They came for our dead

  THEY CAME FOR OUR DEAD

  by

  Robert Dudley

  It was fall when it began, that time of terrible change when the good weather dies, the nights grow colder, the crops wither, and the darkness swallows the daylight far too early. They came then, first as lights in the sky, all around the globe, leaving no nation untouched. Sometimes they hovered above us, either briefly or for hours. They appeared as golden globes, faraway lights that emitted no sound but moved erratically. All who remained would remember that time, their arrival in the autumn of the year.

  We first saw them on a crisp October night, an unexpected interruption to our drive home after spending a fun evening dining with our children at our favorite restaurant. Sue, my wife, was the first to spot them. “What is that?” she said, breathlessly pointing out the window.

  I pulled my old truck over to the side of the highway, climbed out, and looked up at thirty or forty mysterious lights, clearly not stars or planes. As cold and brisk as the air was, she exited the pickup to join me, and we stood close to one another on the edge of the pavement, my wife shivering from the chill in the air and the moment. Other passersby stopped as well, till hundreds lined the highway, all eyes skyward. Lips trembled and bodies quivered, and the temperature had little to do with it. The lights above us moved eastwardly, disappearing and reappearing now and then, traversing the black velvet canvas in a way I’d never seen anything move before, jerking around in unnatural, otherworldly contortions that made as little sense as their presence did.

  As unique as it was to us, the sighting was nothing new to the government that had been warning us for some time to remain calm while they tested their new stealth vehicles. The media and meteorologists tried to assure us that they were simply meteors; “Just a rare atmospheric event, nothing to be concerned about,” one even said. Even as the lights appeared in the entirety of the cosmos surrounding Planet Earth, all humanity hoped the lies our governments were telling us were true, and we swallowed those placebos, because we knew that was better than the bitter pills of reality.

  During that time, that questionable season, my dear mother passed away. She was the matriarch of our family, the glue who had always held everything and everyone together. She had raised four children, a hero, of sorts, who was willing to go to work even in an age when women were expected to stay home and don their aprons and tend to little more than gardening and making pies. She died at the ripe young age of only 72, and just as many elderly do, she divulged a great secret just prior to her passing. Mom suffered from a persistent cough for some time, but like her stubborn mate, she refused to go to the doctor.

  My father, likewise, covered up his own illnesses of dementia and Alzheimer’s; years later, we would be left to wonder why we were so oblivious to the tell-tale signs. Dad seemed okay most of the time, regaling us with tale after tale, stories we’d heard hundreds of time before. He was always happy, strong, and seemingly robust, but not long after our mother’s departure, we discovered just how badly he needed the guiding hand of his wife. Mere months after Mom was buried, we were besieged by it all: the phone calls asking where our mother had gone; the neighbors telling us Dad was lost, no longer able to find his way home; and even the police dropping him off like a runaway pet they found wandering through town late at night, asking strangers where he lived. The obvious next step, as difficult as it was, was to care for him in our homes. For months at a time, we looked after Dad in shifts, so none of us would be overburdened or grow weary of him. “He gave us life after all. It’s the least we can do, right?” I said to my siblings one day.

  Unfortunately, the disease that devoured his mind, coupled with the despair of losing his wife and being taken out of his familiar surroundings, made him angry. He was furious and ashamed, emasculated because he could no longer live on his own, that he could not even be trusted to drive his own car and navigate through life as he used to. Without my mother’s guidance to steer him, he was free to screw up, which he often did. The few coherent moment he did have were tortured by frustration, and Dad lashed out at the closest thing to him: his family. He resented the fact that he had to be moved from house to house, and he found it belittling that he was forced to reside in the homes of his own children. Not only that, but while he occupied our homes, he frightened our children and even made our pets uneasy. He certainly didn’t mean to, but he arose at odd hours night after night and banged on our doors, demanding to know where he was and who had taken his wife. “Where’s my damn house? What is this place? Take me home!” he screamed, till his voice was hoarse and our little ones were in tears. It was as if he aged three decades in the span of a just months; Dad looked so old, his gray hair disheveled and refusing to wear anything but his night clothes, which we had to sneak to the laundry every now and then. We put up with it as long as we could, trying to be dutiful, helpful, good children, but in the end, it proved to be too much for even the toughest, most adaptable of us. We all had jobs, our children had school, and our cats and dogs deserved a little peace of mind. We loved Dad and forgave him as often as we could, but we needed other answers.

