling she outlived...
...or her only grandchild.
But that would paint a picture of a lonely and forgotten woman. And one glance around this chapel shows that that was anything but the truth...
I could talk about her career and her accomplishments. But no one came here, today, to celebrate some newspaper article she wrote...or to learn her secret to financial independence in old age. We're here for her.
So perhaps the story of her childhood. But how? No one's left to give a firsthand account, and what few stories I've been told would be...half remembered at best.
And besides: none of these things would say anything -- not really -- about who she really was.
Dorothy Thurman was a woman who always thought family meant more than blood. It's why she treated her doctor like a son...and why I treat him like a dad. And it's why all of you are here today, even though none of you were technically...`family.'
She, herself, said more than once that this was because she had so little `real' family left...and that she was just trying to fill the void. But that was just modesty. Not truth. She loved us all. And she never gave us reason to doubt it.
Dorothy was a tiger who, as a child, chose to be called `Dot.' It was a nickname she kept her entire life. And it was a nickname that she still laughed and smiled over in her later years, just the same as she had as a little girl.
Every one of you has heard the joke. Every new friend she made had to hear it at least once...
``Why do they call me Dot?'' she'd ask, and then she'd point to her stripes and say: ``Because of all my spots!''
Dorothy was a woman who would be bragging right now, if she could, about how she did all of this on purpose. She timed it just right! Because how many of US get to say that OUR funeral was on the Day of the Dead?
Dorothy was a woman who took her grandson in and raised him as her own, when his own parents didn't want him. She gave him everything. She'd already spent her life raising one ungrateful son, and, without a moment's thought, she took on a second, hyperactive, smart-mouthed little tiger boy...who she knew she was already too old to handle.
But she never complained. And she showed him more love than any two `real' parents ever could.
Dorothy...
...my grandmother was the person we should all hope to be. And she deserves better than any eulogy I could ever hope to give.
~
Graveside.
One hour later.
The coffin was closed, now. No more the surreal taxidermy on display. No longer the sight of a sleeping tigress who would never wake, wearing the cheap imitation of her living face. No more hollow reminders...
Just a box.
Hunter stood at her head...or maybe her feet. He wasn't sure. Those who had followed from the chapel passed them by, in sequence -- first her, then him -- one by one. They laid their flowers, each and every one, upon the already flowered wreath...
...and then they stopped to speak to him. Paying their respects. Offering their condolences. Religious platitudes that he doubted they even believed...and in which he found no comfort.
Behind and to his right stood Elliot, half hidden...and past them both stood Stanley. They were here because Hunter wanted them here. Because he would have it no other way. They were all he had left, and he couldn't do this alone.
The passing faces -- nameless innumerable faces -- barely gave Stan a second look. They expected him. He was Dorothy's doctor. He was her closest friend in her final days. And, as Hunter had said in the eulogy: her son.
He would be Hunter's only family now. His guardian. His father...
Toward Elliot, however, those nameless passing faces cast their curious stares: discrete glances at best, and contemptuous sneers at worst. And it was only out of respect for the woman lying to his side that Hunter let such insults pass. Only in Dot's memory was this graveyard not filled with his cursing...
...only for her, did he fake his smiles.
But how dare they? How could they call themselves her friends, and still show both her and her grandson such disrespect? They could be suspicious if they wanted. They could be ignorant, homophobic, and cruel. They could be weary of an outsider in their midst...standing where they felt he ought not.
But Dorothy's funeral was not the time!
Eventually, the line of nameless faces broke. Eventually, one of those faces had a name:
Scott Hammond.
The vulpine face offered the gentlest of smiles. Sympathetic, sincere, and soft. He took Hunter's paw into his. ``I never met Dot,'' he only had the usual to say, ``and I won't pretend I knew her. But if she raised you...and the cat you're becoming is any indication...then she was everything you said and more.'' Short, sweet, and respectful...
He moved along and stopped by Stan. Hushed voices. Secret whispers. Words about money, about housing, and about what practical help might be needed.
But another face pulled Hunter's attention away. Another face, another name:
James Callaway.
The raccoon took the tiger's paw, just the same as had his fox, though firmer and with both his gray paws enveloping the orange and white fur. ``I'm so sorry she didn't make it, Hunter. I know. I know there's nothing I can say...nothing anyone here can say. I know what it's like to be...''
