AFTER THE FALL

by
Ty Treadwell


Nona has been raking for hours now, the repeated scraping of the metal tines against the cold
ground sounding like a weak but determined animal clawing at a closed door, desperate to gain
access to the other side. She expects heads to appear in windows, neighbors wondering who or
what could be shattering the sanctity of this quiet Sunday morning. If they did peer out, they
would see a slender middle-aged woman, dressed in clothes far too nice for outdoor work,
calmly dragging a rake across her back yard. Behind her, the ground slopes gently downward to
the edge of a mud-brown lake. At the top of the hill sits an enormous house which has always
felt too large for just two people. Now, with the number of occupants reduced to one, the
cavernous space will seem ridiculous.
The rake feels good in Nonas hands. Sturdy. Capable. When she entered the garage that
morning to fetch it, Steven had given her a wary, sheepish glance. He was there collecting
cardboard boxes, holding the flattened rectangles awkwardly as if worried about getting dust on

his clothes. It wouldve been amusing to watch him fumble with the boxes as he tried to
assemble them, but Nona was too edgy to stand still. Her legs tingled, and her hands ached for
something useful to do. She had found the rake hanging neatly on the wall, the price sticker still
on its handle. For Gods sake, Nona, Steven had mumbled, leave that for Miguel and his men.
Thats what I pay them for. Without a reply, Nona stepped out into the brisk November air with
the tool clutched tightly in her fist.
After several hours of work, she has already collected a dozen neat piles of leaves. As a child,
she never understood the purpose of raking. Other gardening tasks made perfect sense. You
pulled weeds to make the flower beds look nicer. You cut the grass to keep it short and even
instead of long and unruly. But fall leaves were so vibrant and beautiful. Like this pale yellow
one, twice the size of her hand and laced with thick, ropy veins. Or this one, slick as patent
leather and fiery red in color, like the belly of some reptile from deep in the rainforest. Why
gather these when there was nothing beneath them but dirt and dying grass? So the lawn will
grow back fresh and new next spring, her mother had explained. We scrape away the dead layer
now so the sun can do its work, and after a few months everything will turn green again.
That very sun now struggles over the tops of the trees, making the choppy surface of the lake
gleam like a carpet of shattered glass. The raking is so simple and redundant that Nonas hands
seem perfectly capable of performing the work themselves while her mind travels elsewhere.
Shes already had weeks to contemplate the importance of this day, and now she finds herself
pondering its more trivial aspects. For instance, how apropos that marriage is such a cozy,
pleasant-sounding wordthe soft consonants, the harmonious similarity of the two vowel
soundswhile divorce is such an ugly one. That hard, unflinching d, followed soon after by a
wicked v, the letter itself as sharp as a knife point. So many ugly, negative words began with that

horrid character. Violence. Vengeance. Victim. Volatile. And the end of the word divorce was no
better, the ce pronounced like an angry hiss.
Nona puts the rake down and begins stuffing handfuls of leaves into one of the paper lawn bags
she found in the garage. Meanwhile, her mind continues to wander in random directions. Where
will she live? Steven said she can keep the house, but does she really want it? It will seem so
massive, so cheerless. She should find something smaller and cozier. What about a job? She
hasnt worked since she and Steven were married, but the prospect of doing it again excites her.
It will be thrilling. An adventure. And what will she eat for dinner from now on? What TV
shows will she watch when hers is the only hand guiding the remote control? And why do so
many terrible, terrible words start with the letter v, such as violate, and venom, and vex?
Nona stands again. The sun is directly overhead now, throwing sunlight off the lake in a
million different directions. A sudden gust of wind animates the tree branches and a few stray
leaves drift down to the ground, crippled but elegant, like dying angels. The breeze feels bracing,
exhilarating. Nona rubs at her tingling cheeks then closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sky,
imagining herself as the surface of the lake, beams of light shooting out of her in every direction.
She stretches and smiles. The wind has caused her nose to run but she has no tissues in her
pocket. She dabs her nostrils with the sleeve of her cashmere sweater then continues working.
By the time shes finished, Nonas pants are dirty and her hands are chafed. Plump bags filled
with leaves are lined up beside the fence like mute observers, organic versions of the Easter
Island monoliths. The back yard is barren, not a single leaf in sight. Just a long rectangle of limp
beige grass meandering down toward the water. The ground is bare, ugly, and scarred from the
attention of the rake, but by springtime the grass will be plush and green again. Nona wonders if
shell still be there to see it.

