Posting some sections of my NaNoWriMo novel, BOD (Book of the Dead) from last year. This time I'm including a little of the narrative of the woman's day-to-day life...
She checked the phone, and there was a message. It was from Jarret, "Hi, something's come up. I'm putting the children on the train. They have enough money for a taxi, so don't worry. They should be home around 6. I'll be back later, maybe tomorrow."
Nothing more, no explanation of why he wasn't coming home. She felt herself crumbling and began to cry. Why did women always cry when they felt overwhelmed or helpless? She cried deeply for a long time. It helped to release the tension inside. Where was her husband? Was the woman who had answered the phone really with him that morning? She sounded like a one night stand, since she didn't seem to know the name of the man she was with. Could it really have been her husband?
It was nearly six o'clock. She went to the bathroom and washed her face. She put on some lipstick. She smoothed her dark curly hair back. She tried to look like she might normally. She heard the key turn in the door and went to it to greet her children.
"Hi Mom," they each said as they dumped their bags on the floor.
"Hi my honeys, how was your trip?"
"Great," they both mumbled and headed off in different directions, one to the kitchen, one to the bathroom. She heard a bath being poured. In the kitchen, her son was opening a bag of chips and holding a can of pop.
"Hey, it's dinner time, not snack time. Let's get pizza tonight."
"Ok, Ma," he munched as he talked. "Oh, yeah, Dad said to tell you he met a business contact and decided to arrange a meeting. They couldn't meet until tomorrow or something. He'll call later. He'll be home tomorrow night probably."
"Oh. He left such a short message I didn't understand what had happened. What," she said, changing the subject, "would you like on the pizza?"
"Everything."
She dialed the number of the pizza house, ordered, and went upstairs to her computer. Sitting there, mystified at the events of the day, she called her friend, Taim, and left a message asking to meet her for lunch the next day.
It was a quiet evening. She spent it sitting in the semi darkness of her office meditating.
.
Bones were certainly interesting. Within the organism, they provided the structure, the underpinning, the foundation that held the body together. Bones were living and were crucial. Yet to hold a bone, they never felt so important, so central, but light, almost too airy. They are what is most hidden, except for the teeth, and so to hold a human bone was a strange experience. To hold it knowing it was a thigh bone, of someone who died there. That this was all that remained.
Only our bones are left in the corridors of time that we have passed through, rattling on the floors…
Even our bones return to the soil, are ground up in the recycling of time, they just take longer.
It was a few days later, when the Police Station phoned and asked for her.
“Yes, it’s Shona Leicht.”
“M’am, you found the site where the bones lay?”
“In the cemetery, yes. Do you know who it was? Was it a woman? Or a man? It quite frightened me.”
“Well, the thing is, m’am, our department took a look at them, ran a few tests, and they seem to be quite old.”
“You mean they were there a long time? Can you trace them back to anyone missing?”
“Our department says there are a few more tests to make sure, but the bones appear to be at least one hundred to one hundred and fity years old.”
“What?”
“That’s what I got written here. Seemed in good shape for bein’ that old to me.”
“That is very strange indeed, officer. Could there be a mistake?”
“Well, as I said, there’re a couple more tests, but it looks like they’re from maybe 1850 or 1900. Could’a been a pioneer even. Who knows.”
“Male or female.” She was trying to keep her voice steady.
“Female, older though, post-menopausal, cause there’s some osteoporosis around the hip joints.”
“Is there any indication of the cause of death, officer?”
“Funny you ask. I was asking our guy in Forensics, and he said there was nothing to indicate the cause of death, except maybe freezing.”
“Oh!”
“Sorry, m’am?”
“Officer, I would like to give the bones of this woman a proper burial, and would like to know if I may have them? Or if I make arrangements at the funeral home, if they can be sent there for interment?”
“Don’t see a problem with that, if that’s what you want to do, m’am. I’ll have to get my supervisor’s signature, that’s all.”
“Should I pick them up? Or will you take them over?”
“We can take them over to the funeral home. It’s time to go out on patrol anyway.”
“Okay, I’ll call them. Thank you, officer.”
Then she called the funeral home and explained that the police would be by shortly with some bones that she had found in an unused and old part of the cemetery, and that she wanted to bury them properly. After some discussion, she chose a standard package, a single plot, the lower of a double depth grave, a vault and a simple coffin, and a simple marble slab on which they would engrave, "An unknown woman, who froze to death in 1850, in honour.” She said she would be there within the hour to pay for the burial. It was agreed that the burial would take place the next day in the morning.
