Eau de Vie: chapter twelve
Le lavage rituel
At dawn, the day after the long walk with Vie, Carl stood at the kitchen counter, putting back a large mug of coffee and a scone. There, in the kitchen, he stripped off his night clothes and left them pooled on the floor. Naked, he grabbed his jeans, a canvas work shirt, and his down vest from the adjacent mud room and dressed for the day.
Next, it was up to the barn to saddle Vie’s horse. That morning, the two of them would be making a trek up the mountainside to her resting place. Carl needed Aster to bring her home.
The barn had been closed up most of the week and was dank. Carl turned on the lights, but they were situated so far above, at the highest point in the rafters, that they failed at illuminating the dark corners below. Somewhere behind the alfalfa was the pack saddle, this he knew, though it couldn’t be seen for the darkness. Carl shoved his hips between the bales until he reached the back row, where he searched blindly for the saddle with his hands, in the process roughing them up in the shards of hay, which felt worse even than wood splinters.
Eventually, his hands recognized the stiff and dusty feel of old leather, and once oriented to the saddle’s full shape, he determined the best way to lift it off the stand to prevent it from becoming entangled. Crossbuck saddles being heavy, and the space between rows of hay narrow — Carl was forced to drag the saddle across the tops of the bales, occasionally lifting it up when it became caught on baling twine.
Once he’d wrangled the saddle to the center of the barn and hoisted it onto a stand, Carl wet a handful of rags and wiped it down thoroughly, in the process making sure the underside was smooth and working out a few rough spots with a metal file. He then whipped the dust out of the felt blankets and checked them for burrs. Today’s ride would be a difficult one, and he could ill afford to stress the horse.
Carl then, with some alfalfa, the halter, and the lead rope in hand, coaxed Aster from the coral to the north side of the barn, where he haltered her and tied the lead to a fence post. Prepping Aster for the ride, Carl worked out the debris in her hair with a stiff bristle brush, then unknotted and smoothed her mane and tail with detangler, finishing the grooming with a soothing wipe down of her face with a soft, moist towel. The final touch — using a pick to free chunks of dried mud and pebbles from her hooves. Carl returned to the barn for the pack saddle under which he took care to put a double layer of blankets. He then tested the straps and girths to ensure nothing was prone to slipping. Into the saddle’s pouch, he packed a water bottle, his phone, and some nuts and dried fruit. Halfway up the hill, he planned to stop at the stock tank so the horse could drink and to refuel himself, if needed.
The weather was dismal — cool and damp, moisture dripping from tree branches and a thick marine layer blocking most of the sun as an ethereal fog emerged and expanded from the wet soil. Though initially chilled, Carl and Aster warmed quickly on the uphill, both bathed in sweat an hour into the pilgrimage.
By 11:30, the pair were one hairpin turn from where Carl had left Vie the night prior. Carl stopped briefly to catch his breath, closing his eyes and focusing his attention on the sounds around him, bracing himself for what he would see. As he emerged from his daydream, stage curtains opened onto a new scene — the marine layer burning off, the sun peeking through — there was nothing more beautiful than that, in his estimation. The vibrant light gave Carl a sense of hope, the warmth of it reminding him that he was still very much alive.
Vie might not have appreciated that garish brightness, the inelegance of her death illuminated by the universe’s spotlight, an audience looking down on the stage, passing judgment on her circumstances, considering the meaning of it all, when it was really none of their business.
But there was no audience. And Carl had to remind himself that the lead actor, Vie, was gone. She could no longer care about these things. He could, however. And he chose to enjoy the beauty of the day.
At this pause in the ascent, Carl thought to call Greta. He had not yet shared the news with her, and though he would have preferred to convey this information in person, there was no time. He needed her to prepare for her role in the next act, le lavage rituel—the ceremonial washing of her mother’s body. Greta was to meet him with the supplies shortly after he signaled that all was in order in the house.
Vie had wanted her body washed, as was the custom in her family, a ritual to be done by those with whom she had the most intimate connections — her daughter and husband. She had reviewed these details with them many months back, and a difficult conversation that had been.
Though the news of her mother’s death should not have come as a surprise to Greta, she was, in fact, taken aback by the actuality of it. And she was confused by the tone of her father’s voice on that last call — it was distant and flat, almost without affect.
But Carl was not without feeling. He was simply doing all he could to survive the hike and could not let his emotions rule the day. Vie needed to come down the hill. It was that simple. Once that was done and his other obligations met, Carl would allow himself the deep sadness he longed for. He would, in fact, let it fill every part of his being — revisiting every memory, torturing over the things he should have done, marveling at the beautiful moments they had shared. But not now.
Finally, Carl and Aster arrived at the rocks. And there was Vie — shocks of blond hair peeking out from the top of the quilt, gnarled toes in wool socks from the bottom. Vie had pulled her body tightly into a fetal position.
Carl gazed at Vie in her cocoon, his mind absorbing only the periphery of the scene—the greens and blues interspersed with gray rock. Vie herself was missing, though she was right there, in the center, in plain sight. Carl was taking pictures, recording every last detail, but the images were being transported somewhere deep before he could actually process what he was seeing.
Shifting to the task at hand, if somewhat mechanically, Carl tied Aster to a nearby oak and vigorously stroked her neck and shoulders to calm her down. Vie’s horse sensed things weren’t right; her agitation had manifested itself in flattened ears and a swishing tail. Once Aster was settled, Carl tended to Vie. He pulled back the quilt and looked at her full on—his wife, in death. Carl could no longer look away.
