Chapter Text
The soil was hard. Jonathan Crane had known that since he was a child. Ever since he gained motor skills, his great-grandmother had put him to work in their cornfield. And many times, his classmates rubbed the dirt in his face as they beat him. Now, he was reconfirming it by digging a hole in the backyard of his house to bury a shoebox.
Inside it were daisies, which he plucked from the field, and four used horseshoes that had to be replaced with new ones. However, that was now impossible. After Jonathan's great-grandmother put a bullet in the middle of the horse's head, nothing could be done.
All the tears Jonathan shed could water the entire cornfield. But now, they were blurring his vision and complicating the task. When he finished the hole, he dropped to his knees and hugged the box one last time. He wished he could bury it better in his chest, that his ribs sheltered it and that his heart would keep it warm, but he knew that Deimos, his horse, loved to wallow in the dirt. The shoebox belonged among the soil to keep him playing and having fun.
His great-grandmother told him that if he was going to bury a stupid box with his horseshoes in it and waste energy on a mediocre funeral, then he had to bury all the photographs he had with Deimos to get him over him faster. He had to pull out all the photos in his album and pretend he would bury them. But Jonathan wasn't going to submerge all of his memories. Before he put the shoebox in the hole, he hid the entire bundle of photos between his pants behind his back. He covered them by stretching his gray flannel shirt, ensuring no protuberance was marked.
Jonathan buried death in the soil that was supposed to be born life.
With his hands, he began to plug the hole. The dirt got between his short fingernails, and he thought about crawling into that small space himself and burying himself with Deimos. He knew the soil better than he knew his house.
When he finished, he lay down on the side of the handmade grave and stayed there for a while. He caressed the dirt as a lover would their partner's skin, remembering Deimos' soft, sleek black fur. The ground was rough and dirty in comparison. He thought of the realm of heaven; Deimos might be there running as fast as he used to before the infection in his paw. For the first time, the idea of heaven seemed comforting to him.
Before Jonathan walked back into the house, he shook the dirt out of his pants and checked for the thousandth time that the photographs behind him were out of sight. He didn't want his great-grandmother to discover that he had disobeyed her.
The white wooden door creaked open, and his great-grandmother immediately spoke to him from the kitchen. “You're finally done,” she said, her voice sour even though she was cooking sweet baby squash for dinner. “It took you all evening.”
“I wanted to say goodbye to Deimos properly,” Jonathan said, stepping into the kitchen and clasping his hands before him. “I'm gonna miss him.”
His great-grandmother snorted as she shook her head and chopped vegetables. “You and that stupid horse-- Wanting us to take him to the vet and spend hundreds of dollars to treat him. You have to learn to let things go.”
“He wasn't stupid, grandma!” Jonathan made the mistake of raising his voice and, worse, of continuing to speak. “Deimos was very smart. He was skilled and quick, and he helped me with the crops. Besides, I offered to get another job to earn more money so I could pay for the treatment of his infection. But you decided to do the easy thing and kill him when he could recover.”
A slap in the face didn't seem enough for his great-grandmother to impose an order on Jonathan, so after the slap on his wet cheek from the past crying, she pointed the knife in her hand at him.
“Don't you ever use that tone of voice with me again, young man!” For an old woman, her voice, though raspy, still had power. Her hands were not soft like any other granny's; they were rough and calloused, evidence of her fieldwork when she was younger before her great-grandson took her place.
Jonathan stepped back, away from the knife edge that threatened him. He knew his great-grandmother wouldn't kill him, at least not like this directly by her hand and fast, but he couldn't be so confident that she wasn't capable of cutting him with it.
“I wish you had the same respect for me that you have for that dead horse,” his great-grandmother spat, still pointing the knife at him like the accusing finger of God. “He may have helped you with your responsibilities, but because of me, you have clothes, a roof over your head, and food. Because of me, you are alive. And just because your horse is no longer here is not the end of the world.”
Jonathan felt the tears welling up again as they fell to the hand covering his sore right cheekbone. His lips trembled, wanting to say that maybe he was alive for her, but he lived for Deimos.
He said nothing as usual after being hit.
His grandmother unwillingly tossed the knife onto the kitchen counter, landing on the side of the sliced vegetables. “Look at me, cooking your favorite dinner to make you feel better.” She turned to Jonathan, crossing her arms. “But I think you'll go to bed tonight without having dinner. Unless, of course, you apologize.”
“Then can I go to my room?” Jonathan spoke in a serious tone, looking straight at her. He wouldn't give her that usual satisfaction, not this time. He could not defend his horse's life before but could protect his honor and respect. If his great-grandmother wanted to put the same gun between his eyes for it, Jonathan would not take his gaze away from her now for any second.
His great-grandmother dropped her crossed arms, which commanded authority as if Jonathan's dead stare was a sword capable of breaking her hand-forged iron shield. He didn't need a real knife to make her back down. However, Jonathan hardly noticed it. He had yelled and raised his voice at her but never spoke with that look and tone.