Alone.
He didn't say the word, but they both knew it was next. At a cafe, three weeks ago, he'd told Hunter how he'd lost his family. How he'd been alone. And if anyone here really knew...
``Look,'' he continued, opening the tiger's paw and pressing a small piece of paper to its palm, ``if you need me, call. Anything. Anytime. Day or night. I'll be there.'' He let go and glanced at Stanley, then back at the boy, ``And I'm gonna' talk to Dr. Jones. I'll be there when you move, too. You don't want to face that empty house alone.''
And as he stepped aside, another face and another name filled the vacuum of his wake:
Jeffery.
Jeffery...Hammond? Did the name come with the adoption?
``I'm sorry for your loss,'' the little cat shifted on his feet. But why was he even here? He shouldn't be. He didn't need to be. Why would they bring him? He was so nervous, so out of place. He didn't even know what to say, or how to stand...
...and the tiger knew exactly how he felt.
Hunter wanted to hug him. He wanted to draw Jeffery in, and to tell the little gray thing in his arms that everything would be okay. He was doing fine, and he was so happy that his new friend had come. Thank you, Jeffery. It means the world to me.
Weird, though. Today of all days. And he felt bad for Jeffery...?
``I'm sorry,'' the cat repeated...
...and along he went, replaced again by face after nameless face. Tired faces and their meaningless cliches. Bored faces and their sympathies with no empathy. Lying faces who certainly didn't care half as much as they might say...
...and a brown face with its black muzzle and shaggy mane. A hyena's face:
Michael Taylor.
Mic.
``She was a good woman,'' he placed a spotted paw on the tiger's shoulder. ``She always treated me right. Better than I deserved, even. I'll miss her.''
Kind words. Comfort and love. But, inside, Hunter seethed.
What the fuck was that? Straight faced? Serious? This wasn't Mic! Don't do this; don't just say how sorry you are and then move on! You're not one of them. You're not like everyone else. You don't have to just play the part!
Make a joke! Insult the eulogy! Say something about her coming back as a fucking zombie! Call the funeral the worst party you've ever been to! Complain about the music! Something! Please. Anything. Anything but this...
...anything but another reminder of why we're really here.
But, in the silence, Mic simply pulled his friend close in a hug...the only one here bold enough to try.
And the tiger cried.
It was only a few stray tears, but they came. They came without hesitation or shame. And he clung to the hyena. If he could, he would never have let go...and he knew Mic would never have made him.
But he did let go. They stepped apart, and his old friend cracked the tiniest smirk...
``Don't be such a girl,'' a spotted paw rose, and a finger wiped away the tiger's tears. ``It was just a hug.''
~
The sun was ebbing away. Afternoon would soon be evening...
The chairs had been folded and carried off. The tent covering them had been disassembled and packed away. The faces, both named and nameless, had left...one by one, two by two, and three by three...
And all that remained, now, was a mound of dirt.
A mound of dirt...a tiger...and his husky...
The service had ended sometime ago. The mourners -- and those simply bound by some unspoken social contract -- had said their piece and moved along. Cars rolled through the quiet little graveyard avenues, and off toward named roads and merrier locales.
But Hunter refused to leave. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps it was customary to go, and to leave the work of burial to those unfortunate souls who were paid to DO such work. But he would see this to its end. He would not leave until she was buried. He needed to see the dirt. He needed to know it was real...
And now it was done...and Hunter and Elliot stood alone by the mound of dirt and its flowered wreath.
The cemetery had not fallen silent in respect: in the sort of cosmic reverence which Hunter, on some level, had almost expected. It was November, and a chilled autumn breeze swept the cover of fallen leaves from atop its bed of dead and dying grass. Cars passed on nearby streets. Animals scurried, flapped, and cried. And the engine of Stanley's car rumbled deceptively nearby...patiently awaiting its would-be passengers.
The cemetery had not fallen silent in respect. But Elliot had.
And Hunter knew. Elliot wasn't in grief for a woman he'd barely known. And he wasn't at a lack of words: comments on the funeral, questions about what might come next, awkward condolences of his own, or even distracting conversations about school...or about something else equally irrelevant on a day like today.
He simply felt for his tiger. And he sat mute both out of respect, and out of a fear of saying anything which might further wound his lover. Hunter knew. But he'd also had all of the silence he could take...
