by David Beers
“I couldn’t see his face at first, just the back of his head. I think I said something like ‘hey’, but he didn’t turn around. That’s when I first thought something wasn’t right. He always turned around and smiled at me. Every day. Not that one, though.
“I went around the couch, slowly, because with each step I got more scared; he should have heard me and turned around, but he didn’t. I finally saw why. His eyes were open, his mouth too. It hung open as if he was just about to scream, but never got the chance. A butchers knife was lodged in his throat, like someone came from behind him and simply gave one solid hack, not pulling it out after.”
The tears came then. She couldn’t stop them and didn’t try. Silent tears, that rolled down her face with no shame. Her voice didn’t hitch and breathing remained steady.
“Blood must have poured out his mouth, because it was dried down his chin and over the top of the knife. His shirt was soaked … I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to help him, to save him. I ran to him and started hugging him, begging him to say something, to just look at me for one single second. I think a neighbor showed up, but I don’t remember. I can’t imagine what I looked like. They called Clara at work.
That’s a true story,” she said, turning to look at him without bothering to wipe her eyes.
Dr. Vondi nodded. He didn’t open his mouth to say anything, though his eyes were wide. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine.”
“Want to know what else?” Lori said. “I’m positive Clara did it.”
10
Present Day
John sat on the front pew. He looked at the empty cross on the stage before him. The Son having risen and no longer needing to suffer.
He was alone in the church. Harry hadn’t followed him in and no other parishioners felt like speaking to the Lord in His house, John supposed. He was glad for it. He wanted to be alone right now because …
What he said at the twelve-step meeting was true.
He would deny it to Harry, to anyone in this world that asked, but he couldn’t deny it to himself. He wanted to do what Harry asked. Craved it, even. He cried in the car earlier today but those tears weren’t simply because of the position he found himself in, they were also because he wanted to be in this position. A part of him.
Harry was right.
He was a bastard, but he was right. John and Harry, they were the same. A large part of them at least, and Harry showed John that part. Harry was a mirror in which John saw the piece of him he hated, yet lusted for.
So now he sat in this church to try and find the other part of him. The part that wanted to live a righteous life. That wanted to do the Lord’s will and not some dead friend’s.
Light shone in from the stained glass behind the cross; the whole church had an airy feel to it, though John felt nothing of the same inside.
He didn’t bow his head.
“I need you now, more than I ever have before.”
He spoke aloud, though quietly, so his voice didn’t travel too much further than his own lips. He didn’t feel silly because he wasn’t talking to himself. He spoke to God; God decided if He would listen.
“I know what I’m going to do. I feel it coming on and I can’t stop it. Both the Big Book and Your Book tell us the same, to trust in you and you will deliver us from evil. I believe that, Lord. I believe that you love us and want the best for us, and I don’t want to ….” Tears flooded his eyes for the second time that day. “I don’t want to hurt one of your children. I don’t want to but I’m going to if you don’t help me.”
He sniffed but didn’t wipe his eyes, not even as the warm liquid rolled down his face.
“I don’t know how long I can hold out. Every minute I’m with him, I feel my will slipping away.”
He remained silent for a long time after that sentence. An hour, maybe more. He sat staring at the empty cross with salty tears drying on his face.
“In Jesus’ name we pray, amen,” he said finally.
John stood and turned down the aisle seeing nothing and expecting nothing. He walked down it alone, listening to the space around him—massively high ceilings that would echo if he decided to yell. He wouldn’t, though. Even if God didn’t answer him, he wouldn’t show rage in the Father’s house.
He pulled on the church door and let in the sunlight, stepping out even as his eyes squinted. He stopped for a second while the door closed behind him, regaining his sense of sight. It came back quickly, revealing the parking lot and his car once again alone in it.
And Harry.
“You done?” Harry said.
John nodded and started walking across the pavement, looking down at his feet—not to shield his eyes from the sun, but from Harry.
“Are you ready?” Harry said, turning as John passed him.
Was he?
Had he talked enough? Was he through with the constant battle with Harry?
Yes, he thought he might be. God said nothing back to him, had left him alone to deal with this. The Big Book said to let it go and let God. He couldn’t let this go, though. Because everywhere he went, Harry was there, waiting, ready as always. And at some point, one gave in. He wasn’t Christ, but the Devil tempted him all the same.
“You are,” Harry said. “Good, John. Good. The quicker this is over, the quicker we can get back to your regularly scheduled life, right?”
John nodded, hearing Harry’s footsteps falling in behind him.
“Thatta boy,” Harry said. “Now, listen, I’ve found the person. I’ve been looking at him for a while, and I think it’s going to be perfect.”
“Who is it?” John said, opening the driver’s side door to his car.