As she walks back toward the house, Nona is surprised to find Steven staring out at her from
the kitchen windows. Vicious. Villain. The lights are off and his pale face seems to float
untethered in the gloom like a stray balloon. One palm is pressed to the window glass, the fingers
splayed. Nona was always fascinated by those hands, with their smooth skin and long, nimble
fingers. Surgeons hands, talented enough to perform magic with a scalpel yet unable to wield
something as large and clumsy as a rake. His shirt and slacks are fresh and clean. He has no snot
on his sleeve, no dirt on his pants. Nona feels sorry for him.
At first she thought Steven was seeking her attention, but hes merely regarding her with the
same casual interest he might feel for anyone doing work in his yard. Nona walks forward until
only a few feet of space separate them, then she returns his stare. The window glass seems as
thick as a stone wall. Steven sighs and shakes his head, his lip curled down in mild distaste. Vile.
Vulgar. Vindictive.
Nona raises the rake in both hands, holding it diagonally across her body the way a soldier
might hold a rifle. The pose is meant to be dramatic. Significant. Something that would linger
stubbornly in a persons mind. Someday youll remember this moment and youll wish you had
done something. Anything. Youll wish you had come outside and hugged me. Youll wish you
had asked me to sit down and talk about it one more time. Youll wish you had smashed through
the glass with those priceless hands of yours and reached out for me, grabbed my sweater with
those clever fingers, and begged me not to go. But you wont do any of those things. Youll only
stand there and stare. Then one day, years from now, youll look back and ask yourself why you
could fix a dying man but you couldnt fix this. And then youll wonder why you didnt even try.
Steven maintains his expression for a momentthe slight frown, the cool disdainthen he
drifts away from the window, melting into the dim obscurity of the kitchen. Now its Nonas

reflection staring at her from the glass, a pallid ghost with mussed hair and raw cheeks. The
ghost ponders Nona, thinking. Small, lonely sounds fill the air. A bird warbling. The chitter of
hidden insects. A solitary splash down at the lake as a turtle or a fish disturbs the calm surface.
Nona circles around to the front of the house. But instead of returning the rake to the garage,
she keeps walking down the driveway and into the street, the wind in her face. The combination
of sunlight and cold air lends everything a hard edge, a brittle clarity, that Nona finds not only
beautiful but refreshing. She takes a deep breath, wishing she could suck in the breeze, the
sunlight, the woody smell of the skeletal trees, the scattered bits of red and gold, all the colors
and textures of this autumn day, and carry them inside her body forever.
She passes her neighbors house with no idea where shes going. Maybe shell walk all the way
to the end of the street, or even out of the subdivision. In her soiled clothes, with bits of leaves in
her hair, she probably looks like a homeless person (vagrant) or some tough middle-aged
troublemaker (vandal). But Nona doesnt care. She only wants to keep moving into the wind,
displacing the cool air the way a swimmers body slices through water. Maybe shell walk to the
highway, or even beyond it. Maybe she wont stop until her legs quiver and refuse to take
another step. How long would it take to reach that point? Shes curious to find out.
Nona stops and looks down, laughing as she realizes shes still carrying the rake. Cradling the
tool in both palms like a sacred offering, she crouches and lays it gently down on the grass at the
edge of some strangers yard. Then she stands and walks away without looking back, fading into
the distance until shes only a subtle hint of movement against the still autumn sky.

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