  My father was a U.S. Army veteran and served during the Vietnam War, so after a little digging, we discovered that he was eligible for Alzheimer’s care at a Veteran’s Administration facility. I filled out the copious paperwork, certain we were doing the right thing. He needed help and care beyond what he could get from us, experts skilled at watching over and caring for a person like him. There were doctors and nurses available there twenty-four hours a day, people who knew what they were doing. We certainly couldn’t help him anymore, no matter how badly we wished we could. Dad had always told us to do our best, and we’d done that for him.

  As soon as his admission was approved, I took my brother and two sisters with me to look at the facility. It was quite a drive for us all, almost two hours from the closest member of our family. The journey was a quiet one as we each mulled over the idea of placing our one remaining parent in the hands of strangers. None of us felt good about it; it seemed as if we were betraying him, turning our backs on family, but we had no choice.

  The facility was enormous, with two wings and standing some six stories tall. The building was run down, situated on several acres of manicured lawns, dotted with trees. It was clear that hundreds, if not thousands, of veterans had been there over the years, and several were outside even on that cold day, either smoking or enjoying the fresh air. Most limped about, and some were in wheelchairs, but all appeared to be injured somehow.

  The Alzheimer’s unit was on lockdown, so to gain access, we had to press a button and wait for a nurse or aide to buzz us in or open the door for us. We were eventually greeted and invited inside by an orderly, who led us down a long, brightly lit, white hallway. The black floor tiles gleamed as if they’d been mopped and waxed just moments ago, and the clickety-clacking of our soles echoed as we passed a large room where several men of various ages aimlessly watched a blaring television set. A group shuffled by us, walking stiffly, ignoring us or not even noticing our presence. Behind them were numerous framed photos, proud, upright men in military uniforms and spit-shined boots, not backless hospital gowns and slippers.

  We introduced ourselves to the people manning the nurses’ station and informed them, “Our father will be admitted in a week or so, as soon as he has final approval.” Because space was limited for each resident of the facility, we had to sell most of Dad’s belongings. In addition to that, his house had to be put on the market, because in spite of his VA benefits, Dad’s net worth was well under a few thousand dollars, and the facility would not take him unless he paid for a large portion of his care there, at least until the government combed through their red tap
e enough to start picking up the tab.

  “Right this way,” said another aide, then led us to our father’s would-be room.

  On his floor were veterans from every war, from World War II to the current troubles overseas, and every branch was represented. The aide informed us that Dad’s roommate would be someone close to his age, a man who’d also served in ‘Nam.

  We passed several doors, and while most were closed, a peek inside the others revealed that each room held two beds. Old men lay in those beds, staring mindlessly at loud gameshows or talk shows on their snowy televisions. A few turned their heads to look at us as we click-clacked by, their mouths open but their eyes dead.

  “This is it,” the aide said when we stopped in front of a door with two names on it, one of them our father’s.

  While the room was large enough to accommodate two beds and a few clothes and personal belongings, they had to share a bathroom with an adjoining room. The only privacy for Dad would be the heavy ceiling-to-floor curtain that split the room into two; his bed was the closest to the hallway. We could not see through the drape, but we heard the low murmuring of a television on the other side.

  “Here is a list of what your father may have in his possession here,” the aide said, smiling as she handed it to us. “Of course he can have clothes and two pair of shoes, but he’ll need no cash money. We highly recommend a TV set, no bigger than nineteen inches,” she explained, pointing to the list. “We make them keep the volume very low in their rooms, so as not to disturb others, so if your father has a hearing problem, it’s advisable to bring headphones,” she instructed, pointing to a jack in the nearby wall.