“Remember the guy at your meeting? The one that gave you his number? Him. That’s our man,” Harry said. He sat down in the passenger’s seat of the car, strapping his seat belt on the same as John.
“Seriously?” John’s hand was on the key, ready to turn it in the ignition, but remained still as he looked to the dead man.
“Seriously. It makes perfect sense. I’ve already planned it all out; it’ll work perfectly. Most likely, he’s not got a lot of family around, given his inability to keep his cock in his pants.”
“That’s not funny,” John said. “He’s no different from me.”
“It’s not funny and I’m not laughing, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s the same as us. He and us are very, very different creatures, John.”
“He’s at this Starbucks all the time,” Harry said.
“You’re sure it’s this one?”
“Of course I’m sure. I know you think that I’m just a figment of your imagination, or some piece of you that your mind portrays as a dead friend, but trust me, there’s more to me than that.”
John didn’t like hearing those words, but he wasn’t going to chase their meaning. He had enough going on right now without worrying about Harry’s cryptic comments.
“How often is he here?” John said.
They sat in John’s car outside of the coffee shop. They could see inside, the windows of the building not tinted. People moved through the overly long line slowly, looking down at their phones whether they stood next to a stranger, a friend, or a significant other. John didn’t visit a lot of Starbucks, but this looked to be a pretty busy store.
“And what of that?” John said. “There’s too many people here for us to nab him.”
“I know, it’s not ideal, but there’s no other place to initiate the conversation.”
John was quiet for a few seconds, running through other options.
“What about after one of the meetings?”
“Too risky. Much riskier than this. Everyone knows you both and when he goes missing, they’ll remember you were last seen with him.”
Harry was right. That’s why John needed Harry, because when the time came to do this, Harry always thought through the problems, paying attention to the details in a way that John never seemed to be able to.
“His house?”
“No, John. In fact, fuck no, John. His house is how you’re going to end up with a needle in your arm while a group of people watch you through a glass window. Too many chances of leaving evidence. No, we’re going to do this like all the others; safe and clean. This Starbucks is the best place. Believe me, I’ve checked.”
John got out of the car and Harry followed. They both walked into the Starbucks, then got in the back of the line.
“Someone here is going to remember me,” John said.
“Maybe, maybe not. That’s an easy one to get out of, though. You’re both sex addicts, you meet here to discuss your issues, or whatever those guys call that stuff. I seriously don’t know how you deal with that. Why not just go to an AA meeting?” Harry turned to John then, who was scanning the store, trying to understand as much as he could about the place where he would lay his trap.
John looked to Harry, his brow bunched, though half of one eyebrow was ripped off, revealing pale meat beneath it. Meat that had been drained of all blood long ago.
“I don’t go to AA because their addiction … it’s not as ferocious.”
Harry laughed. “You’re serious about stopping this aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. This is my last one. After we’re done, I’m done.”
“Okay,” Harry said, turning himself, looking at the store. “Let’s pay attention to the task at hand, shall we, old friend? Now, I’ve scoped the place out and there’s not going to be any surprises. Everything in here is just like everything in every other Starbucks. You’ve got this line that never ends. You’ve got the baristas up front, doing their thing, most times too busy to even look at your face … which is ridiculous, given the reason this whole enterprise was started.” He looked back to John. “You know why, right?”
“Why?” John said, only half listening.
“The guy, the owner, he was over in Italy or something and he liked the relaxed nature and like, social hub, of their coffee shops. So he created this place, and now … well, I mean, look at it.”
“That’s awesome, Harry. What is wrong with you? We’re here trying to understand the best way to kidnap someone, and you’re talking about Starbucks’ business practices.”
“Just trying to educate you,” Harry said. “Are you happy with the place?”
“If you say it’s the best, then I suppose I have to be, huh?”
“I’m glad you trust me … what are you going to have to drink?”
Diane clearly heard the door opening, because though the TV was on, she had it muted. For the past two hours, she sat staring at the television, her hands intertwined on her lap. She did her best to keep them from shaking, and once Scott called to say that he spoke to John, it got easier. Not easy, but easier.
John had actually called three times in the past hour, but she didn’t answer. She watched the phone buzz around on the glass coffee table in front of her, seeing his face pop up on the screen.
“Honey,” he called as the door closed. “Honey, are you here?”
She said nothing, only remained staring straight ahead at the television. She heard his footfalls as he moved across the wood floors, heading to her.
“Hey,” he said. He stood at the entryway to the living room, his briefcase over his shoulder. He waited a few seconds and then in her silence said, “Are you mad?”
“What the hell do you think, John?”
A few more seconds passed. She didn’t look to where he stood and he didn’t walk in any further.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I had to wait for your father to call me to understand that you weren’t dead or drinking again.”
