The Dead Man’s Cuticles - Kat Lewis
The first time I saw a dead body I was ten. The corpse was slumped against a wall under the bridge – his head bowed and limp like he was praying without any hope. A coyote loomed over him, lips smacking as it savored the taste of August-cooked flesh. I quietly stepped off my bike and kicked down its stand when the coyote flinched. It pulled its face out of the man’s chest and looked at me. Blood tinted its tawny snout a dark shade of carmine. It peeled up half its lip to bare a row of red-washed teeth. A growl boiled in the back of its throat as if to say, This one’s mine. Find your own.
I dropped my backpack to one shoulder and dug out the sandwich bag of quarters Mama told me to take to the Coinstar in Kroger. There had to have been at least a hundred bucks worth of quarters in that bag and I shook every last one of them at the mutt. It cowered away, answering each step I took towards it with a step back until I shouted, “Get outta here!” The mongrel whimpered as it turned tail and ran along the riverbank into the woods. I looked back at the man.
His chest was split open like an unzipped jacket. I saw everything – ribs gnawed to nubs, intestines all drug out. A heart hung in the corner of his chest, shriveled up as if it had died mid squelch. Death was in the air and the taste of it fermented on my tongue like a rotten fruit – disgusting but vaguely intriguing. I blinked and realized I was standing directly over the body. Something drew me towards it like a pied piper playing a song on the wings of hungry flies. What I remembered most about my first dead body wasn’t the smell or the buzz of flies or the way his ribcage sat exposed like a yawning maw full of chipped teeth. No. It was the hands.
With fingers half-curled, his hands lay on either side of him, palms up and clean. They were the color of wet sand. White moons were blotted under manicured nails. A clear finish of nail polish glistened on his fingertips like freshly mopped floors or the glaze of donuts. They were so clean and cuticles so perfectly curved, I was almost envious. I reflexively hid my frayed, always-stinging cuticles in a tight fist. For a moment, I thought about my own death – when would it be? Would it be illness or malice? Long or short? Wished for or unexpected? Would it be in the dead of night or would I feel the sun on my face? Who would find my body? Could I even call the body mine at that point?
I had almost died three years before. Pa was driving us to Nana’s house in Asheville. We were stopped at a red light and I was in the front seat trying to catch Mewtwo while my little brother and sister were sleeping in the back. An Eminem song filled the spaces between us as the light changed. Pa eased off the brake, only to slam back down on it. A UPS truck barreled through the intersection like it was being sucked through a portal. A chorus of horns blared from our lane. Pa’s hands choked the steering wheel, draining the color from his sculpted cuticles. He opened his mouth as if he were going to curse, but then thought better of it. Instead, he slammed his foot on the gas and the old Accord wheezed as it peeled around the corner. I latched onto the ashtray as the car threw me towards its center console. “Pa, what are you doing?” I asked.
Pa just stared forward with a look that could light a cigarette. I watched the needle on the speedometer teeter towards me. “W– we should slow down,” I stuttered as the twins stirred in the backseat.
“What’s going on?” Maria asked with twinge of concern. She looked out the window and I could see the homes lining the street whir past in the reflection of her glasses.
Marcus grinned, pressing his Cheetos-dusted fingers against the window. “We’re going so fast!” The words left his mouth with giddy laughter.
“Pa, slow down.” Even then in the moment, it was surreal having those words fall from my seven-year-old mouth more like a command than a suggestion. My father didn’t respond. “Pa!” I reached out to touch him, but he slammed on the brake. I grabbed onto the center console, and my Gameboy slid out of my lap onto the floor. As I picked up the video game, I looked over the dashboard to see the UPS truck parked a few yards in front of us. Saying nothing, Pa grabbed the old steering wheel lock from under Marcus’ feet, and got out of the car. “Where are you going?” I asked, but he just shut the door behind him. With a hard swallow, I put on a good face for the twins as I unhooked my seatbelt. “Stay here,” I said, getting out of the car and following our father.
A woman worked in her garden while the UPS man rolled a dolly of packages up to her neighbor’s porch. She gave Pa a nervous smile as he passed. In front of the truck, Pa raised the club over his head and slammed it against the hood. It dented with an awful groan and Pa’s face stretched with violence as he lifted up the club again and shouted, “You almost killed my children!” He yelled it again and again, accenting each syllable with the thud of metal on metal.
The UPS man ran down the steps. He cast a quick look at the woman in her garden and said, “Call the police!” As she disappeared into her house, the man got as close to Pa as common sense would allow. “What the hell are you doing, man?” His eyes focused past Pa at me, and I cringed away. “You’re kid’s right there. What are you are doing?”
Pa didn’t hear him. He only squeezed the club with colorless hands and swung. I looked around to see faces gathered in windows and some neighbors crossed-armed on doorsteps. I felt every pitying eye on me like ants weaving between the hairs on my arms. I heard everything. From the thump of metal to the shrill shouts and cloud of bystanders’ whispers that cluttered, I thought I’d never hear silence again. In the middle of the road, I stood with my eyes on Pa’s horribly neat cuticles, hearing sirens like distant thunder.
