“You'll be alright. Just stop squirming honey, lay still,” Orpah said.
Samson lay on his back on the hot rocks beside the rugged rock path of Sonder Mountain. The sun was flaming intensely, laying a blanket of heavy heat over them. His leg was bent awkwardly, unnaturally, so much so that a lick of the white of his bone could be seen through his shin.
“Calm down honey,” Orpah soothed him, leaning the water flask into his mouth.
The yelling had stopped. Samson had screamed and yelled in pain until his vocal cords were bloody. It was obvious that there was no one else on the path, and with nighttime fast approaching, unlikely it was that the situation would flip. Orpah took off her top, leaving her in just her skimpy white vest, before soaking it in water and laying it over Samson's forehead. The sky was a deep shade of orange. It would have been quite beautiful to look at if the situation was different, less dire perhaps. Orpah knew she would be able to find help at the bottom of Sonder Mountain. But that was easily a three-hour hike, and with night looming over them, she couldn't risk leaving Samson at the mercy of the coyotes. Not while his leg dripped blood and he dipped in out of consciousness, driven hysterical from pain. So she remained at his side, lovingly combing her fingers through his long hair as she tended to his needs.
“They'll notice we aren't there at dinner and come out looking for us. I'll start a small fire to make us a tad more visible,” Orpah said.
Samson gritted some form of acknowledgment through his gritted teeth. His face was almost as pale as his knuckles. Pain like this, it was nothing he ever felt before. It had him contemplating death, wondering whether a life with this amount of agony was one worth cherishing, worth fighting for. Was death not void of all such suffering? But he held on to life, if only for Orpah and her beautiful face, the love she evoked within him, and the tenderness of her touch.
“Go… find… help,” Samson managed to utter without opening his jaw.
Orpah looked up at him.
“Light the fire… and go find help… it'll keep the… coyotes away,” Samson explained.
“Are you sure?” Orpah asked.
Samson nodded. His leg had gone numb from the pain. The feeling of being stabbed over and over again was so consistent it had become a non-factor, like when noise is so ceaseless it becomes soothing or when you wear your glasses for so long you forget they're on. The first few stars twinkled in the sky which was slowly turning from orange to black. Orpah reached into her backpack and pulled out a box of long matchsticks. The trail was mostly stones and sand, but Orpah managed to gather enough sticks to start a sizeable flame. She cordoned it off with a few rocks, kissed Samson on the forehead, and headed down the trail.
“I'll be back as fast as I can,” Orpah said.
The smoke from the flame was serpent-like, the wisps slithering sinisterly. Every moment remaining in consciousness was a conscientious effort. He was glad for the flame. The air had suddenly gone from sweltering to chilly which only made the pain worse. Suddenly he felt the ground shake. He wasn't sure at first; it was as subtle as can be. But it grew and grew until it was an undeniable tremor, as if a giant was walking in the vicinity. Samson didn't have to wonder too much before the source made itself known. A kangaroo hopped out from behind a rock. It was purple and had a flame on the tip of its tail.
“What the everloving frick are you?” Samson said aloud in fear, “what in the frick is that?”
The kangaroo looked at him, tilted its head, and smiled. About twenty crabs crawled out its pouch and scattered all over. The kangaroo stretched in relief. Samson tried to crawl away but failed. The kangaroo was still towering over him.
“I done carried them from Jupiter. Nasty lil buggers, those claws are nothing to be ignorin',” the kangaroo said in a raspy voice.
“What the actual frick is going on?” was all Samson could manage.
“S'pose now is a good a time as any for an explanation. My name is, well I aint got a name. No need for those on the dimensional plane I'm from. I've taken this form because your puny mind would never understand my true form,” it continued raspily.
Samson blinked hard twice. He was convinced this was some kind of hallucination, his mind playing tricks on him, insanity brought on by dehydration and deliria.
“I am the bringer of the gift of death. You can do nothing to earn it, nothing to lose it but like any other gift, you may decline it,” the kangaroo continued, but this time in a different voice like a lady.
“How do I know you're real?” Samson managed to ask.
The kangaroo paused for a while, thought, and then answered.
“On the sixteenth of December your wife Orpah was asleep and you wanted a sandwich. You were too lazy to make it yourself so you opened a jar of Nutella and ate directly from it, you ate it all Samson, all. You got sick the next day and denied eating it. You told Orpah that from the bottom of your heart you didn't do it. But you did,” the kangaroo said in a different voice yet again.
It was as though the kangaroo was having great fun altering its voice each time. Perhaps more out of embarrassment than anything else Samson admitted to himself that indeed the kangaroo was not a figment of his imagination. The entire situation fell into the category of ‘too strange to be fiction'.
“So… am I dead?” Samson asked tentatively.
