Law looked up from the transcript. Virtue had shrunk in her chair. She placed a hand over her eyes. Herald was not one for public displays, especially at work, but he was standing behind her, leaning down, his arms crossed at her neck. He was whispering something only she could hear. Probably what she needed to hear. Perhaps what she finally felt she deserved to hear.
She was nodding. Herald tightened his embrace. She patted his arms and then he released her. He mouthed thank you. And Virtue lowered her other hand and placed her teary eyes on Law. And he winked. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but seriously, Virtue. Where did that come from?”
The sob she was trying to hold in burst out as a laugh.
“You always have to watch out for the quiet ones.” Law’s gaze swept to the left. Doxy, Bernie, Gospel, and it zoomed in on Blasphemy and Hannah. “Because you never know. You may think you’re great at something, until they get their turn. And they could, very well, put you in your place.” He glanced back at Bernie. That was a direct message for her too, and she received it with what could have passed as another grin. Then, circling his regard from Parody, to Herald, and back to Virtue, Law’s eyes sought hers. And Virtue offered them willingly. “I have to admit, I originally had my doubts about you. Not in your talent, but in your suitability for this lifestyle. Herald, of course, adamantly disagreed.”
Herald blushed under the sudden scrutiny, and when he shifted his weight, his eyes flashed wide. It was his way of admitting, guilty as charged.
“I hate to say this out loud,” Law went on, guiding his and everyone else’s attention back to Virtue. “But I was the one who was in the wrong on this count. Because now I know how hard you tried to make the blind, deaf, and lame, see, hear, and think, and how dedicated you truly are. And I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.” The images of her flashed through his mind, what was captured on film, and what he could never erase from memory—the pain, the suffering, the breakdown. “It should have been.” His voice shook. “And it’s no consolation, but I hope you’ll consider being my speechwriter someday. Because, man, that was really something spectacular.”
Law wiped his eyes dry and let the murmurs take over. He sat back down, slowly exhaling. He felt pounds lighter. And he was relieved to have a moment to turn the reflection inward. For the first time ever, he was proud of what he saw.
The meeting wound down from there. The tasks that were left to complete had to be delegated to specific individuals. Since Law was essentially done until his draft was returned for revision, he had the whole evening to regret what he had just gotten himself into.
When Bernie pulled her scarf from her coat and stood to get them on, Law had the overwhelming urge to move on as well. He scraped together his documents, had his coat almost all the way on, and they arrived at the door—what a coincidence—at precisely the same time.
***
The night was young. Everything was in its proper place. Or so it seemed.
Law was strolling through the dark woods, two days before All Hallows’ Eve. The moon was a few slivers shy of full, but it was, nonetheless, still bright, even when it was shrouded by the passing cloud cover.
He could see his breath in the cold, but it was the wind that gave rise to the deep chill. Fortunately, its speed was mild. It was only emitting a slight moan.
The bare branches were trying to remind him of how ghastly things had been. And yet he did his best to see the promise it held. No matter how bitter, dreary, and hopeless things became, spring would come again.
It was a sentiment he hoped would last. But the challenges to it were everywhere.
He certainly wasn’t dressed appropriately. He still had to acquire gloves, somehow, and a good hat for the resisting he’d have to incite over the long winter. His wool coat had been worn thin as well.
And yet he felt a warmth kindling within. Admittedly, it had something to do with the company he was keeping and the pace he was attempting to match.
Bernie apparently had the woods memorized. Law was starting to get a good sense as well, but she didn’t require the flashlight. He was trying to use it as minimally as possible—someone else could be close enough to detect it—but he couldn’t quite avoid clicking it on for the rough patches. And there were many.
Along with the restlessness of his mind came a bewilderment over what to say. Their mutual silence was like a darkness that demanded light and like everything else, he felt the pressure to shine.
Bernie wasn’t like him in that regard. She’d say something when she was good and ready. Until then, she could probably appreciate the starlight, the scent of pine, the sound of the little bunnies and squirrels burrowing in the crisp autumn leaves . . . trying to avoid the hawks.
A bird coasted to a branch ahead. It was blacker than the night and cawed, not at the moon but at them. It was a crow, no doubt, and its message had the inflection of a taunt.
Good thing he wasn’t superstitious.
Could just the presence of another alleviate the solitude, insignificance, and terror one might feel when alone with the elements?
Law peered over his shoulder. He had the inkling that they were being followed. The distant crack of wood validated his concern, but he was able to shrug it off and keep going.
Bernie didn’t seem to notice or care. She was gazing ahead.
It was probably Gospel behind them somewhere. He was an added measure of protection. Best of all, he wouldn’t comment or gossip, regardless of where Law chose to spend the rest of his evening.
“You did well tonight.”
