by Mia Sheridan
So Jonah did, week after week, as Clara returned to the weeping wall, sitting in the grass on the other side of the wall, the summer days dwindling like particles of sand through an hourglass. He told her about the old willows draped in veils of lacy moss, and the sugarcane fields that grew dense and uncultivated, having reclaimed the paths that men and women had once forged. He told her about the garden behind the cabins that somehow kept bearing vegetables though no one tended it now.
While the rose garden had mostly withered and died, growing thorny and sparse, that vegetable garden—though weedy and wild—continued to flourish without care.
It drank from what rain it got and drew nourishment from the rich Louisiana soil and bore fat juicy tomatoes, crisp sweet cucumbers, and hot crunchy peppers of all varieties, among other things.
If her back was younger and stronger, Myrtle said, she would have given it more attention, but why bother, Jonah thought, when it seemed to do just fine on its own?
Jonah described the rooms of the plantation—the way the hardwood floors squeaked and creaked and yet still gleamed with polish in some areas. The house had been redecorated in the thirties, but never since, and though the furnishings, curtains, and the dishes showed signs of age and wear, they still held beauty.
As he spoke, Jonah noticed his accent became thicker, his drawl more pronounced as he heard the voices of those who had first talked about Windisle Plantation and told him the story of Angelina.
Clara listened, seemingly enraptured, to each detail Jonah imparted. And then he asked her about dancing, about the schools she’d attended, about the first time she knew she wanted to dance for a living.
She told him about her teachers, the other girls in the ballet. She told him about arabesques, and soubresauts, relevés, and brisé volés. And he laughed as she rhymed, speaking the terms in a haughty French accent, her own laughter sparkling through him—sweet, effervescent—like champagne bubbles. Like magic she’d tossed over the wall and he’d swallowed from the air.
And yes, their time together felt magical to Jonah—a reprieve from his life as a monster. He knew it couldn’t last, but he didn’t let himself think too much about that while he was with her. When it ended, as it would, he would deal with it.
For now they were just a boy and a girl, sitting on opposite sides of a wall, a layer of thick stone between them, but their hearts connected nonetheless. And for now, he would enjoy the moments they had.
**********
"What on God's green earth are you doing there, Jonah Chamberlain?"
The sound of Cecil's voice brought Jonah from his thoughts and he stood straight, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and propping the shovel he was holding in the mulch. He leaned on it, attempting to look casual as he watched him approach.
"I'm"—he looked around—"I'm mulching."
Cecil stopped in front of Jonah, his face twisted in confusion as he looked to the mulch at their feet and back to Jonah’s face. He scratched the back of his neck. "All right." The words were dragged out as if he were trying to buy himself time to back away slowly before calling the men who brought the buckled jackets.
Jonah couldn't help chuckling softly. "It's just a . . . thing someone I know suggested I do."
Cecil tilted his head, looking back over his shoulder. "Myrtle?"
Myrtle appeared on the path. "What?"
"Jonah here's got a . . . someone."
Oh, Lord. "Cecil, it's not that big a thing."
"A someone?" Myrtle walked closer, a look of blatant hope on her face that was so obvious, Jonah groaned.
"Please stop it, you two."
"Who is she?" Cecil asked. "Someone you met on the email?"
Jonah propped the shovel against the bush he had been adding mulch to and removed his gardening gloves. "I think you mean the Internet. And no, I didn’t meet her on some dating site."
Although the idea was amusing in a pitiful way. What would his bio say? Perhaps something along the lines of:
Pathetic and hideous recluse seeks . . . well, anyone female really, to meet in the dark of night in a dilapidated, ghost-infested plantation home.
Jesus.
Cecil and Myrtle exchanged a look. They both knew Jonah didn’t leave the house and had to be wondering if he’d finally cracked and started seeing the ghosts everyone claimed lived at Windisle.
Jonah abandoned his task and started walking toward the house. He’d lost his will to garden. Cecil and Myrtle followed, close on his heels. He considered turning toward them and explaining, but the thought brought a sharp, panicky feeling to his chest. What would he say? I met this girl through the wall. I've never seen her, but I think I could easily fall in love with her?
He stopped dead in his tracks. His heart slammed against his chest and alarm bells rang in his head.
Ridiculous. In love? He sounded pathetic, even in his own damn head.
His relationship, if you could call it that, with Clara was an invention formed from his loneliness and isolation. Nothing more. Yes, she’d called herself his friend but in actuality, she was barely an acquaintance. She was someone he talked to now and then. If he’d lived a normal life, he’d have equated her to the chatty mailperson, or the neighbor you stop on the street to catch up with. Inconsequential.
She’d made him consider things he hadn’t considered in a long time, that was true, but she, Clara, the individual, did not matter.
Talking to anyone other than Myrtle and Cecil would have brought about the same feelings in him. And yet, the thought rang hollow in his head. He knew he was lying to himself. And he knew what he had to do about it.
