by R E Swirsky
Dean lowered his eyes. Jet stepped back, and his smile disappeared for the first time since they arrived.
Chris knew he had crossed the line with the outburst. "I'm sorry, Dean. I don't mean to take it out on you. I'm just so upset over this whole thing."
"I understand," he replied. "We only came out to deliver Vincent's items. We really should be going."
"Well, I do appreciate you both coming out. Anita does too."
"You just take care of yourself and that lovely wife of yours," he replied. "If you need anything, just call." Dean extended his hand to Chris.
Chris accepted his hand and shook it briefly. He stood at the door and watched Dean and Jet until the police car disappeared down the road.
It really hurt Chris to lose Vincent so quickly. It seemed like only days ago that he was a youngster learning to skate and play basketball. He looked up onto the mantle where Vincent's graduation picture still rested. Until this outburst on Dean, he had kept his emotions locked inside. He reminded himself it was for Anita’s sake. But he did miss that boy so dearly.
Chris plopped himself down into his armchair, opened up the paper bag, and pulled out the Ziploc bag. He removed each item one by one, looked at each for a moment, and then dropped them back inside. When he pulled out Vincent's smart phone, he held it in his hands and hesitated. He knew nothing about these new phones. He and Anita still had only a landline in the house with a set of cordless phones. He pressed the power button and waited for the screen to load. In seconds, the main screen with a background photo and icons in front appeared. The background was a photo of Vincent and Roger out along some River. The two boys were holding fishing rods and one fish each. Their huge grins stretched from ear to ear.
He touched the screen to make the phone do something. Anything. This phone seemed to be the only part of Vincent that was still alive, but he couldn't get the screen to change at all.
"Smart phone, my ass," Chris mumbled.
One finger passed across a phone book icon and the screen suddenly changed to a list of Vincent's friends. He wished he had seen this list before, but he wasn't about to make any more phone calls. He looked at the list of names. Aaron, Anna, David, and more.
"Anna," he said.
Anna was a girl's name. Vincent had never mentioned anyone named Anna. He looked through the list and recognized some of the names. It pained him that he hadn’t taken the time to talk more often with his grandson recently.
He fussed with the screen, pushing and poking at it, but he couldn't make the list disappear. He could only make it scroll up and down. He read slowly through the names again.
"Anna," he repeated. Anna was the only girl's name in the list he didn't recognize.
He finally turned the device off and back on. There was another icon named ALBUM. He touched it. Immediately the screen filled with a fresh new photo. It was a picture of Roger and another boy Chris didn't know at all. There was an odd resemblance to Vincent in the other boy that disturbed him momentarily: same blonde hair and haircut, same big smile, and same wiry frame. But he knew it was the hoodie that set him off. Vincent had one exactly like it. He pondered over this young friend of Vincent’s and wondered why he never brought him over to the house. He realized there was a lot about his grandson’s young life that he knew very little about.
His hands trembled as he studied the photo. It was taken late into the evening in some forest. Huge trees and rolling hills surrounded the two boys as they grinned wide for the camera.
His thoughts turned to Roger, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the photo. Roger was such a great friend of Vincent's since the day Vincent had arrived on their doorstep. He was more adventurous than Vincent, and Chris always thought he was a positive influence on his grandson for that very reason. The two boys were practically inseparable for the past nine years; they shared sleepovers, trips, parties, and too many other events to name. He realized he owed Roger's mother another phone call.
"Chris?" Anita called out from the other room distracting him.
"Yes, dear?" he called back. He could hear Anita and Arlene approaching down the short hall from the kitchen. He peeled his eyes away from the photo and hastily tossed the phone back into the bag and into a drawer on the side table next to him before they entered the room.
"What did that detective want?” Anita asked.
"Oh, nothing really. He just wanted to see how we were doing, that's all."
Anita smiled. "He is such a nice man, isn't he?"
Chris nodded. "Yes, darling. Very nice."
He decided not to produce any of Vincent's belongings for now. Arlene’s presence in the house kept him on guard. He still had a lingering distrust for her. If there were photos of Vincent's life on that phone, then they would just stay there on that phone until he was sure Arlene deserved to see them. He promised himself he would sit down and show Anita in private later.
Chris wouldn't remember the small bag of items he shoved inside the drawer for another week.
CHAPTER 26 Day Four - Monday 2:01 PM
Vincent let the tears roll down his cheeks. He looked up the tall chimney-like hole at the small patch of light blue sky. For more than an hour, he brooded in his own despair. He was distraught over the loss of his water and felt like all was lost.
He continued to stare up and a dark blotch high up in the wall that wasn't there before caught his attention. It was the very place where he removed the stone named Darrel before coming back down to the bottom. He couldn't break his gaze. It seemed a very long way up the wall. As he stared at the space that once held the stone, it struck him that the dark blotch was actually much farther up the wall than he thought he’d climbed. He couldn't believe that he had really made it that far up the wall.
He sat up straight, wiped his eyes and looked again at the dark spot above him. The absence of the stones that high up the wall spoke loudly to him.
"I'm over half way," he whispered.