``It's over,'' he said, in a cold, listless musing...
...and the husky beside him flinched in surprise at the sound. It was only then that Hunter realized just how quiet HE had been as well. Had he really not spoken a word since the eulogy?
``Well...'' he corrected himself, pensively, ``almost over.''
Though hesitant, Elliot concluded: ``Yeah, you've still got the move left, right? When, uhm...?'' he cleared his throat, ``When are you actually planning to do it?''
Hunter just shrugged, ``Well I...I kind of already have. I've been sleeping at Stan's ever since...'' he trailed off. He still couldn't say it out loud? She was already in the ground, and he still couldn't bring himself to admit the truth? But he continued, ``I just can't sleep in that house anymore, y'know? Knowing she's not there on the other side of her door...'' a door that he still hadn't the nerve to open.
``Yeah...''
The tiger shook himself out, as if forcing off a violent chill. He had to compose himself. He needed to talk. He needed...anything other than to just stare at this dirt. But he had to compose himself if he hoped to continue. ``But...you mean my things, right? When do I pack my stuff and shuffle on over to Stan's for good?''
Elliot simply nodded in return.
``Whenever I'm ready?'' Hunter looked down at his feet, tensing in frustration before explaining: ``A part of me wants to just do it. Now. Tonight. Straight from the graveyard. Just get it over with and never look at that house again. But...'' he looked back up with a sigh, ``...I'm not sure if I'm ready to go back, yet...even if it's just long enough for that.''
``That's understandable,'' Elliot gave a gentle nod...
...and the cat shrugged, ``It's not like it really matters, either way, though. My stuff can stay there as long as I please. She owns the place, after all, or...she did...'' He paused with the realization: ``I guess I own it, now, huh?''
``Is...is that how that works?''
``Oh. I didn't tell you,'' he noted -- not a question, but a simple statement of fact -- and then turned his eyes on the dog. ``She left me everything, Elliot.''
``Everything?'' Elliot's eyes widened. ``But...you mean that there wasn't...anyone else?''
``Why do you think my dad wasn't here, today?'' the tiger answered. ``I mean: he CAME down!'' he rolled his eyes through a darkly amused little scoff. ``He was here bright and fuckin' early, yesterday, for the reading of the will. Had some woman with him, too, who I'd never seen before...and he didn't even mention my mom. I really don't have any clue where...'' he trailed off again, in thought. His mother wasn't important. She never had been. ``But that's all he really cared about, you know? What he gained. How he'd benefit from her-'' his voice stopped short...so sharply that his body reeled forward.
Death. He still couldn't say it.
And Elliot, again, fell into his respectful silence...
...until Hunter continued: ``And so when he found out that it was all mine...he had no reason left to stay.''
``I'm sorry, hun.''
``Don't be. Didn't want him here, anyway,'' he assured his lover, without a moment's thought. ``But it IS all mine, now. Her money, her car, her jewelry that I'm told I should give to the `right girl' or to the `beautiful daughters' she just knows I'll have.'' He sparked a tiny smile at that: both at the kind words of her will...and at her blissfully innocent predictions. And after a moment, he continued the list: ``Some natural gas rights on this property that her parents left to HER...and even that little house.'' The house. The house he'd very much prefer to never see again. ``I'll be selling the house.''
``I didn't even know she...COULD leave all that stuff to you. I mean...aren't you...''
``Too young? Yeah...for some of it, I think.'' Hunter shrugged, but then clarified: ``But, technically, it's all been left to Stan...for him to hold until I turn 18. There's a bunch of legal stuff there that I don't really understand,'' he waved a dismissive paw in the air. He remained far less interested in the whole ordeal, even, than he let on. But it was something to talk about, at least. Something considerably more comforting than the indifferent, clattering buzz of the graveyard. ``But he'll take good care of it; I trust him. It'll be waiting there for me when the time comes.''
Elliot offered an optimistic nod, ``That's good.''
``Oh!'' the tiger exclaimed...a breathless and half-hearted, little shout, but an attempt at least to sound chipper. ``And that other house, too. You know: the one out in the country that I took you to, a few times? On that big plot of farm land?''
``Yeah,'' the husky smiled at that...
