'Til Dust Do Us Part

'TIL DUST DO US PART

         For the second time in eight hours Tyler VanWicke used a lint-free cloth to clean the many ceramic knickknacks on the fireplace mantle.

         Tyler battled diligently to keep his home clean. The very thought of dust blanketing his furniture, or any object in the small, spotless refuge, made him physically ill.

         Since retiring from his bookkeeping position at the concrete plant, where everything was layered with pale dust, like ground bone, he had taken charge of the household cleaning. It was a chore at which his wife, Glenda, was never very proficient. And one she gave up gladly.

         Over the past five years the job had become so important to Tyler that he refused to take a vacation. If he were gone more than half a day the dust would reign supreme, leaving a hazy residue on everything. Far better he should stay home and keep the filth from getting a firm foothold.

         Finished with the ornaments and the oak mantle itself, Tyler plugged in the industrial-use vacuum he was fond of, and flipped the "on" switch. The machine screamed to life, eager to suck even the most cleverly hidden dust into its sealed bag. Tyler pushed the vacuum into the den. "Not now! Can't you see I'm watching television, you idiot?" Glenda exploded. "I swear, I'll choke the life out of you!"

         Tyler turned a nearly deaf ear toward his wife of forty years. His other ear wasn't much better. He often thought God's plan worked perfectly: Once a man heard everything his wife had to say--myriad times--the Lord took away his ability to hear, sparing him any more agony. Tyler continued to push the machine. The suction was so great the carpet rose up in brown fabric peaks.

         A slight, stooped man with a rounded belly, bowed legs and wispy white hair springing from his pink, liver-spotted scalp, Tyler made it a practice to ignore Glenda at every opportunity. Once slender and beautiful, she had become over-weight and old. Her once lush mouth now remained permanently pinched; wrinkles like knife slashes scored her face.

         Even more disturbing to Tyler was the disintegration of Glenda's once fine manners and personal pride. Often she sat in her recliner watching some brain-numbing talk show or predictable sit-com and actually farted aloud. Sometimes an entire symphony of flatulence would "oom-pa-pa" from beneath her like a disgusting tuba solo.

         She bathed rarely and wore the same shapeless, faded muumuu nearly every day. Now, as at many other times, Tyler found himself fighting to control his impulse to dust her. God only knew what would fall and flutter from her greasy black hair if he went after her with his feather duster, he thought with a shudder.

         She was at his side. "Did you hear me, Tyler?" Glenda shouted into his better ear. "I said, 'not now'." She caught up the electrical cord and yanked hard, ripping the vacuum plug from the hall outlet. It flew into the den like an anorexic black snake with two splayed fangs. The noise came to an abrupt halt.

         Tyler cringed. "But I must vacuum now. The dust..."

         "The dust, my butt! It'll wait. And if you don't leave me alone and let me watch my programs I'm going to make you sorry, Tyler. I'll smoke."

         Another of her threats. One which made Tyler's head swim with dizziness. Though Glenda didn't smoke, she had shown Tyler an open pack of cigarettes she carried like a concealed weapon in the kangaroo pouch-like pockets of her muumuu. God, what a mess she could make with a cigarette, he thought. Smoke, ashes, that horrid smell permeating the drapes and the furniture--unimaginable.

         Tyler nodded vaguely. "I'll clean the basement. I won't bother you down there."

         Glenda squeezed her girth into the recliner and waved absently, dismissing Tyler from her presence. He then went to the hallway and opened the door to the basement. Before stepping down the squeaking stairs he pulled the light switch chain dangling from the ceiling. An artificial glow lit the room, aiding the dwindling sunlight entering through a two-foot square window near the top of the basement wall.

         He tugged his ear in deliberation as he looked around the room. What to clean first? The furnace, he decided. Always a source of fine gray ash. He cleaned the furnace with a brush and shovel, emptying the ash into a black plastic garbage bag. Next he attacked the large utility sink with scouring cleansers and wire pads, scrubbing until the stainless steel gleamed and his hands were raw. Satisfied, he carried the filled garbage bag up the stairs, turned off the light and closed the door.

         Now the whole house was without blemish, he assured himself. Except the den where Glenda lounged, allowing television to dissolve what gray matter she still possessed. Tyler knew he would be unable to sleep if the room were not cleaned. He poked his head into the den. "Can I vacuum now, Glenda?"

         "No. Go away...or I'll choke the life out of you," she said, using her favorite threat.

         "I'll be very quick. I..."

         She turned on him with curled lip and squinted eyes. "That's it! You've pushed me too far." Glenda removed the package of cigarettes from her pocket. She tapped the open pack against her palm until a single reefer protruded higher than the rest. Countless particles of tobacco fell to the floor.

         Tyler stepped toward his wife.

         Glenda plugged the cigarette between her compressed lips and yanked a book of matches from her pocket. She tore out a single match, struck it against the matchbook, and held the flame to the tip of her cigarette. She sucked noisily until the tip burned firebrand red. She tossed the burnt match casually over her shoulder.

         Tyler plucked the still warm match from the carpet, disbelieving that Glenda could do such a thing.

         Glenda laughed. The ash on her carelessly held cigarette was an inch long and drooped downward. Tyler stuffed the burnt match in his trouser pocket and hurried to hold his palm beneath the ash which was destined to fall.

         "No!" Glenda said, waving the cigarette in the air. The ash fell. It exploded on the polished top of the coffee table in a fan of gray, then sprayed over the dark-colored carpet. Glenda laughed again at the stricken look on Tyler's reddened face.