The old woman inhaled deeply to lift her chest and head and simply nodded, letting him go. Jonathan said nothing. After passing through the dining room, he saw a bright red apple in the fruit bowl that he could take back to his room.
“Don't even think about it, young man,” his great-grandmother warned.
It didn't take a smack on the hand for Jonathan to quickly push it away. His great-grandmother's blows burned hotter than fire, and neither she nor Jonathan wanted to start a blaze.
An empty stomach was nothing new to him. Ironically, it made him feel heavier, but that reminded him that at least the ground was trying hard to hold him up and not letting him fall into a void. And anyway, the mourning had taken away his appetite.
He walked briskly up the stairs, and when he reached his nook, he closed the door. It didn't have a lock, so he couldn't take his time on something he wanted to do patiently. He pulled the pile of photos out of his pants, and his eyes made a tour of his entire room to find a place to hide them. Under the bed was the worst idea, as was his underwear drawer, which was the most private for him and the most exposed to his great-grandmother. Behind the painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus wasn't an option either, as his great-grandmother wouldn't let a cloud of dust fall on the paintings. The photos wouldn't last under the sheets or his white pillowcases before his great-grandmother took them out to wash them. There was nothing left of his room anymore.
It seemed that the figure of the Virgin Mary in the corner looked him in the eye and pointed out where to keep them. They would be safe with her. Jonathan walked over to the little high table exclusively for the Mother of Jesus ceramic statue. The wooden table was covered by a long white tablecloth with blue accents that fell to the floor to retain the dust. He bent down and lifted the tablecloth to check for a space between the wood where he could trap the photos.
Once confirmed, he ran to his drawer of sewing materials for scissors and a piece of sisal cord. He cut a piece and tied all the photos into a bundle.
Finally, he returned to Maria and bent down, looking for the space to hide the photos. He struggled to get them jammed, and it went from annoying him to making him anxious when his grandmother's footsteps warned him that he had little time. The wooden steps creaked, screaming at him to hurry.
Almost there. Almost there.
When his great-grandmother opened the door, the words inside her mouth did not immediately come out. She found Jonathan kneeling on the floor, praying to the Virgin Mary. She waited for him to finish with an "amen" before speaking. The only thing she didn't interrupt was the word of God.
“I was just stopping by to make sure everything was in order. You know I don't like it when you keep the door closed.”
“I was doing my prayers. Sometimes I need to talk privately with a mother,” he replied in the same tone as before, getting up to prepare his bed for sleep.
His great-grandmother again only nodded, ready to leave without saying good night.
“Granny,” Jonathan stopped her, and she peeked back into his room. This time, Jonathan took a breath that gave him a taste of what it was like to be alive among death as he played with his hands and asked, “Do you think Deimos is in heaven?”
“Animals have no place in heaven. You should know that by now, Jonathan. Don't waste your prayers on that horse.”
“I could give him my place, ” he said quietly, head down, licking his parched lips.
“All the more reason I doubt that poor animal will make it to heaven.”
It was not God but his great-grandmother who shut the gates of heaven in Jonathan's nose. At that point in his life, there should be no surprise on his face. But there was, along with disgust. His great-grandmother was already gone when he looked up, leaving the door closed.
Jonathan wanted to scream and kick the door until it broke. However, all he could do was whimper through an inevitable cry. Wanting to wipe away his tears, he desperately stretched or hit his skin. He could almost feel his skin melting like a candle with the wax running over it. The day he stopped crying would be the day a flame entirely consumed Jonathan Crane, which he always tried to extinguish with futile and desperate blowing.
It wasn't fair— nothing was. The images of Jesus and Mary around him whispered that they suffered through this, too. However, that didn't make him feel accompanied. On the contrary, Jonathan's pain made him not a saint but a sinner.
A few hours later, he stopped dragging his tears to pull a blanket down the stairs. As Jonathan trod them with such gentleness, each step refrained from screaming. Likewise, the kitchen door promised to keep his secret and not to warn anyone about leaving in the middle of the night.
Occasionally, Jonathan would go to the stable to sleep with Deimos. He would take his blanket and alarm clock with him to set the alarm an hour earlier than usual and return to bed before his great-grandmother woke up.
For the first time, the stable would be empty for the rest of his life. It still smelled like Deimos, so Jonathan took a deep breath, letting the scent of wet leather and straw inflate his lungs to set him flying. He put his alarm clock down and walked over to the pile of straw in the corner to sit on it. He tried to shape it to Deimos' lap, where he used to sleep when he accompanied him. Then he laid his head on the unsteady sculpture of straw and covered himself with his blanket.
“Wherever you are, I want to go with you,” Jonathan whispered, letting each piece of straw take him by his extremities to absorb his body into the pile. Each straw was so happy with his presence that some got between his clothes.
Like a needle in a haystack, Jonathan got lost.