  I glanced down at the list, then back up at the closet, which was to house no more than seven shirts and seven pairs of pants, a week’s worth of clothing to hang above his required two pairs of shoes. How did we get here? I wondered. How did this happen so fast? One day, we were just a normal family, going through the normal daily grind of work, school, and mowing the freaking lawn. Then it just changed. Mom’s gone and now…this. It felt as if everything had come undone, and all of the sudden, we were the adults, tasked with helping our father instead of the other way around. My brother and sisters looked at the facility in disgust, hardly able to imagine the small area where our father would have to exist, the small, reduced life he would have to live, like a prisoner of his own failing mind. Although the place was clean and brightly lit, not at all like some dark asylum, there was still a pungent odor to it, the stink of overuse and old age, the acrid, noxious stench of decay and forthcoming death, the reek of its long history of veterans being brought in by their loved ones and carried out on stretchers and gurneys. Regardless, none of us could handle my father any longer. We had given it our best effort for the better part of a year, none of us wanted him back.

  The aide pulled the heavy curtain back and introduced us to the man lying in the second bed, a short, heavy, older gentleman with graying hair and tired eyes peering from behind thick glasses.

  The man groaned as he tried to sit up a bit. “Brian,” he said. “Name’s Brian, and it’s nice to meet ya.” He moved his hand to mute the wall-mounted television, silencing the sirens of the police show he was watching.

  “This is Brian Wilson,” the aide said. “As I mentioned before, he’s around your father’s age, just a bit younger. Mr. Wilson served in the Army as well, and when he was discharged, he went to college and worked for several defense firms,” she said, waving her arms toward the wall.

  I stared at the posters for a moment, pictures of mighty aircraft, tanks, and destroyers, boasting Boeing, Raytheon, and Northrop models. On the nearby shelves, Mr. Wilson had all manner of science fiction and fantasy novels, dog-eared and worn and most missing their covers.

  We all tried to speak with our father’s new roommate, but it was easy to see why he was there. He was unable to meet our eyes while we spoke, and he always seemed to be looking elsewhere, to some other place and time. Every now and then, he seemed extremely nervous and darted his eyes out the window, imploring the great outdoors to grant him freedom.

  A short while later, my siblings and I stepped over to the other side of the curtain, to our father’s side, and I slid the drape closed as a nurse stepped in to administer some medication to Mr. Wilson. I peeked through the slit in the curtain and watched as he swallowed one pill at a time, then followed with a tall glass of water. Once the nurse was satisfied with his compliance, she nodded silently and left the room.

  Brian smiled at me through the slit and slyly withdrew one pill from his mouth, followed by others. “This pink one makes it so I can’t see them shadowy things that keep moving about just outside my periphy-ral, but I prefer to see them,” he said very softly, punctuating it with a wink.

  The aide took us out in the hallway and told us more about Brian’s life. “He was married many times, but no one comes to visit him, the poor thing,” she said. “He…sees things, you know.”

  We did not want to leave our father there, especially not to bunk with a lonely old man who stared too much and saw invisible things, but our hands were tied. Over the course of the next few weeks, we moved him in. The social worker at the facility warned that we shouldn’t visit at all for the first month, because it would be better to wait till he settled into a routine, so I created a schedule that would allow us to see him every other weekend after that, on a rotating basis. On my first visit, I went alone; Sue had to work weekends, but she promised she would take some time off to visit with me another time.

  On one visit, I took along some book on notable figures of history, and I decided I would stop for pizza on the way. During the drive, I turned on the talk radio and listened in on a debate about the strange lights in the sky, which had become a common, everyday occurrence. They’d been flickering and moving about for months, generating all sorts of talk and a diverse range of theories: “It’s that darn government, sending up weapons to fight terrorists… No, it’s alien’s, I tell ya, comin’ through some wormhole from another dimension… It’s the end of the world as we know it!” I listened to the opposing arguments as I sped down the freeway, along with hundreds of other cars. Above us, distant now, the lights lingered, dozens upon dozens of them, but just as many others were starting to do, I ignored them. They had become as inconspicuous as the homeless people lurking in city alleys, unnerving and possibly harmful but mostly just part of the backdrop, something we’d all become desensitized to.