“Only if you want to be,” the kangaroo replied casually.
Samson lowered his eyebrow, his forehead creased. He was flummoxed.
“Death is a gift, as I have said. You can accept it or reject it,” the kangaroo explained.
He held his long tail in his hand, swinging it around casually.
“And, uhm, if I choose death? What would happen, I'm not saying that's what I want, but if I did choose death, what would happen next?” Samson asked, making very sure to emphasise that he wasn't asking for death.
“I don't know. I've never died. I'm only the collector of souls. I can tell what will happen if you choose life though,” the kangaroo said.
Samson shrugged.
“Oh c'mon, the same old,” said the kangaroo, “pain, misery, discontent, disappointment. Amidst it all a few moments of love and happiness. I've seen a lot of lives in my job. No matter where you are, how you live, it's always the same. Just a different variety of it.”
Samson paused for a while. He had forgotten about his broken leg, something that tends to happen when you have a kangaroo from the realm of death before you. A sly thought crept in his mind.
“You said that death is a gift, right?” Samson queried.
“Indeed.”
“Then, like any other gift, I could pass it on, couldn't I?”
“I s'pose.”
“Then I give my gift to Orpah,” Samson said resolutely.
The kangaroo looked at him, vexed.
“Your own wife? Well that's certainly a new one,” the kangaroo said.
“If death truly is a gift, I would not want my last action to be something as selfish as running away from the strife of the world. If my wife takes it, I will know she loved death more than I. If she rejects the gift, then this will be a life worth living. I don't know, it makes sense in my head,” explained Samson.
“Very well then.”
And the kangaroo stuck its purple hands out, waved them and uttered a magical spell. The sky lit up in a million colours. And then the kangaroo was gone. Samson lay there in the darkness of the night with only the flickering of the flames as his company. No one came until morning when the mountain ranger came around for his morning route. In a state of semi-consciousness, all Samson remembered was being lifted up and put into the back of a pickup truck. He swung in and out of consciousness and found himself on a soft bed, his leg raised in a cast in some sort of log cabin. The ranger and Orpah stood over him.
“He almost died,” he heard the ranger say.
“Oh my poor honey,” Orpah said, “I'm so grateful you saved him. How can I ever show my gratitude?”
“Well there is one way,” he heard the ranger say smugly.
A bit of whispering and a bit of giggling and Samson heard the sound of something oddly similar to the clank of a metal belt buckle hitting the ground. They left the room.
Samson wanted his gift back.
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Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now mid-August, which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
But lately, Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night, and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some Neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts, and the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile—she needed him, and he wasn't there. (ahh…)
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edisons' lawn for a dollar fifty and then checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails.
Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself, parcel-post special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple-gun, and a medium-sized cardboard box, just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling, he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, and perhaps midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He had marked the package “fragile” and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam-rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's face, as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly, rough hands gripped his package, and he found himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it, though. After it was over, he'd said he still respected her, and after all it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no, he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo. But that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen.
“Oh god, it's absolutely maudlin outside.”
“I know what you mean, I feel all icky.” Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face.
“I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but”—she wrinkled her nose—“they make me feel like throwing up.”
Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she had seen on television. “God, don't even talk about that.” She got up from the table and went to the sink, where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. “Want one? Supposed to be better than steak,” and then attempted to touch her knees.
“I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again.” She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. “Maybe Bill will call,” she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on her cuticle.
“After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him.”
“I know what you mean. My god, he was like an octopus—hands all over the place!” she gestured raising her arms upward in defense. “The thing is, after a while you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday, so I kind of owed it to him—you know what I mean.” She started to scratch.
Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. “I tell you, I felt the same way and even, after a while,” here she bent forward in a whisper, “I wanted to.” Now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson, of the Clarence Darrow Post Office, rang the doorbell of the large stucco-covered frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed, and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den.
“What do you think it is?” Sheila asked.
Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. “I don't know.”
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. “Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from.”
Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. “God, it's from Waldo!”
“That schmuck,” said Sheila.
Waldo trembled with expectation.
“Well you might as well open it,” said Sheila, and both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.
“Oaah,” said Marsha, groaning, “he must have nailed it shut.” They tugged on the flap again. “My god, you need a power drill to get this thing open.” They pulled again. “You can't get a grip.” They both stood still breathing heavily. “Why don't you get a scissor,” said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of cowtools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheetmetal cutter in her hand. “This is the best I could find.” She was very out of breath. “Here, you do it, I think I'm gonna die.” She sank into her large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. “Goddarn this thing,” she said feeling very exasperated. Then, smiling, “I got an idea.” “What?” said Marsha. “Just watch,” said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon.
Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning, and right through the center of Waldo Jeffers' head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
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