He whirled around to face fully forward. “Thank you,” he blurted in regard to so many things. He had a respect for nature, but not a shred of longing for it. That, he would reserve for the great indoors—fireside, comfort, a nightcap, and stimulating exchanges. Was it strange for him to be craving something he never truly embodied? “Hard to do worse than the day you peeled me off your floor.”
“Hmmm,” was the dryly amused response she emitted. “Come on. No worries. You don’t think I’ve seen influential men in delicate situations before? Try daily.”
His hearing was selective, and despite being aware of that, he couldn’t resist. “You think I’m influential?”
He looked over.
“I never said you weren’t.”
She looked back.
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, what took you so long? To vote, that is? What were your qualms?”
She paused to consider and curtailed their forward motion. Perhaps it wasn’t the type of question she could answer in full in the time it typically took her to walk back.
There was, of course, an easy solution for that.
“Well . . . you were the obvious choice. Maybe too obvious. I was worried for you. You have the appearance. The good breeding. But people might see you as more of the same, when really, we need something drastically different. I didn’t know at the time that you’d pick Blasphemy as your number two. That would have made the decision simple. She gives your ticket balance . . . and hope. I didn’t believe you’d go there in fear of what people might think. And yet you did. Now I know.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” he stated, his voice full of diplomacy. “So I won’t hold it against you.” And that was meant for play.
“I also know. . .” she bantered back. “That I don’t believe in miracles, Mr. I Brought the Rain.”
“Ha! That’s funny. Neither do I. . .” he trailed off and it was a bit too dolefully for the words he said.
What did happen that day? He was an objective, pragmatic person, and yet a plausible explanation still eluded him.
“So, you better back up that luck with some substance.”
He shuddered off both the thought and the chill, and brought himself back to the appeal of his circumstances. “Consider it done.”
The clinic-side of her home appeared over the crest of a hill, in the clearing to their right. The porch light was on. The windows were aglow. “Then I’m behind you, one h
undred percent.”
There was no denying that her eyes met his. Was the look she cast meant to be so seductive? Or was his mind playing tricks? It was a bit too dark to make that distinction.
A wind gust inspired her to clench up and drop her chin. Its push had her correcting her balance, one small step toward him. It was followed by a larger step back to correct the “error.”
“Thanks for the company,” she said, retreating up the hill. Her wave clearly signified, goodbye, goodnight. “I wish I could continue to be a rebel, but I have a full house and rounds to make before bedtime. Something that’s more of an ideal than a reality.”
“I can only imagine. Let me know if you ever need anything.”
He was searching—reaching really—for a suggestion that didn’t come across as suggestive.
And he was drawing a blank. Conversation? Extra pair of hands?
Heck, he’d even donate blood again just to get his foot in the door.
“I will. Thanks,” she replied, turning away.
She wandered up the hill. There was something sadly sentimental about her plod and the way she looked upon her situation. Was it an obligation? Not a joy? Had it always been like that? Or was that what she was missing? What once was. . .
She had her reservations. It was enough to consume her. Law thought he was beginning to chip through her walls, and yet she didn’t even glance back.
What now? he asked himself, still staring at Bernie’s receding form. He had no place to be. No bed with his name on it. He was always welcome at the cabin. But it appeared he had rekindled Herald and Virtue’s romance. He was happy to help in that regard, but didn’t exactly need to hear them emote all night.
It would be too. . .
“She didn’t invite you in?” The purr in his ear came out of nowhere. “And you’re going to stand for that?”
“Doxy! Sheesh!” The rush of terror became a blast of heat. The spike of anger didn’t exactly still his racing heart. “She has things to do. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“And you’re not one of them?” Her whisper was at his other ear, but the finger stroke she ran along his shoulders made it seem like she hadn’t moved. “How sad.”
“Art cannot be rushed.”
He glanced over one shoulder and then the other. Where’d she go now?
“You’re right about one thing. . .” He swung around. She wasn’t there. And when he swiveled back to where he started, she appeared in front of him, like she was there the whole time. “She is a piece of work.”
“Tell me, Doxy, what is it you want? Stop playing games and just spell it out.”
She glided to a place beside him where they both had a direct view of the manor. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything to your precious doctor. And I won’t interfere.”
“I’m glad that’s cleared up.”
“You want to know? Fine. I’ll cut to the chase. Keep Barrett out of our lives.”
He sighed audibly. Commander in Chief . . . Lesson One. It’s impossible to keep everyone happy. “I’m with you. I said that already and meant it. As a result, I decided I’m not going tomorrow. Gospel wants nothing to do with him either, and that says something. But Herald is out for blood. I told him that Captain wasn’t worth it. The humiliation will be retribution enough.”
“Herald? By himself? I’m so glad you men are making these fine decisions for us.”
“You see? That’s where you’re wrong. Blasphemy agreed to go in my place. And suddenly Gospel was willing to tag along to keep an eye on things. I’m not as dumb as I let on.”