...and Hunter did the same. Good memories. Recent starry nights alone with Elliot, and hot summer afternoons, as a kitten, exploring the sprawling land. Sapphire skied mornings and choruses of crickets at dusk. Happier days. ``It...I think I WILL keep.''
``I'm sure she'd want you to...''
``Oh, she'd want me to keep it all!'' He gave a dark little laugh, ``And she'd want me to rub my dad's nose in it, too!''
``Really?'' Elliot recoiled at the thought.
``Oh, yeah! She acted sweet, but she could be...spiteful.'' He smiled just a bit wider. The spite -- and the strength that came with it -- it was a much the reason to love her as anything else. Perhaps more. ``Did I ever tell you how she became my legal guardian? I mean: she'd had me from when I was a cub...but I mean when she made it legal.''
``No.''
``Well, my parents held her up for money a time or two. Drugs...bail...rent...something...I don't know,'' the tiger tossed up his paws at the insignificance of the detail. ``But they always used me as leverage. You know: `do it or we'll take Hunter back!' Or `we'll go to the cops, and say you're keeping him from us!' So on...so forth...''
``Wow,'' Elliot interjected shortly, in exasperation.
``Well, she couldn't risk that. She couldn't let me end up with them. And that was for both of our sakes, too! Because if they had me, she would never be able to say no when it came to money again.'' Hunter locked his eyes on the mound of dirt as he spoke, ``So, in secret, she got in touch with some lawyers, and got ready to sue for custody. My parents had a pretty bad track record, already, so -- while it would have still been a fight -- she stood a good chance of winning. And then she went to my dad, and she told him that she'd cut him a check. She'd help him out with...whatever it was he'd gotten himself into, that time around. And this one was a big deal, too...like, almost life threatening. But she said she'd only do it, if he signed the paperwork to make her my legal guardian,'' the tiger looked at Elliot as if punctuating that, and then crossed his arms as he continued. ``He balked at that, of course, because he still wanted me for leverage. So she warned him that she was prepared to fight for me, and made her case look a lot stronger than it really was. And he couldn't waste the time going to court over it, because he needed the money right away. So he caved! Signed me over without a fight.''
``How much did that cost her, though?'' the husky inquired.
``One hundred dollars.''
``That's it?? That was the whole cost of his big life threatening problem??''
``Oh, not even close!'' Hunter laughed aloud -- his first real laugh in days -- and then held up a finger as he explained: ``But she never told him how big of a check she was gonna' cut!''
Elliot laughed just the same, though muffled by the paw now covering his muzzle.
``And now he didn't have me as leverage anymore, so she never had to help him, again!'' The tiger pointed at his lover for emphasis, ``And THAT is why I haven't seen him in years.''
``Well...fuck him,'' Elliot spoke frankly as his laughter died down. ``But Dorothy-''
``Dot.''
``Dot,'' the dog yielded. ``Dot really does sound like she was a great woman. I'm sorry I didn't get to know her better.''
And now he never would.
Hunter turned away again, not to look at the dirt now, but at the graveyard beyond: the tombstones and trees. Out at the hundreds and hundreds of souls who no one would ever have the chance to `get to know' again. Laid together here in his great field. This field carved out, especially, as a place of rest for the dead...
The dead.
Slowly he opened his mouth, and only a pitiful and defeated murmur strained forth: ``I watched her die.''
Elliot froze in stunned silence...
...and the tiger went on, his voice a quivering whine: ``She hadn't opened her eyes in days. I was in the room with her...just me, her, and Stan.'' His tears returned, trickling at first. ``I was holding her hand...and he was holding me. And I told her it was okay...'' a shaking breath broke his voice, ``...that she didn't need to keep fighting...because me and Stan could take care of one another. She didn't have to worry about us anymore.'' He tremored and sobbed, head hung and fur soon streaked with tears. He'd held it back all day. Behind anger, behind silence, he'd held back the truth...and with it, the fullest assault of his despair. ``She cried, Elliot. When I said that to her, she...she cried. She didn't open her eyes...or move...or talk. She just cried.'' He fell limp, his voice barely above a whisper, ``And then she was gone...''
Timidly, Elliot asked: ``She heard you?''
``I want to believe she did, but...'' he shook his head, ``I mean, maybe I'm just being stupid. Tears are probably just...just something that happens when you...when...''
``No. I think she heard you.''