         With no conscious thought, Tyler gripped the heavy floor lamp standing by the recliner and, using all of his meager strength, swung it toward Glenda's laughing lips.

         The impact jarred his wrists painfully. A wet-sounding thud was followed by silence. Glenda slid to the floor as though her body was suddenly liquid. Tyler stood over her. Her forehead sloped at a forty-five degree angle to the rear and her nose was a mashed bulb in the center of her face. Even now, Tyler realized, she was making a mess. Dark blood leaked in a thin line from her nose onto the carpet.

         Well.

         Wanting desperately to clean the ashes from the table and floor, Tyler knew he must first do something about Glenda. An idea slowly formed in his brain. Glenda had no relatives or friends--no one to miss her. The body must be disposed of efficiently.

         Taking a sheet from the linen closet, Tyler spread it beside Glenda's bulk and rolled her onto it. Pulling and straining, his heart pounding with effort, he finally managed to drag her to the basement stairway and down. Her head thumped dully on each step.

         Tyler wrestled the corpse off the floor and got it, butt first, into the sink. What he had in mind demanded good drainage.

         The utility closet where he kept his store-clean tools yielded a red plastic container of gasoline. He filled his chain saw with fuel and chain oil and tugged the cord. After three pulls the machine growled, deafening in the confines of the basement. He went about his chore deliberately, but with no particular pleasure or remorse.

         An hour later the furnace held clothing, the bloodied sheet and the small pieces of Glenda. Tyler turned the furnace to "high" and closed the metal door. Whistling, he cleaned the sink, the floor, the walls and his chain saw while the furnace crackled and smoked. His dark pants, white shirt and wide necktie were ruined-- a ghastly rainbow of colors and textures. Feeling shamefully erotic, he stripped and tossed his clothing in the furnace, too.

         He spoke aloud when he returned to the den. "This is all I wanted to do, Glenda. Just clean up. But, nooooo, you had to complain. And that silly scene with the cigarette, when you didn't even smoke..." Tyler chuckled as it occurred to him that Glenda was really smoking now.

         He polished the coffee table, used liquid rug cleaner to scrub away the blood stains then vacuumed the entire room. He found the cigarette butt beside a small melted crater in the carpet. He made a mental note to call a carpet repair company first thing in the morning. In the meantime, he covered the blackened depression with a floor lamp.

         When the house was as clean and tidy as he could make it, Tyler showered and dressed in crisp, fabric softener-scented pajamas. Before climbing into bed he opened his bedroom window. The house was becoming very hot.

         Morning.

         Tyler dressed in slacks, shirt and tie, had a cup-and-a-half of black coffee and a single slice of toast smeared with strawberry preserves. Then he turned the furnace off and read the morning paper from cover to cover while the furnace cooled.

         The basement was bright with sunshine. Tyler opened the furnace door. Ashes. Fine gray ashes. Here and there he could see a tiny fragment of bone or a yellowed tooth.

         Armed with a plastic bag, a small shovel and a whisk broom, Tyler cleaned the ash from the furnace. The bag was nearly full when he struck the funny bone in his elbow painfully on the furnace door. He dropped a shovelful of ashes on the floor.

         The dust-like ash billowed up from the floor in a grimy puff. "Damn," Tyler said, eyeing the mess. He stooped to sweep the ashes back onto the shovel when he heard the sound from inside the bag. A noise like air escaping from a balloon when it was held by the neck and pulled apart. A noise like Glenda used to make after a dinner of corned beef and cabbage.

         Tyler shivered.

         He stood straight, watching the motes of ash swirl and dance in the beam of light from the window. Only when passing through the sunbeam were the infinitesimal particles visible, though the air in the basement must be filled with them, he realized. He was mesmerized by the shifting patterns, watching as the ash seemed to rejoin, become solid. He watched the dim shape form. A woman's shape. Naked. Sagging breasts and heavy thighs.

         Then the face.

         Glenda's face.

         Tyler slapped at the dust, but it only diffused, then rejoined. A breath of hot air blew between Tyler's open lips, gagging him. He coughed. Dust plumed from his mouth. He coughed again, a ragged bark which failed to expel all of the ash from his lungs.

         The image in the sunlight smiled at him. Somehow, Glenda had come back, as the things he hated most: dust, ashes and dirt.

         Tyler ran for the stairs. As his foot touched the third stair the hallway door above him slammed shut with enough force to shake the frame. Something cold brushed his cheek. "No!" He gasped, slapping at the chain hanging from the ceiling light. The naked bulb flashed on, flooding the basement with light.

         He saw the dust all around him. A crisp rustling sound drew his attention. The plastic bag he had filled was emptying its contents into the air, like an upside down whirlwind. When the ash coalesced to become a clearly solid Glenda, Tyler swallowed hard and shuffled toward her. "Glenda, dear, it was an accident. I didn't mean to hurt you," he explained to the ashy wraith.

         The apparition nodded and willed him closer with a crooked, particulate finger. Shaking as though freezing from the inside out, Tyler inched toward the shaft of light. Glenda reached out with ashen arms and embraced him.

         Without warning, she exploded in a rush of dust and ash that funneled into Tyler's mouth. He fell to his knees, unable to draw a breath. Billions of specks of Glenda filled his mouth and lungs and became soggy with his own saliva, strangling him as effectively as if Glenda had her fat fingers dug into his wattled neck. His eyes bulged forward from their sockets.

         Glenda's voice whispered to him as his vision blurred, then darkened. "Always swore I'd choke the life out of you, Tyler. I just never dreamed it would be so much fun."

         After a while the ash settled from the air, coating Tyler's body with a thick gray blanket of death.

The End

DMM