  Two hours later, I arrived and pulled my SUV under a thick copse of trees along the well-manicured lawn of the facility. Many veterans were outside once again, but they seemed agitated, scurrying quickly about, seemingly focused on something else and ignoring each other. Several craned their old, leathery necks to look up at the sky, and something about the energy level was off. Instead of the slow gait I’d noticed on all previous visits, most of the patients were now hurrying to nowhere in particular, managing quick, quirky movements I didn’t even think they were capable of.

  I pressed the button to be buzzed in, then made my way down the bright corridor, past the photographs of war heroes, beyond the dining room and nurses’ station. I stood before my father’s closed door and looked at the names on the plaque outside the room for a moment, then knocked softly and went in.

  My father was in bed, watching a movie. His face brightened when he saw me, and he smiled as I took a seat on the edge of his bed.

  “How are you?” I asked, going through the motions.

  “That depends. When can I leave? And where is my wife?”

  I was becoming an expert on what the social worker called “misdirecting,” changing the subject so Dad would think of something less painful. I slid the piping-hot pizza box to him and opened the lid. “Dad, have you seen the lights in the sky? They’ve been showing them on TV a lot.” I took the remote control from his hands and left his Western behind to turn to the news, confident that the journalists would be discussing the dancing lights, since it was the only thing t
hey’d been talking about for months.

  My father, thankfully distracted from his fragmented memories of my mother and his house, looked up at the television set, and his mouth fell agape. “What the…?” he asked, and I noticed that even after only a month in the facility, he looked more gaunt and weaker than I’d ever seen him before, not at all the Army trooper and heroic father and amazingly loving husband I knew him to be.

  “Maybe it’s aliens, Dad, coming to help us. Maybe they can provide some sort of energy source, strong enough to power the whole world. Hey, maybe they can even expand our knowledge of medicine, so the doctors can find a way to help you get—”

  Before I could finish, laughter rolled through the heavy drape that separated the room.

  I stood and pulled the curtain back, and it moved easily along the bar between the two beds.

  “Ha!” Mr. Wilson laughed again. “You don’t get it, do ya? Nobody does but me, sonny. ”Get what?”

  “Listen, kid, the universe is twelve billion years old, while our Earth is only five. You’d have to be an idiot to think we’re the only intelligent life in the universe or even the first. There were beings around seven billion years before us! How much learnin’ could they have done in all that time? If they mastered flight between stars, they gotta be so advanced, so far beyond us that we cannot even imagine what they’re capable of. Why, they probably don’t even give us a second thought. To them, we’re nothin’ more than the worms that crawl up outta the ground on a rainy day, just insects and nothin’ more.”

  “Hmm. If that’s true, Mr. Wilson,” I said, why are they here? They’ve been in the sky every night, seen over every continent, even above our major cities. If we’re just worms, why are they bothering with us?”

  He laughed again, and spittle flew from his mouth. Behind his dirty glasses, his blue eyes darted madly. He turned his head to glance at the door to make sure no nurse or orderly was near, then looked at the clock, ticking off the time until he would be given his next dose of some psychotropic drug. “You still don’t get it, do you? In all those alien movies and books, the little green men come to kill us, enslave us, take our resources, or just take the planet for themselves. There’s a reason them novels on that shelf over there are just that…fiction,” he proclaimed, his voice raising an octave, to the point where it sounded like he was chuckling out the words. Then, after a short pause and another stare out the window, he continued. “Out there…” he said, waving his thin-skinned, veiny hands above his head, his large body lurching to and fro to reveal the ugly, yellowed urine stains on his bedding. Crumbs of food littered his beard, and his fingernails were dirty and uncut.