**********
Later that day, Jonah arrived at the weeping wall, sliding down and taking his usual spot under the oak tree. A bright green leaf floated down, landing in Jonah’s lap. He picked it up, tilting his head so he could see it with his good eye, spinning the delicate thing between his fingers, noting the subtle yet vibrant striations of gold and yellow that wove through the veins. Something he only noticed because he’d taken the time to examine it closely. How many things had he overlooked in his life because he’d been too busy—too self-important—to take a moment to dig deeper, look closer, understand more fully? The thought was depressing. If only . . . if only . . .
A slight breeze wafted over him, the mineral scents of the Mississippi River finding him through the woods and marsh that separated him from that vast body of water, behind a wall, protected by the dim shade cast by centuries-old trees. Some things you simply couldn’t hide from. Some things you could never escape. He’d already discovered that, though. He’d learned the lesson well.
He heard a car door open and close and a moment later, Clara’s breathless voice greeted him as she took her seat on the other side of the wall. “How are you?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Sore.” She groaned. “We stayed late at practice last night. I stopped using Mrs. Guillot’s liniment because of the smell, but I’ll tell you what. That stuff works. I might have to make you suffer through it again.”
Jonah chuckled. “I’m on the other side of a wall, Clara. You should probably be more concerned with the people you spend face-to-face time with.”
There was a moment of awkward silence and Jonah cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I never asked who drops you off here each week.” He assumed she was getting a ride from a friend but she’d never mentioned him or her.
“Oh, I take an Uber.”
“What’s an Uber?”
“You know, a personal taxi. It’s a location-specific app.” She paused. “Have you really never heard of an Uber?”
Jonah was embarrassed. Not only had he never heard of an Uber, he couldn’t even remember if he’d ever used any apps. “I don’t get out much, Clara. I guess the world has sort of . . . passed me by in some ways.” How many ways, he couldn’t even begin to guess. Just the thought of what was going on “out there,” on the other side of the wall, sent a shock of anxiety c
oursing through him, and he put his palms down on the cold, solid ground, gripping the grass, and feeling it slide between his fingers. The contact made him feel immediately calmer.
“You don’t get out much?” Clara repeated, hesitance in her voice. She had asked him questions about himself before, but he’d always neatly sideswiped them, bringing the topic back around to Windisle.
She’d asked him why everyone thought the place was deserted, whether he used lights at night, or kept them off, and he’d answered her truthfully, that though the landscaping lights had ceased working years ago, the lights from the house simply couldn’t be seen because of the trees that surrounded the grounds.
But he didn’t tell her that he also kept the lights very low, or even off sometimes, because by the end of the day, they hurt his injured eye and brought on headaches.
He closed his eyes then, reminding himself what he had to do. Knowing it was the right thing, knowing he should be forthcoming. She should know that he didn’t leave this plantation—not ever—and they might be temporary friends, but he wouldn’t leave this place under any circumstances. And she should know the reason why.
“How often, Jonah?”
"Never," he said quietly. "I haven't left Windisle in eight years.”
He knew her silence was due to surprise, confusion probably. “Never?” she repeated. “What? Why? What do you . . . what do you do?”
“I . . .” God, what did he do? Existed. Barely that. "I just . . ." He leaned his head back against the stone, turning his cheek so it was pressed against the cold, hard rock.
"What, Jonah? What is it? Tell me, please."
The clouds above moved over the sun, momentarily shutting out the already-dim light, creating a further sense of intimacy. It felt like the world had shrunk to only the two of them.
He searched for the right words, weariness washing through his soul. There were no words that would make this right, and God, but he was tired. He was so damned tired of hurting all the time. And this, here, it suddenly felt like a confessional. Or maybe it always had. Maybe it was the draw that kept him coming back to the wall to meet her over and over again. And yet it wasn’t fair to her, was it?
He knew he had to stop this charade—for both of them. To tell her the truth. But poised on the brink of confessing his greatest sin, he also had the notion of being trapped and wanting something so desperately, only he didn't know what. To cleanse his soul? To feel alive again? Even for a moment? Were any of those things even possible? "I regret," he breathed, "I just regret. I've made a career of it, here, behind this wall."
"Oh," she said, and there was so much feeling in the word that he turned, kneeling, putting his palms against the wall, wondering if maybe her hands were pressed to his in the same way, her mouth somewhere close by. What color were her eyes? What did her expression look like right then? He wanted to know, and yet not knowing—the anonymity—was what had allowed him to speak from his heart for the first time in so, so long.
"I know what that feels like. What do you regret, Jonah? Will you . . . will you tell me?"
Her startling empathy made his heart clench. He didn’t deserve it. She would know that soon enough and she would go. And that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?
He leaned his forehead against the cool, smooth stone and closed his eyes, seeing the way the clouds had looked above him that day as he’d lain on the ground, half dead, wishing he were.
He could feel the agony of the blast, the way his face had burned—hot, searing—and then the blessed numbness, the fading noise, the disbelief, and then the grief. Nothing but grief, and it felt as though that part had never gone away. "I killed my brother." And others. So many others. Six innocent people and he knew all their names by heart. He repeated them sometimes as he ran, the syllables of each one drilling into his heart like tiny knives. He deserved that. He did. And so he kept doing it—all of these years. He’d never stop.
He heard her let out a soft gasp. "You . . ."
