Moving On | Mystery Skulls Animated

Moving On

The shop's doorbell rings and Arthur sits up from his place on the ground, ever attentive.

        This is the fourth car in as many hours and yet he immediately agrees to fix it, promising its return at the same time tomorrow. He smiles and chats effortlessly as the customer fills out the form, hands over his keys and leaves again just as quickly, adding yet another project—another distraction—to the queue.

        Arthur does not falter. Instead, the mechanic gulps water from a plastic bottle, signs agreement on the form and cycles around to the Toyota on the far side of the garage, delivered this morning with a crumpled bonnet. Before removing the engine, he decides to check underneath and stretches out on a creeper, pulling himself under the mangled car. I catch a glimpse of dark bruises under his eyes before he disappears.

        I huff in frustration, glancing again at the front desk. A drained mug has been left on top of the paperwork, staining the service sheets underneath with coffee rings. Uncle Lance hasn't uttered a word to his nephew all week, which is extraordinary, considering how high the head mechanic's standards are. I can hear him in another room, barking orders at employees.

        I walk to the Toyota and stand beside it. Arthur seems to notice me because he stops work and pushes himself out on the creeper.

        "Arthur," I sigh. "You can't work all day. You need some sleep."

        Irritated, he sighs, sits up and rubs his eyes.

        He signs himself out early.

*****

When we get home, Arthur immediately disappears into his room, avoiding my violin stand in the hall. Our home is cozy like that, packed with knick knacks, with memories.

        I don't follow him. It's three hours later when Vivi finally saunters up and knocks.

        "Artie? You wanna come out for dinner? It's pizza night tonight."

        Good on you, Vivi. That will bring him out.

        "Gimme a minute," comes Arthur's strained voice.

        He emerges twenty minutes later for dinner, eyes bloodshot. Dios mio, is he tired.

        Arthur's quiet at the table. He looks sullen. Whenever Vivi speaks, he engages with her, smile taut and a little too wide. Fifteen minutes later the pizza boxes are empty and he goes back to his room. This time, I decide to peek.

        When I open the door and look through, Arthur's sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Thick tear trails run down his face and his pillow is wet.

        He doesn't seem to notice me as I enter, padding across the carpet to sit on the bed next to him. "Arthur, we love you," I tell him, resting a hand on his knee. "And we're worried about you. Please tell us what's wrong."

        He doesn't respond. I sigh and remain, waiting for the silent tears to stop.

        When he finally wipes them away, he doesn't talk to me. He rolls over and sets his alarm for 7:30am—that's the usual. His shift starts at 8:00.

        He kicks off his shoes and flicks the lamp off. I leave then.

        He doesn't even change into pyjamas.

****

Arthur drops the keys back into the customer's hand and flashes him a smile. The garage is now empty, all distractions gone.

        Uncle Lance is about to speak to him, I can see it. The doorbell rings before he can open his mouth and we turn to find Mama walking in. Her lush skin looks like the night against mine. Her crimson curls starkly contrast my own unremarkable hair.

        "Mrs Pepper," Arthur greets her, ever formal.

        "Arthur, please, it's Camila," she smiles, like she does every time.

        "Camila," Uncle Lance says, stepping forward. "'Scuse me fer askin', but what're yer here for? Yer car broke down too?"

        "No," she assures him, throwing a wink at Arthur. "But I'm sure your nephew would have no trouble fixing it if it were."

        "Tell me 'bout it," Lance grunts. "Artie here's been takin' half the damn cars that drive in!"

        She smiles kindly at him. "You must be so proud of how hard he works. My Lewis used to cook for us all the time."

        I smile at her, warm pride in my chest.

        "Well, I came here to invite you two to dinner," Mama continues. "And Vivienne too, of course. Any friend of Lewis' is a friend of ours."

        "Thank you, Mrs Pepper," Arthur says weakly. She gives him a light squeeze on the shoulder.

        "Artie, why don't yer go home."

        Arthur turns to Lance in surprise. "But my shift ends at five."

        "And yer been workin' yer arse off," Lance retorts. "Yer needa rest sometime. 'Sides, I wanna have a talk with Camila. You go home now."

        Arthur does what he's told. Thankfully.

*****

Tonight plays out the same as before. The same as every night.

        After dinner I go back to his room to check on him. He's crying again.

        "Oh, Artie," I sigh, but I leave him alone this time. Instead I take notice of the photos on the walls. All three of us, mucking around. The walls at the garage are bare.

        It seems like hours before he quiets and kicks off his shoes. He sets his alarm to 6:00am, and I raise my eyebrows. He sleeps.

*****

The next morning he drags himself out of bed before the alarm, taking care to shut it off before it blares and wakes Vivi. He ambles to the kitchen and pours himself coffee, gulping it down and leaving through the front door. Concerned, I follow him out to the van, slipping into the passenger seat.

        He ignores me, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the driveway. Down the road, he pulls up to the florist's and disappears inside. I frown. Arthur isn't a flowers guy—that's more my thing.

        He reappears a few minutes later with roses—my favourite colour, too. He hops in and I breathe in the scent of the purple blooms as we cruise down the road, the town waking from slumber around us.

        Finally we pull up to a tall iron fence, and he cuts the engine, grabbing the flowers and jumping out. I follow him tentatively into the cemetery—why here?

        We weave through gravemarkers, past multiple rows, Arthur precise in his direction. Eventually, we stop by a black marble headstone, and I bend to read the inscription.

Here lies
LEWIS PEPPER
Beloved son, brother and friend.

1998—2019

        It's been a year. Arthur sets the roses down and I see the tears. My heart sinks.

        All those nights awake. . . the never-ending work. . . the fights. . . the tears. . .

        Because of me?

        I kneel in front of him. I know he can't see me, so I take his face into my hands. He seems to shudder.

        "We love you," I tell him, sincere, and press my forehead to his. "And we want you to be happy."

        He closes his eyes. "We love you," he echoes. "And I know you want me to be happy."

        He sighs, and stands, walking away. I take one last sweet smell of the roses and follow, leaving them to wither. Some things are more important than rest.