Cutter Lets Go

by Charles C. Cole

Cutter’s nuclear family first began to decay to nothing when his two grown children, always aloof and independent, moved out of state, rarely calling. Then his wife, Pachouli, died unexpectedly due to a dental emergency gone horribly awry.

After having buried, all alone, a “carton” of his beloved’s ashes in a small plot designed for such things at the cemetery, Cutter sat in his fenced-in backyard in a white plastic lawn chair and debated what to do with the “spare” car. Drive it every other week to pretend nothing’s changed? Keep it in case the other car dies? Sell it to our teenaged cat-sitter across the street?

To keep part of Pachouli with him, Cutter had sprinkled “some” of the dark gray ashes about her favorite roses encircling the oak nearby, a ceremonial memento, close enough now to smell the blossoms without straining. Maybe she was no longer whole but, then, neither was he.

“If I go first, do whatever’s cheap,” she had said once. “I don’t care. But don’t spread my ashes in the yard; that’s creepy.”

“Just a little?” he’d asked. She hadn’t answered. Was that an answer?

The sky warned of rain. Cutter could hear distant thunder, slowly closing in, from over the lake to the north. He didn’t consider retreating, not yet. Certain gloomy events, though inevitable, took their time, like stalking the victims.

Next, a familiar Fedex courier backed down the drive and, talking nonstop into his wireless headset, placed an unexpected book-shaped package on the side porch, waved. Pachouli had been an obsessive online shopper. A late delivery? Cutter managed a brief, energy-draining smile. She would have wanted him to keep up appearances.

At dusk, Cutter’s bladder was full or attention-seeking. He reluctantly went to the bathroom, pausing to put the unopened box on the kitchen counter, immediately returning.

His penny loafers felt loose, like his feet were wasting away since he’d become a widower. He removed his shoes and stockings, noticing the socks didn’t match, an event which never would have transpired under Pachouli’s vigilant watch.

Cutter scrunched his bare feet into the sparse grass, the soil being more sand than loam. He curled his toes and dug at the ground, petulantly, as if using a clawhammer to terrorize ants. Which reminded him: he’d never been very good at toenail management. His wife, for all their rewarding time together, had once complained when he’d scratched her while engaged in amorous bedtime wrestling. “Honey, careful! Your talons are ruining the moment.”

“Wait till you experience my mighty beak,” he’d countered gamefully, but the fun had ended.

With a little heel-effort, Cutter made a “bald spot” in the lawn, like that iconic worn-out area under the swings in the playground.

Then “nature” called him once more to the bathroom. On his return trip, Cutter grabbed a couple of throw pillows from the couch in the den and an old blanket off the bed in the spare room, retiring to his redoubt in the yard to spend the night.

Sometime later, a brief warm rain hissed around him. Cutter pulled his favorite fisherman’s hat low over his ears and forehead, dozing. His bald spot quickly became a squishy mud hole with a hint of gray grit.

In the early morning, just as the summer sun was rising, Cutter thought he felt the twinge of a muscle cramp in his right calf. He attempted to lift the associated foot, to stretch his weary body, but the thing wouldn’t give; his foot was securely anchored to the ground.

Cutter examined the situation scientifically: overnight, he had sprouted roots from both feet and these roots had, apparently, burrowed into the pulpy muck. He’d heard of planting a tree in honor of an intimate loss, but never had he heard of the grieving survivor becoming a tree.

“Nothing unusual to see here,” he grumbled, while contemplating the dire opposite. “Honey, you watching this? I think I’m being buried ahead of my time.” He glanced at the house, perhaps thinking of calling for help on his phone.

“You know I don’t have the life left in me to fight you, greedy and unsentimental, Mother Earth. So, fine. Kick me when I’m down. Drag me along. Smother me in your aggressively welcoming arms.”

Despite his words, he stood and gave another tug on one foot and then the other, bracing the flats of his palms against the arms of his chair for leverage. But he was genuinely stuck. “You can’t do this. I’m depressed, but not that depressed. Besides, I’ve got tools, bitch, like a utility knife.”

He dug in the pocket of his pants and pulled out his trusty blade. More practical than a letter opener, great for deadheading, convenient when trimming the trellis for swirling morning glories or string beans. While he wasn’t the traditional type of man to hunt, drive a pickup, watch sports or drink beer, he was the type who never went anywhere without his knife. He dove to the task at hand without hesitation.

“Ouch! Damn!” Cutter muttered through gritted teeth. Like sunburn or a splinter. A sting or two or three. The roots withered into the earth as he freed himself. No bleeding; that’s a relief. Something to be grateful for. That would have slowed him down. On a scale of 1 to 10, this was a 4, at most. With the deed done, Cutter rocked to his feet and quickly headed in for breakfast and a shower.

At the top of the porch, Cutter turned back. Had it really happened? He bent his left leg and examined the sole of his foot. White waxy nubs that he could rub off with his thumb.

The small kitchen table, where they’d rarely eaten, was a temporary shrine of favorite photos. He grabbed one where Pachouli reclined in a bathing suit, from their honeymoon.

“I should have listened, Pidge,” he said. “My bad. You’ve made your point. You were always good at winning an argument. Forgive me.”