The undertaker's office was not crowded, there was no reason for it to be in those heady warm days of June. The near-deaf little old man had stared dumbly at my mask at first, but my money greasing his palm had soon ensured his compliance.
I meticulously described every detail of the box I shopped for this day. The item was required to be made of a deeply dark stained, solid oak, almost a hue of red. The lid was to be emblazoned with an ornate cross in gold, and the lining was not satin, but an austere white velvet. I knew she would approve of these specifiactions.
I sat in one of the rickety leather chairs while the old man put together my bill. Once he had my payment firmly in hand, I was told to return on the morrow and retrieve the order. I tended to the whole business with my usual frozen demeanor, so that the man was thoroughly disconcerted by the affair. He did not even dare to ask who the box was for. In fact, I caugth a glimpse of him crossing himself in the wndow as I exited.
A day semed a painfully long time, but I returned at the appointed hour. Normally, one could purcase such a thing straight away, but the casket required in this case had to meet certain specifications, its owner by no means being typical. The piece itself was more than I could have hoped for. I examined every edge, hinge, and fabric fold for any imperfection, but it was truely a marvelous piece of craftsmanship. I sent it on to my home straightaway, where it would await the one who was to lay in it.
Slowly, I lowered the lid on the marvelous little coffin that he laid in. A tear slid down my cheek for the little infant tucked away inside, frozen in time. It was not until I looked up that I noticed Christine had appeared beside me, as silent and pale as a wraith. I said a silent prayer for my son, and apologized to him that he hadn't known life.
So much grieving over the deformed little thing that had not drwan his first breath. So much...not neccesary...I begin to crack, tears openly overwhelming me. I fall to my knees and bury my face in her skirts.
"I'm sorry Christine, this is all my fault. I made you give birth to him, I put him inside you."
She makes no sound, only slides down to sit beside me and run her hand through my hair. Will she never speak again? This is my fault, my punishment for daring to live like a normal man. Christine is too good to say, but I know she belives as well, I see it in her frozen eyes. My little wife, my little son, must everything I touch become so tainted?