Passing the Torch

IX

Something was unusual about the cottage. Besides the rug being removed from my bedroom floor—displaying the deep-red stain, like some sort of medal—a feeling of misplacement or change peppered the air.

It wasn't until leaving my bedroom and entering the living room I saw what had prompted my reaction. There it was, the completed puzzle. Every single piece fit perfectly in its designated spot, no longer on the coffee table but framed and proudly displayed on the wall next to the front door.

Mona Lisa's smile was finally whole.

Like a towering, mythical creature shrouded in mystery, Dad walked into the cottage with the last of the groceries from the truck. "How do you like it?" He nodded to where I stared, debating with myself what I should feel and how to express it.

"Nice work." I gestured with a thumbs up.

His smile was large and bright, reminding me of my childhood, the times I had felt triumphant after pleasing him.

"Why Mona Lisa? Why not a picture of the mountainous desert with a beautiful mesa in the foreground?" I could see it in my mind. An isolated flat-topped hill with its steep sides and the deep rusty-red color of its soil, Dad's favorite thing about the Arizona landscapes.

"Oh, you think my choice was insignificant?" He sat the groceries on the kitchen counter. "Like I just mindlessly picked up the first puzzle I saw?"

He hadn't?

He paused and peered at me, using his stare to see deep within to the hidden parts of me where my soul resided. "The look on her face says it all, doesn't it?" he continued before I could answer, "Her gaze is meant for a special person, her husband maybe. That smile is proof that she holds a secret, maybe even a dangerous secret. Maybe only her and the person she's leering at know the true nature of that secret."

"It's pretty mysterious," I admit.

"And pretty famous too," he added. "So many know who she is and know a lot about her and how she came to be, but no one knows her secret. Absolutely brilliant."

More questions brewed beneath the surface, itching to tumble out of my mouth like a waterfall of words and wonder, but something told me now wasn't the time to ask. Maybe it would lead us down say-something-you-might-regret territory or maybe I just wasn't prepared for the possible answer.

Bags rustled as he removed the groceries. "Hey, I'm gonna start lunch. Sounds good?"

I nodded and left the space and him to his duty. Walking outside onto the porch, I fought the urge to sit, relax, and familiarize myself again with my surroundings since the changing seasons gave everything a different look, feel, and smell. We never had any outdoor furniture, which I regretted. So instead of sitting, I made my way down the creaky three steps and toward the back of the cottage, where there was nothing to greet me but a cluster of dormant trees, the crude path to the lake, and a barren desert for miles in each direction.

Dad had once told me when you bury the dead it was a form of respect to Mother Nature. She had yet to return the favor. No green at all. Not even the wall of trees held bright, radiant color. Most of them dropped their leaves weeks ago. Dull, dusty brown surrounded me from all angles. Even at my feet.

As I stepped a foot over the top layers of loose soil, I imagined the women who were buried just a few feet beneath me. Did they have mothers who worried for their wellbeing every night? Did they have children who they were concerned for before we sealed their fate? Like me, had they experienced pain so deep that nothing they did could numb it, and loved so hard that nothing could come between it? Had they been abandoned and wronged so badly from someone they loved so much that their only option to escape the pain inflicted by that special person was to be buried?

Was our wicked form of therapy a necessary evil?

Yes, our secrets were wicked. As wicked as wicked came.

How much damage had we caused just to cope? How bad would the punishment be for being evil if your intentions were righteous? And how righteous could your intentions be if they were selfish?

Eventually, we would have to pay.

"Help me." The muffled plea came from beneath the dirt at my feet. I jumped back as if I accidentally stepped on the foot of a harmless child. "Please, please." The words traveled from the ground in tiny vibrations, up my legs, and along my spine.

"Wha—?"

"Save me," the voice pleaded; suddenly the sound of a female was clearer. The voice sounded oddly familiar to the screams of the poor woman who met her unfortunate fate at my hands. "Help us. Save us!"

"Mesa!" another voice called from beneath my current position. I moved back again, holding my breath so long my chest burned and ached. "Let us go."

"Help us! Help us!" more voices recited in unison, until the words mingled into one long, agonizing scream that rattled my ears and ached my head.

I turned and ran as fast as my feet would carry me, up the steps, over the porch, and back into the cottage, leaving the screams behind me. I gulped air and grasped my knees as I hunched forward, trying to satisfy the pain in my drumming chest.

Dad appeared from his room with a small rectangular box in hand.

"I was thinking of starting another one." He lifted the jigsaw puzzle and its fifty loose pieces rattled inside. "A puzzle of Joan of Arc. What do you think?"   

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