APRIL 3, 2020

Bury the Truth

“Bury the Truth” is my story for the 94th episode of The Word Count Podcast.

We continue with the theme of ANIMALS. This story is based on the following image and it also had to be about isolation … how timely.

STORY INSPIRATION: Even though the subject of “isolation” is something we are all experiencing right now, it did not make this story easier to write. In fact, it’s more of a struggle when real life is stranger than fiction.

I’ve written another story based on the image of a wolf called “Harbinger” and perhaps that helped inform this story too.

You can listen to me reading “Bury the Truth” on episode 94 of R.B. Wood’s podcast.

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My mother mashes potatoes while I set the table. “Turn up the volume,” she said, “the president’s about to speak.”

I never thought much of the president, except now what he said was of great interest to my mother.

“As long as I can still go to the beach, that’s all I care about.”

“Quiet!” She raised her hand to silence me.

The president stood on stage flanked by a team of suits and a couple of women. He appeared to be taking questions from reporters. “Is he doing a good job, Mom?”

“He sure is, but those idiot reporters keep asking stupid questions. They need to respect our Commander in Chief!”

Mom was never political, but she was enjoying her nightly dose of news. “We must stay informed,” she said proudly. And so we were—with Fox News on 24-7 in the kitchen. That Mom added another gun to her collection last week proved she was serious about our safety. Dad had already left her a respectable arsenal before he died. One thing about these parts, it’s that every household had at least one gun.

“Are we at war?” I asked, when she showed me her new possession.

Mom shook her head. “No, the president says it’s no worse than the flu, but it’s important to defend ourselves in uncertain times.”

I was all for it. It was our right to bear arms, Dad always said. In less than a year, I’d be able to buy my own gun, though Mom promised she’d get one for my eighteenth birthday—not a handgun of course, but a rifle. I was really looking forward to it.

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Things changed about three weeks after I returned home from spring break. Early one morning, I awoke to find my mother sitting on the couch, head in her hands. A pile of guns lay at her feet. She handed me a shotgun.

“He lied to us!” she shouted. “He fucking lied to us!”

“What? Who lied to us?” My heart beat out of my chest, but my mind remained dull. “Mom, what are you saying?”

“Go down to the bunker, and don’t come out. Stay there as long as you can.”

“What’s going on?”

“Go. Now! Promise me you’ll stay down there.”

“Mom—”

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

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I never connected to the horror of what was happening. I saw it on the news but it was happening elsewhere—in China, Italy, New York. Life was normal for us—there was no panic buying, no crush at the grocery stores, or race to find hand sanitizers and toilet paper. Those were the actions of people who believed in fake news. We were preppers, with enough food and water stockpiled to last two weeks. We didn’t feel a need to wash our hands more than normal. We didn’t socially distance from people.

When I finally crawl out of the bunker, I expect the house to be destroyed or looted. It isn’t. The only thing that seems different is a strange smell in the air. Mom is nowhere to be found.

The television is still playing Fox News. Just as I thought, it’s almost two weeks ago that I isolated myself. Life seems to have returned to normal in that time. It’s the beginning of May and certain parts of the country are going back to work. The virus is now behind us. So what did Mom mean when she said: He lied to us.

Who was she talking about?

I change the channel, start watching other news networks. The number of deaths is continuing to climb, especially in my country. I’ve never seen stats like these before. And the bizarre thing is the rest of the world is still in lockdown.

The reporter stands in front of a large cruise ship as he speaks. His name is Wolf Blitzer and he appears grim.

“There is no more room for the dead. Large auditoriums and hotels are filled with the sick or those in isolation. Many of the dead bodies are being placed in pine boxes and loaded onto this ship behind me. There, they will remain until they can be cremated. As the president reopens the country for business, more and more people have become infected and are dying at an alarming rate.”

I change the channel back to Fox News—no mention of death. The smiling, blonde woman at the news desk is hailing the president as a hero for getting the economy back up and running. There is a sound bite with him saying, “We are putting our people back to work.”

I’m disoriented and confused, can’t reconcile the news, so I turn off the television. I imagine Mom must have gone to stay with Grandma in Orange County.

I open the fridge to grab a can of Coke and find an envelope propped up against a wilted head of lettuce. It’s addressed to me.

I sit down to read the note:

To my dear son,

The pandemic is real, not a hoax. Your grandma got the virus and died. I could not even see her to say good-bye. I found out I got it too, but I won’t pass it to you. You will be safe.

Momma loves you and always will.

I allow the finality of her words to sink in, and it’s in that moment I realize where the smell is coming from.