After Death, What?

Act One. The shock from the electric fence knocked me sideways. I’d bumped my shoulder into it unwittingly opening the driveway gate. Horses were grazing in the backfield the first time I’d visited, but I’d forgotten, and so didn’t notice the thin wire running atop the fences on both sides of the long drive. In such close quarters, keeping hold of the leashed dogs, awkward with the latch, I swayed a bit to my left. Zap. The shock ran across my chest and shot out the fingers of my extended right arm. I shouted out in surprise at the heavy jolt. What the fuck! When I told the woman who owned the land what happened, doing my best to control the rising anger, she laughed a little and said, “Well, it’s a kinder, gentler shock. It used to be much worse.” For some reason, this did not reassure me. Act Two. The pamphlet sat on the toilet in the bathroom of the highway exit gas station. It’s title: After Death, What? This made me laugh, causing my piss stream to flick outside the urinal. I pointed it back at the painted fly. Who had placed this bi-monthly bromide alongside the toilet paper and condoms? Did they really expect this to become some traveler’s spiritual task? Or had I entered a different kind of weigh station? Needless-to-say, I didn’t pick the pamphlet up. The title was enough to fuel me for at least twenty miles. Act Three. On my drive down from Northern Vermont, just outside Boston, about to merge onto 95, my driving energy flagged, the post-accident PTSD rose up, and all of a sudden I was shaking like a ragdoll behind the wheel, surrounded on both sides by lolling big rigs. Without thinking, I pulled off on an exit and soon was driving along a tree-lined road, following signs to “Historic Downtown Lincoln.” I stopped at the old town hall to see where I might grab a bite. The woman pointed me on to a bistro—it was that kind of town—just up the road a mile. But before I got back in my car, I walked into the field beside the hall, letting the thin footpath take me back and around a small swale. The grass was tall enough to brush against my calves and knees. I was about to turn back when I spotted a lone tree atop the next little hill; someone had built a three-sided bench around the tree. When I arrived at the spot, I saw an old metal sign on the back support. It read “Think of Us and Be a Force for Good.” The donating couple’s last name--Avery--was the same as my son’s. I walked back to car now calm, quite hungry, ready to find the bistro then get back on that highway.