It hurt to swallow, but he swallowed anyway.
"I am actually over half way," he uttered with an air of disbelief. "And it's still only the afternoon." The words came out barely audible.
He forced his tired body up onto its feet and leaned against the wall. He counted how many more stones he would have to remove to make it to the top.
Gramps words returned to him. "Just one more step."
He reached out for the rope. "I have to try for you, Gramps. I just have to."
He slowly ascended the rope once again. He grabbed firmly onto the rope, wedged one foot into the first hole, and reached across with the other foot for the next hole. It was much harder now to climb up the rope. Each reach up the rope hurt him; the blisters that developed on both palms were ripped open and stinging terribly. Every stretch to the next foothold tired him. He had to pause every few steps to regain his momentum, but he pushed himself up, foothold by foothold, higher and higher up through the well. It took him nearly ten minutes to make it to where the dark blotch that had reignited his hope rested. He settled with his feet straddled precariously from side to side across the void as comfortable and securely as possible ready to start digging out the next stone.
He reached with one hand to his back pocket where he always tucked the knife.
"Shit!" he cried out. His hand fell on an empty pocket. He'd forgotten to pocket the knife before ascending the rope.
Vincent released an anguish-filled cry. His tired body screamed at him, and it wanted to just let go of the rope and crash down onto the stones below.
"How bloody stupid!" he cursed. He tried not to cry and slowly worked his way back down his crude staircase to pick up the knife. When he was back at the bottom, he rested for a full five minutes and held back the tears that threatened to burst out.
It took Vincent another ten minutes before he was back up the rope with his feet planted so he could begin digging out the next stone. He removed one of his hands from the rope, pulled the knife out, and began to chip away. He ignored the burnin
g pain from the open wounds in his palms and knuckles.
The stones were becoming easier to remove each time he ascended higher. This next stone came free easily and filled Vincent with a crazy excitement that he might actually make it out before nightfall if he could quicken his pace.
Vincent eventually loosened the stone enough that he was sure he could pull it free. He shifted his feet position once more so he could stand directly in front of the stone, grasp it, and drop it to the bottom. He was still in the process of planting his feet securely in the holes with tired and scarred hands holding as best as he could to both the rope and the knife when the knife slipped out from his fingers and tumbled down into the black below.
"Aw, c'mon! How many effin times!" he shouted.
He cursed as he freed the stone with his fingers and let it fall to the bottom. He then began his descent down the rope once again to retrieve the knife. Worry and fear swirled about in his mind with each step downward. He worked hard to keep his focus as best he could and was unaware that he whimpered like an injured beast the entire way down. Even the fibres of the rope seemed to pierce the tender parts of his hands like miniature torture devices. His body ached and his throat was parched in a way he had never experienced before.
Once in the darkness at the bottom, he scrounged around the pile of rocks trying to locate the knife. It was difficult to see anything clearly and he had to resort to searching by feel only in and under the boulders that lay on the bottom. He started on the ground right in front of where he stood and felt around the first of the many rocks he had tossed down into the mud. He shifted the rock and felt underneath, but his hands stuck into more mud. He moved to his left and felt down behind the rocks that were stacked against the wall. His hand landed upon one of the empty water bottles. He picked it up and tossed it behind him. It bounced off the wall into the pile of stones. He continued to shuffle the stones about as he searched for the knife.
Vincent moved in a clockwise rotation, looking in front, behind, and under each stone, but he could not locate the knife anywhere. It was a painfully slow process in his weakened state. He came across two more empty water bottles. He tossed them aside angrily at the wall in frustration and both bounced back at him; one hit his leg, as if to taunt him.
He soon began to panic. Without the knife, he was a goner. He shuffled another stone and cursed aloud. He tumbled the stone to the side and discovered yet another water bottle. Maybe it was the same one he had just thrown, but he couldn't tell.
"Fuck me!" His voice cracked as his throat threatened to close up again. He continued to shuffle stone after stone about in no orderly fashion.
"It has to be here somewhere!"
He scampered some more and moved another stone when his hand landed on one more water bottle. He grabbed onto it and prepared to toss it aside but stopped abruptly.
Vincent stood up quickly, dumbfounded. The water bottle he held in his hand was heavy. It was full.
"Really?" he whispered. He frowned momentarily in confusion.
He leaned back against the wall and lifted the bottle up until it blocked the sky above. This bottle really was full.
"I miscounted the bottles," he uttered with a hearty relief. “There must have been six in the bag.”
Vincent laughed and let his body slide down the wall until he was sitting atop one of the stones that was pressed into the mud. He leaned back against the wall with his knees bent and kept both hands wrapped tightly around the precious water bottle.
He laughed giddily and caressed the bottle. He let himself believe it was true.
Vincent opened the bottle and chugged back two huge mouthfuls, swallowing as fast he could.
The moment the liquid touched his tongue and went down his throat, he was taken aback by the strange, salty taste, and he thought at first it was only because he was so parched, but the second swallow and the accompanying smell he found when he pulled the bottle away from his lips told him how mistaken he really was.