For just a moment, Carl raised his head. He looked beyond the rocks, the mountains, and the valley, far into the distance, and Carl saw Vie. They were on their honeymoon. She was beautiful and tan, with long, shapely legs and strong arms, her skin smooth as silk. She was skiing in Switzerland, her cheeks like roses in the frigid air, her blue eyes sparkling as they teared up from the cold. Her melodious alto voice, with its haughty German accent, was clear as a bell.
Carl got down on his knees and knelt close to Vie’s face. Her eyes were closed, her skin cold as porcelain. As he’d recently done when she fell in the garden, Carl brought his ear within inches of her mouth, listening for breathing, anticipating her warm breath on his neck. But there was neither. He placed the palm of his hand between her breasts, searching for even the slightest rise and fall. All was still.
Carl rolled Vie onto her back, stretched out her legs, then grasped her hands to pull her into a sitting position. She had become so frail over the last two months that it took little effort for him to lift her to standing and hoist her into a fireman’s carry, after which he draped her over Aster’s saddle. Bent midriff, Vie’s body straddled both sides of the horse, head and arms dangling. Aster dutifully accepted her load and remained calm.
Carl then proceeded to secure Vie to the saddle, making adjustments that would ensure the load remained balanced and unable to shift even over those spots on the trail that were grossly uneven. Once Vie was situated, Carl led Aster down the mountain. It was a long descent, and both horse and husband felt the weight of it. Carl, lost in thought, was oblivious to everything around him, needing most to ignore Vie’s lifeless body swaying back and forth on the horse. The bright afternoon sun, the hawks, the ground squirrels, the carpenter bees, and Vie, his wife — Carl could not take in any of it. Gaze down, he focused on his feet and where he placed each step.
By 3:00, Carl was back at the house. Exhausted and distraught, he was no longer able to hold back the grief that had been welling up. He clumsily hitched the horse to the fence near the bedroom’s sliding glass door, then went inside to unlatch the handle and straighten the linens for Vie.
Bringing Vie down from the saddle, then carrying her to their bed, took every last ounce of Carl’s energy. He released her weight, for the last time, onto the sheets that she had starched and ironed for just this occasion. Carl felt a rush of relief; it was done. He would never again have to carry Vie’s rock.
Carl positioned Vie across the length of the mattress, as she had so carefully dictated: legs together, forearms across her stomach, hands gracefully one atop the other, her head resting on a small pillow. Carl then picked leaf debris and bits of dirt from her clothing, brushed her hair back and away from her face, as was her style, then kissed her forehead as if tucking her in for the night. Vie was ready for her daughter.
In the kitchen Carl gathered up his pajamas, which he’d left strewn on the floor, hung up his work clothes, then headed to the outdoor shower. For half an hour, he let the steaming water do its work, and with eyes closed, he dreamt of Vie, this as he washed himself with her balsam shampoo and herbal soap. He then toweled off and slipped into a long-sleeved white T-shirt and the khaki pants Vie had never let him wear. And he donned his favorite terrycloth slippers, as he would not be going out anytime soon. Carl was ready for Greta and prepared for the ritual bathing they would perform as a family.
Greta, who only a couple of hours prior had been summoned by her father, had instructions to take Aster up to the pasture. When she returned to the house, she came in through the side door to find her parents’ home cloaked in silence. Greta called out several times for her father but got no answer. Fearing the worst, she opened the door to her parent’s bedroom. The scene was as heartbreaking as it was endearing — her father fast asleep next to her mother, his head resting on her shoulder, arm stretched across her chest. His large, graceful hand gently grasped her mother’s upper arm as if keeping her warm. They looked as they so often did when sleeping together: content, at peace. But it was only her father’s chest that rose and fell.
Hearing Greta’s footsteps, Carl looked out through half-closed eyes. He could see her, but exhaustion and grief had taken what little reserve he had left and rendered him incapable of even a greeting. He gazed at Greta, expressionless, ashamed to have been found in this state of vulnerability.
Greta sat on the bed's edge, holding her father’s hand in silence. After a few minutes, Carl successfully got on his feet and then stepped out to give Greta some much-needed private time with her mother.
With loving eyes and gentle hands, Greta undressed her mother. She marveled at her body — a body that had carried a child and survived a C-section, that had raised a daughter and run after playful grandchildren, a body that had skied and hiked and that had daily done chores and taken care of a menagerie of pets and horses. It was a body that had also endured hip replacements and heart surgery. Vie’s body, a thing of beauty, flawed and worn — was not unlike the black walnut tree she loved.
As Vie lay lifeless on the bed, her body spoke to all that she had been and all she had endured. It was a body that had faithfully carried her through a good, if difficult, life. A life riddled with moments of overwhelming joy.
Greta set her mother’s soiled clothing in the closet hamper, then tucked her bare body under the quilt. Carl returned with a shallow tub of warm water, scented with a sachet of herbs from Vie’s garden, and two washcloths — one for each of them. Together, they washed Vie’s face and every part of her body, then gently worked her favorite pomegranate oil into her skin. When their work was done, Vie looked radiant — just as she would have wanted. Father and daughter then put Vie into her gray knit dress with the black velvet vest and her opaque black tights. She was ready for her final journey.
Carl made his calls — to hospice and the funeral home, to Vie’s family in Fulda, and to Kate.
Kate arrived within the hour and, after spending time privately with Vie, met Carl in the kitchen. They wrapped their arms around each other and wept until nothing remained. Then, hand in hand, they watched as Vie was taken from her home.
They would spend that endless, sleepless night in each other’s embrace, enveloped in darkness and the abiding scent of the woman they loved.
Such a tender piece. I wonder if this is the end or will you continue on with Carl and Kate?
Chris Andrews: For a prose poem this beautiful and real, I will only cite a really insightful reflection:
"Vie herself was missing, though she was right there, in the center, in plain sight."
I stop in reverence of this poetic prose.