The first time I saw a dead body I was ten. The corpse was slumped against a wall under the bridge – his head bowed and limp like he was praying without any hope. A coyote loomed over him, lips smacking as it savored the taste of August-cooked flesh. I quietly stepped off my bike and kicked down its stand when the coyote flinched. It pulled its face out of the man’s chest and looked at me. Blood tinted its tawny snout a dark shade of carmine. It peeled up half its lip to bare a row of red-washed teeth. A growl boiled in the back of its throat as if to say, This one’s mine. Find your own.
I dropped my backpack to one shoulder and dug out the sandwich bag of quarters Mama told me to take to the Coinstar in Kroger. There had to have been at least a hundred bucks worth of quarters in that bag and I shook every last one of them at the mutt. It cowered away, answering each step I took towards it with a step back until I shouted, “Get outta here!” The mongrel whimpered as it turned tail and ran along the riverbank into the woods. I looked back at the man.
His chest was split open like an unzipped jacket. I saw everything – ribs gnawed to nubs, intestines all drug out. A heart hung in the corner of his chest, shriveled up as if it had died mid squelch. Death was in the air and the taste of it fermented on my tongue like a rotten fruit – disgusting but vaguely intriguing. I blinked and realized I was standing directly over the body. Something drew me towards it like a pied piper playing a song on the wings of hungry flies. What I remembered most about my first dead body wasn’t the smell or the buzz of flies or the way his ribcage sat exposed like a yawning maw full of chipped teeth. No. It was the hands.
With fingers half-curled, his hands lay on either side of him, palms up and clean. They were the color of wet sand. White moons were blotted under manicured nails. A clear finish of nail polish glistened on his fingertips like freshly mopped floors or the glaze of donuts. They were so clean and cuticles so perfectly curved, I was almost envious. I reflexively hid my frayed, always-stinging cuticles in a tight fist. For a moment, I thought about my own death – when would it be? Would it be illness or malice? Long or short? Wished for or unexpected? Would it be in the dead of night or would I feel the sun on my face? Who would find my body? Could I even call the body mine at that point?
I had almost died three years before. Pa was driving us to Nana’s house in Asheville. We were stopped at a red light and I was in the front seat trying to catch Mewtwo while my little brother and sister were sleeping in the back. An Eminem song filled the spaces between us as the light changed. Pa eased off the brake, only to slam back down on it. A UPS truck barreled through the intersection like it was being sucked through a portal. A chorus of horns blared from our lane. Pa’s hands choked the steering wheel, draining the color from his sculpted cuticles. He opened his mouth as if he were going to curse, but then thought better of it. Instead, he slammed his foot on the gas and the old Accord wheezed as it peeled around the corner. I latched onto the ashtray as the car threw me towards its center console. “Pa, what are you doing?” I asked.
Pa just stared forward with a look that could light a cigarette. I watched the needle on the speedometer teeter towards me. “W– we should slow down,” I stuttered as the twins stirred in the backseat.
“What’s going on?” Maria asked with twinge of concern. She looked out the window and I could see the homes lining the street whir past in the reflection of her glasses.
Marcus grinned, pressing his Cheetos-dusted fingers against the window. “We’re going so fast!” The words left his mouth with giddy laughter.
“Pa, slow down.” Even then in the moment, it was surreal having those words fall from my seven-year-old mouth more like a command than a suggestion. My father didn’t respond. “Pa!” I reached out to touch him, but he slammed on the brake. I grabbed onto the center console, and my Gameboy slid out of my lap onto the floor. As I picked up the video game, I looked over the dashboard to see the UPS truck parked a few yards in front of us. Saying nothing, Pa grabbed the old steering wheel lock from under Marcus’ feet, and got out of the car. “Where are you going?” I asked, but he just shut the door behind him. With a hard swallow, I put on a good face for the twins as I unhooked my seatbelt. “Stay here,” I said, getting out of the car and following our father.
A woman worked in her garden while the UPS man rolled a dolly of packages up to her neighbor’s porch. She gave Pa a nervous smile as he passed. In front of the truck, Pa raised the club over his head and slammed it against the hood. It dented with an awful groan and Pa’s face stretched with violence as he lifted up the club again and shouted, “You almost killed my children!” He yelled it again and again, accenting each syllable with the thud of metal on metal.
The UPS man ran down the steps. He cast a quick look at the woman in her garden and said, “Call the police!” As she disappeared into her house, the man got as close to Pa as common sense would allow. “What the hell are you doing, man?” His eyes focused past Pa at me, and I cringed away. “You’re kid’s right there. What are you are doing?”
Pa didn’t hear him. He only squeezed the club with colorless hands and swung. I looked around to see faces gathered in windows and some neighbors crossed-armed on doorsteps. I felt every pitying eye on me like ants weaving between the hairs on my arms. I heard everything. From the thump of metal to the shrill shouts and cloud of bystanders’ whispers that cluttered, I thought I’d never hear silence again. In the middle of the road, I stood with my eyes on Pa’s horribly neat cuticles, hearing sirens like distant thunder.