"Arrrgh! Phew! Sppspst!" All kinds of noises came out of Vincent's mouth as he tried to spit and rid himself of the taste.
It was urine. Vincent drank from one of the two bottles he had filled with his own urine.
CHAPTER 27 Day Four - Monday 2:25 PM
By mid-afternoon Chris had tired of answering the phone, so he slipped away into his study where he was allowed to smoke as much as he wanted. It was the only room in the entire house where Anita allowed him to smoke and only because he had agreed to install the positive ventilation system.
Hiding in his study was the best way he knew to deal with his current situation. He was greatly aggravated at having to listen to people he didn’t know offer condolences and say they understood how he must be feeling. How in the hell did any of them know how he felt? He wanted to yell at them but held his tongue. Whenever the phone rang throughout the afternoon, he pretended he didn’t hear it and let it ring until someone in a room on the other side of the large house answered.
By evening, Chris was confident he wouldn't have to answer any more of the incoming calls and returned to the great room where he found Anita and Arlene discussing what to make for dinner. The phone rang again, and Chris was surprised that Arlene, and not Anita, was up quick to her feet to answer it after the first ring.
"Hello," she said softly. She answered with the same breathy tone that Chris first mistook for being sensual when he called her. Listening to her voice once again, he knew it was not even remotely sensual. Her voice had a childlike quality to it: an underlying giddiness and forced innocence. It was as if she pretended to be a child talking to another child. Childlike was the correct term.
"I'm Vincent's mommy," she said in her light breathy way to the caller. Her words horrified Chris. He didn’t expect Arlene to answer the phone in his home, let alone assert herself on friends and family in this manner.
There was a short pause during which she looked at Chris and Anita before replying. "I've been away for a number of years, that's all. I came back as soon as I heard."
Chris realized that it wasn't Anita who had been answering the calls while he smoked away in his study. Arlene was settling herself in, and Anita certainly seemed to have no problem with her eagerness to step forward.
"That's so sweet of you to say," she said. "I know Vincent spoke very highly of you. Thanks so much for calling."
Chris reeled as Arlene hung up the phone. Arlene knew none of Vincent's friends or acquaintances, and it offended him greatly that she could insinuate as much with such frivolity. He tried to keep his voice calm.
"Arlene, who was that?"
"It was some Mr. Radisson. He said he was Vincent's math teacher from grade twelve."
"Uh huh," Chris replied. He knew Jimmy Radisson.
"He just wanted to say how sorry he was to hear about Vincent, that's all. He probably gave Vincent some bad grades and is feeling bad about it now."
Chris was visibly upset. "Arlene, you can't just tell people what Vincent thought about them. You never even knew Vincent, and you certainly don't know Jimmy Radisson."
"Sorry, Dad, but I’m sure that’s just what he wanted to hear," she replied. She was confused as to why Chris seemed upset over her actions.
"Damn it, Arlene! You can't just walk in here and pretend like you've never left! And stop pretending that Vincent told you things about people he knew. You don't know Vincent, so stop acting like you do!"
Anita frowned at Chris. "Arlene's just trying to help out, Chris. She is his mother after all."
She turned to her daughter, Arlene. "You didn’t mean to disrupt things, did you, dear?"
"Of course not, Mom. I am really just trying to help."
"And you are, dear." She turned to Chris and smiled. It was a tight smile accompanied by an inquisitive stare. She held it for a few full seconds before turning away.
Chris wanted to rebut, but he recognized that particular stare and bit his tongue. He and Anita shared an understanding that kept their marriage stro
ng over the decades: to recognize and know when to push back and when to back off. If it was important enough to Anita that he should hold his silence, then he would hold his silence for her. That particular stare was her clear instruction to him to back off the issue. It seemed to him that Anita was appreciative of Arlene's presence, and if what Arlene did since she arrived pleased Anita, he would force himself to tolerate it for her sake. He was just very uncomfortable with it.
"And did you hear, Chris?"
"Hear what," he said quietly. He was still trying to hold back his true feelings.
"Arlene's living in Vancouver now."
Chris frowned. Such a coherent moment followed by a total collapse. He hated dementia. It callously picked away at her memory and showed itself with irregularity and at the most unexpected times.
Anita continued to ask Arlene about her trip from Vancouver. She asked Arlene about it yesterday when she first arrived. Chris listened to Arlene repeat the details of her not so interesting journey in the same as she told it yesterday. She repeated it to her mother as if she was telling it to her for the very first time.
Anita laughed and smiled as she listened to Arlene. She soon became anxious and looked about the room as if something was missing. She reached out towards Chris and touched him gently.
"I haven't seen Vincent around at all today. Did he even go to work today, Chris?" she asked him.
Chris heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head. "No. He didn't go to work today, Anita." He stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and held her tight.
She pushed herself away from Chris. “Can you go see if he's upstairs? We'll be starting dinner soon."
"He's not upstairs," he said softly. He tried not to cry.
"Well then where is he? We need to tell him his mom has come back."
Chris closed his eyes. He reached out to her again and hugged her gently. When he opened them back up, he noticed Arlene staring at the them.
"Is there anything I can do?" she whispered.