“I’m not dead or drinking again.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” She turned around on the couch and faced him. “Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?” She had sat on this rage all day and it finally thrust its way up like boiling water pressured through a hole in the ground, creating a steaming geyser that threw the liquid high into the air.
“I went into the office.”
“Into the office? Do you only get service for your dad in the office or something, because I always thought my calls got through there just fine.”
“I just needed some space today. After I went to the meeting, I don’t know, with my mother and everything coming up. I’m just feeling the urge to drink. I wanted to go into the office, put my head down and get some work done … I’m sorry.”
She turned back around to the television.
“You can’t just leave me in the dark like that. You should have told me you needed me to leave you be. You know I would have been fine with that.”
“I know,” John said.
“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
“It’s not easy to simply say, I feel like having a drink, especially after five years sober. There’s shame in that statement, Diane.”
She didn’t say anything. She never understood it, any of it. Not the compulsive need to drink, nor the shame that came with it. To her, there wasn’t any shame in his addiction—trouble, yes, but shame only came when you did something to hurt others. The addiction itself? It wasn’t shameful for existing.
“You should be ashamed when you hide it,” Diane said.
“I am.”
She sighed. What was she going to do? The kids came home in two days and were they going to walk into a frigid house? Ice grown across every piece of furniture and air particle, because their mother hadn’t gotten over their father not answering his phone? No, they didn’t deserve that, and John did show up sober. He wasn’t drunk.
No harm, no foul?
She didn’t feel like she had much of a choice.
“I didn’t cook anything. You’ll need to order delivery.”
John walked across the living room and sat on the couch. He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and putting his cheek next to hers. “I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I won’t do it again … I love you.”
“I’ll be alright. Go order us some food.”
He gave her a light kiss on the lips and then went into the kitchen.
“Your father said they were going to the grave Tuesday. You’re going to go, right?” she called from the couch.
“Yeah, I’m going.”
11
Present Day
The wind whipped at Alicia’s coat, trying its best to rip through the buttons and get at the rest of her body. She held it tight with her left hand, a bouquet of flowers in her right. She thought they looked extremely pretty; they cost her eighty dollars and were the best looking flowers she saw in the shop. Now, though, standing at her mother’s grave, they didn’t seem that important. Alicia wanted to bring the best to her mother; she wore her best dress under the coat, and heels to walk across the cemetery, yet all of it seemed … inconsequential.
Her father stood next to her dressed in his best suit, holding his own bouquet of flowers.
They both looked down at the headstone.
Wonderful wife.
Wonderful mother.
Wonderful.
Tears swam across Alicia’s eyes; her anger grew because the tears weren’t for her mother. She wasn’t remembering her mom or mourning her loss. She wanted to know where John was, because he wasn’t standing next to them. He wasn’t answering his phone.
He made it to this cemetery, on this day, for the past thirteen years. All three of them had. Except for today. Lucky number fourteen.
Her father called and so did she, but both of them only got John’s answering message.
“I miss her,” her dad said.
Was he able to focus on his wife right now? Was he doing what Alicia couldn’t?
“I wish John was here,” she said.
“He has his reasons, I’m sure.”
Silence fell across them both. Normally, they spoke about their mother, about the fun times, the sad times, all of it. Now, though, they said nothing—and regard
less what her dad said about John, they were quiet because he wasn’t here.
“Are you worried yet?” she asked finally.
Her father knelt down with his flowers in hand, the wind wrestling his gray hair from its place of rest.
“No, Alicia. I’m not worried because he missed her death’s anniversary once in over a decade. I already told you, people handle grief in different ways.” He set the flowers down to the right side of the headstone but didn’t stand back up. He placed his hand on the top of the rock, rubbing the rough texture with his thumb.
“I am, Dad. I’m really worried. Missing this … it’s not even in his DNA. He loved mom as much or more than either of us. You know their bond was special. But he’s not here and we are.”
Her dad bowed his head and closed his eyes. “What do you want me to do? I’m here with my dead wife and I’m trying to pay respect. He didn’t come. I don’t know where he is though. I tried to get him here. I can’t do anything else, not right now.”
Alicia said nothing else.
Perhaps she misjudged. Perhaps he was just as fucked up about it as her.
And felt just as helpless.
Alicia knelt down next to him, placing her own bouquet to the left of the grave. She grabbed his left hand and leaned into him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay, honey.”
They both remained staring at the dead woman’s grave for a long time. Neither spoke.
Scott leaned over and kissed his daughter’s cheek for the second time that day.
“I’m sorry again for bringing all that up,” she said as they pulled away from the embrace.
“It’s fine. I’m going to give John a call and check-in with him. Thank you for coming, honey.”
“I love you.” She squeezed his hand.
He watched as she turned and got out of the car, closing the door as she did. She walked to her house, unlocked the door, and went in.