“What does Barrett have to do with Captain anyway?”
“Come on, Doxy. Connect the dots.”
“Barrett has ‘connections’ on the docks.”
“Right. And Herald thinks he’s the only way anyone can get back to the island quietly before Captain bolsters security.”
“It’s still stupid,” Doxy determined, her sinewy hand flutter added to further dismiss his logic. “Talk him out of it.”
“You don’t think I’ve tried?”
His admission of weakness was met with the fire of her determination. “Try harder.” It didn’t take much light to see her eyes flare, like they were attempting to devour his. “Or I’m out.” She shifted to face forward again, crossing her arms over her flimsy frame and inadequate clothing. “For good. I don’t need this shit. And if you choose Barrett, what does that say about me?”
It wasn’t the type of question that warranted a reply. She was putting him in an impossible position. It was likely a bluff and definitely a trap.
“Oh, and by the way. . .” Doxy began again, forging through their impasse. When he looked over, she lifted her nose to point out the manor. “I’d keep a safe distance.”
Her audacity made him laugh. “Don’t we all have our skeletons?”
“That’s an interesting choice of words.”
He let that sink in, both put off and drawn in. “Why? What did you dig up? And why are you even looking?”
“Again, that’s—”
“Just tell me!”
“For the record. . .” She sauntered forward, turning to face him. And then she took his left side and slipped behind him. “I wasn’t looking. I stumbled upon.” She reappeared on his right. The dance she was leading was making him dizzy. “About a hundred yards that way.” She bobbed her nose toward the woods behind the manor. “See for yourself,” she challenged, swiveling to face him. “Maybe you should open your eyes and start connecting some dots.” She began pacing backward, away from where she was urging him to go. “And before you get involved, I have to ask. . .” His gaze shot to the lights of the manor . . . and then to the impenetrable darkness behind it. “Do you have a death wish?”
Her whisper felt close.
“What are you—?” He spun toward what he thought was the warmth of her breath. Then he turned around in a complete circle. “Doxy, where’d you go? This isn’t funny!”
He groaned at her lack of a response. Her lack of anything. She was smoke and shadow, playing Gospel’s game and winning. In the night, she was imperceptible except for the feeling that she was still there and watching him fester.
It wasn’t long before he began charging up the hill. Just as Doxy knew he would. He wanted everything and was given nothing. So he followed the perimeter of the property. Once he was sheltered beneath the thick tree cover again, he clicked on the flashlight and began toiling through dead matter almost knee high.
“It’s amazing she came out with her hands clean.”
He jerked the beam of light toward the sound of Doxy’s voice. “Will you stop following me? And quit it with the creepy shit! Why don’t you go haunt a house or something?”
That was uncalled for, but he couldn’t help himself. His nerves were tweaked. His skin was already crawling, and she was making it worse by pinching and flaying.
Doxy didn’t care to be seen. He didn’t blame her. In her fucked-up way, she probably thought she was helping him out.
She did, in one aspect, at least. She guided his beam of light right to the smooth, shiny black surface of a tombstone. Four to be precise. It was a small graveyard. The monument at the center was larger and grander than the others.
He trudged closer . . . toward what had to be the patriarch.
Symbols, letters, and numbers floated through his awareness, fleeting and intangible, like the hair-raising breeze. Pinching his eyes shut, he hoped to tap in to some composure.
It was as if he heard the whispers of the dead instead.
Looking again, he wasn’t exactly astute. And the flashlight beam was shaking in his hand. But at least he could read and do simple math.
Dr. Bradford E. Breckenridge
May his memory be eternal
March 14th, 119 – November 18th, 175 anno Redeemer
Bernie’s husband. She had used the word “was” the only time she ever alluded to him. It almost seemed like a slip of the tongue that sh
e had mentioned him at all.
Maybe infatuation was what pushed him there, but he had already leaped to this grim conclusion. It therefore didn’t come as a surprise that he was dead or that he was significantly older than she was—twenty or more years. He was fifty-six when he died and she came in at about mid-thirties, give or take.
He was on the young side to “die of old age,” but accidents did happen and any number of diseases were life threatening or incurable at any age. On its own, this wouldn’t have been a cause for alarm.
However. . .
Imogene L. Breckenridge
Sleep till eternity
April 26th, 126 – November 16th 175 anno Redeemer
Was this the doctor’s first wife? She passed away at forty-nine years of age, two days before her husband did.
Then there was a Charlotte Breckenridge. Wife number three? Or perhaps a daughter of wife number one?
Once met, never forgotten
June 18th, 152 – February 23rd, 175 anno Redeemer
She was only twenty-three at the time of her death. It was less than a year before Imogene and Bradford passed away and only a week after the death of Josiah Breckenridge. . . .
The Fallow Page 33