She was dead. He'd watched her die. This was the truth. The admission he'd refused to make, even as she was lowered into the earth. Even as the dirt was piled before him. But it was not all he had to admit...
...not all he had to confesses. ``I'm a bad person, Elliot.''
``What? Why?''
``Because I wished for this to happen,'' the tiger's mewling voice cracked.
``Hunter, no,'' Elliot held up his paws in defiance...
...but the cat went on, ``After we got together...after I realized I was gay...''
For an instant, the thought crossed his mind that this may have been the first time he'd admitted THAT as well. Had he ever said it before without qualifications? Without tacking an `or whatever' to the end, or without claiming bisexuality as an alternative?
Would Elliot notice? Did it matter?
``After I realized I was gay,'' he repeated, ``I prayed that she wouldn't live to find out.''
``Hunter, no. You didn't cause this!'' his boyfriend pleaded with him.
``But I wished for it!'' Hunter argued. ``And it was just because I just didn't want to see her disappointed in me, you know? I mean, she wouldn't have hated me for it, or...or been mean to me. Just...just sad.'' He tried his best to explain, to defend himself, to beg for understanding from the one person who might, ``And I just...the last thing I wanted...was for her to be sad because of me...''
And the husky offered exactly that, ``That doesn't mean anything. You can't beat yourself up over something like that.''
``I didn't mean it, Elliot,'' he pleaded for forgiveness from the only ears left to hear. ``I didn't mean it.''
``I know.''
``I just didn't want her to be sad...''
The tears flowed on. Tears for a future cut short, for the memories left behind, for the sins of errant thought...and for the life lost.
And those crying eyes lit, again, on the mound of dirt.
It was all wrong. It was a lie: a surreal parody of all things right and true. She should be gone. That's what death was! When someone died, they were gone. He would never see them again, never smell them, or hear their voice, or touch them...
Gone.
But she wasn't gone. She was right there. Only feet away. If not for the dirt, he could reach out and touch her. She was here, but just out of reach. Trapped behind a door that would never open. Not gone...just locked away.
Forever.
And it was wrong. It was all wrong.
``Elliot?'' Hunter spoke.
His voice grew weaker by the moment...his throat dryer, and his breaths more shallow.
But he spoke: ``Could you hold me? Please?''
He hadn't asked until now, and he knew why the husky hadn't offered. It was, again, that same reverence which this graveyard would never show. Yet again: it was courtesy and respect After all, there were appearances to be considered, and secrets to be kept.
But, of course, ``It's okay now. There's no one left to hide it from, anymore...''
And as he rocked, again, with his sobs...a pair of gentle arms pulled his face against welcoming layers of cotton and silk...
~
(November 2nd)
Alone.
The word James had never said filled Hunter's every thought.
Stanley had left for work this Saturday, leaving the tiger alone in his still new and unfamiliar home. Alone to the sole company of the humming central heat. Alone to watch the specs of dust float through beams of afternoon light. Alone in the dim and quiet living room of an empty and alien house.
But he wasn't alone. Not really. He was just by himself, and that wasn't the same, now was it? He wasn't alone. He had others: others who were only a phone call or a drive away. Stan was at work, now, sure...but there was still Mic, and Jeffery, and James, and Scott...
...and Elliot.
He reached for his phone and swiped and tapped at its screen. He was by himself, but he didn't have to be alone. He held it to his head with a hopeful, reserved smile...
...and after a few short rings, Elliot's voice met his ear. But...what? Of course it was Hunter. Who else would be calling from this number?
``Hey Ell.''
The husky on the other end was hesitant...timid. Call back later? But...
``Yeah, I...I guess so,'' Hunter muttered his consent. And his disappointment: ``I just...I kinda' needed somebody to talk to...''
And through the speaker, timidity turned to apologies. Not a good time? When WOULD be a good time??
Not that it was difficult to guess why, though. ``Is it your mom?''
Of course it was.
``Well...'' the tiger asked, almost pleading...pride being the furthest thing from his mind, ``just call me back when you can, okay?''
Thirty minutes? An hour? Promises.
``I love you, Elliot...''
The screen turned black, the central heat powered down, a drifting cloud cut off the stream of dusty afternoon light. And Hunter was left again to the dim and quiet living room of an empty and alien house...
Alone.
