Emily’s Good Night - Erin Dawkins

Bill Murphy never liked Emily much; she was a sad case. He followed a pathway carved by fury as he trudged through the late hours of the February night. The inside of his lower lip was raw from the tips of his mustache, serrated from the forming and melting of frozen crystals.

Emily's name echoed from chipped headstone to chipped headstone but fell flat. Bill continued to call for her, his voice tiring as he journeyed on, as tired as the many souls that slept eternally below him.

Emily was staying with the Murphys for the night while her mother was out of town. Or maybe out on the town. The Murphys sat at the kitchen table, each tick from the clock landing further from curfew. Kate told them that she dropped Emily and the boy off at the entrance of the cemetery and they would meet her at 10:30. Emily and the nameless boy never showed.  

Bill picked up an empty bottle. Snowfall filled the footprints around it. He twisted the cap and inhaled remnants of cinnamon, balmy lip-gloss coated the mouth. Bill removed his hat and dragged the sleeve of his coat across his forehead. He slumped at the base of a tree, trying to collect his breath though the pain that riddled his arm. His hands fell to his side, and his fingers reached into the earth, penetrating the frozen ground beneath him.

Bill listened to the snowflakes landing, a serene tinkling as they attached to branches overhead. Dangling and dancing like a crystal chandelier in a soft wind. The snow glow shone bright and hypnotic across the dark landscape. He fell into the trance of the midnight music and rested his eyes.

The back door was unlocked. Emily moved past Mrs. Murphy, who slept upright in the living room chair. She removed her socks and slipped into bed next to Kate. The wet fringe on the bottom of her jeans tickled her ankles.

Emily closed her eyes for what felt like minutes. When she awoke, she smiled, remembering the cold on her lower back, the pressure of his body, the slow rhythm of Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah."

When she opened the bedroom door, Kate and her mother were at the kitchen table.

It was Sunday, and the Murphys were normally at church.