"I didn't mean to, but I did. I was responsible for his death. For others as well. I'm the monster behind the wall, Clara. That's what I am."
Anguish ratcheted through him, and he let out a whoosh of breath as if the admittance was a tangible thing with a soul of its own and had been residing inside of his chest for years, buried underneath the words. And yet, the admittance of it didn’t extinguish his guilt. It only added fuel to the fire. Now she knew too, this girl who had spoken to him gently, who had called him the wish collector and come back.
"Oh, Jonah. What happened?"
Why was she asking him that? Why was she still here? Why hadn’t what he said made her run? Did she really need the details after a confession like that? Did she really still want to be his “friend”? Maybe she was just plain stupid. Or a glutton for punishment. Or one of those do-gooders who thought she could save his soul.
Those people had come by when he’d first moved in to Windisle Plantation. Maybe they’d watched his story on the news and somehow knew he lived there. Or maybe it was a coincidence they’d shown up with pamphlets and booklets about redemption. He’d yelled at them through the gate, telling them he’d call the cops if they didn’t fucking go away and never come back.
And fucking hell, he suddenly felt so zapped of strength as though he could lie in the grass and sleep. He didn’t answer her question, and it lingered between them as much a barrier as the stone wall.
Clara was quiet now and Jonah was glad. He turned back around, pressing his back to the wall as memories assaulted his mind, his heart: Justin, leaning over the top of the bunk bed they’d shared as kids, talking about their dreams for the future, what successes they were going to be, how they would change the world.
He saw his brother the summer before he’d gone to college, doing a backflip off their boat and coming up out of the water laughing, and then his laugh morphed into a frown in Jonah’s mind—the frown he’d worn that day he’d left his office. We’ll talk later.
He snapped back to the moment, leaning his cheek on the wall, sighing and putting his hands flat in the dry grass next to his thighs. The pain of the memories made his stomach contract. He recalled things after that, but it was all such a blur. A horror-filled blur. And he'd been a shell of himself ever since. Just as he deserved. Why should he get to live when they no longer could?
"Jonah."
His name brought him back from all the memories swirling together in his grief-drenched mind—wonderful, tragic, unchangeable. Too much.
He stood up, feeling sick and distressed. "I have to go."
Jonah heard her stand too, her voice coming from right below his head. "Wait. I'm sorry if I—"
"It's not you, Clara. I'm just . . ." His gut was roiling, and he felt like he was going to vomit. "I'm back here for a reason. My name is Jonah Chamberlain. Look me up. Then don’t come back." He knew the final directive was unnecessary. Once she learned his story, she’d never come back.
He walked away quickly, not responding to Clara calling his name from the other side of the wall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Main Library was open until nine on Tuesdays and Clara took the bus there, asking for directions to the public computer terminals at the information desk once she arrived. Her steps were slow, her mind troubled as she made her way to the place the woman at the front had told her to go. Something about what she was there to do—look Jonah up—felt . . . wrong. Invasive. And yet, he’d told her to. My name is Jonah Chamberlain. Look me up. Chamberlain.
She wasn’t sure exactly why, but she hadn’t imagined he was a member of the Chamberlain family. She’d thought he was part of the staff that kept the place running along with Myrtle and Cecil, or a distant relative maybe.
Perhaps it was the way he’d sounded when he’d spoken briefly about the Chamberlain family, a certain . . . removed tone, laced with disdain. An employer he did not respect, she’d assumed.
She’d asked him questions, of course, but he’d always changed the subje
ct or brought the topic back to Windisle. And she’d let him, figuring he’d open up to her about himself if and when he was ready. She didn’t want to push because she sensed so much sadness in him. So much . . . loneliness.
And now she knew she was right. He was a recluse. He never came out from behind the weeping wall, not even covertly. Why?
She remembered the way he’d spoken about John Whitfield, so much understanding threaded through his voice when he’d mentioned his war trauma. She’d wondered if Jonah had once been a soldier too.
She placed her duffle bag on the floor next to her chair and turned on the computer. She’d like to buy her own laptop, but she was saving up for a car and wanted to put every penny toward that. Also, she assumed the large main library offered more access to a variety of archived news articles.
She’d resisted typing his name into a Google search. If she was going to look him up—and she hadn’t decided she would until that day—she wanted all the information at her disposal. Eight years, he’d said. He’d been behind the wall for eight years. Meaning, whatever he’d encouraged her to look up must have happened about that time.
Don’t come back, he’d demanded. His final words had been ringing through her head for the past two days, the disappointment and confusion continuing to grow. The heartache. Because the truth was, she’d spent each week for the past month and a half looking forward to that brief time on Sunday evening when she sat on the other side of the wall from him, talking and learning and—she’d thought—forming a deep friendship unlike anything she’d ever known.
Growing up, she’d never had a lot of time to cultivate friendships outside of her rigorous practice schedule and constant performances, never had time for parties or shopping, or the things other girls spent time doing together. Even the couple of boyfriends she’d had, had eventually grown bitter at the little time she’d had to offer them. Then again, maybe she hadn’t made them more of a priority by choice. Maybe her heart had never been invested in either relationship.