A lot of years have gone by and the loss is still there. It’s like a hole in your heart, but it doesn’t kill you. It doesn’t get better; it just gets different. You learn to live with it.
34
Carolyn Sanders
Maybe I don’t know what’s important anymore. Maybe I’m overreacting.
So Gabriel is dead. Let’s not lose our heads.
But if love’s not the point, what’s the answer?
I’m outside, on the school’s front lawn, lowering the flag to half-mast. The rope runs through my fingers, inch by inch. I can feel the staring faces at the windows. They think I’m crazy. Which is terribly convenient: They leave me alone.
That little piece of cloth flaps in the breeze; the red, white, and blue, flying over our dreams. I’ve never lowered, or raised, a flag before, but when I got out here, I knew just what to do, as if the knowledge was in my blood, my fingertips. It’s my flag too, not just Decker’s.
It’s lowered to half-mast when a head of state dies. Someone really important, like the president. What is more important than the life of a child? We lose a thousand Gabriels every day.
Oh, let’s all drive as fast as we can, smash into one another and drive off cliffs; quench our thirst for revenge with blood, and taste our enemy’s death on our lips; destroy our pain and kill our suffering, so that life will never hurt us again. Amen.
Gabe, I didn’t want it to turn out like this. I could see this coming down the road for years. I couldn’t stop it; I could only watch it. We all let you down, not only your parents, who loved you as much as they knew how, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
We’ll miss you, honey. Forgive us.
35
Jennie Harding
I’ve tried to make Jack leave the rock. The waves are rolling in. Soon they’ll cut us off from shore and then they’ll devour the throne.
“Get out of here, you stupid dog!” I point toward the beach and stamp my feet. He looks at me, his eyes reproachful.
“Get out of here, you stupid mutt!” Gabe yelled the other night, when he was drunk. “Beat it! I don’t want you around!” He kicked the dog, but Jack crouched down, as if saying: I won’t run away; do what you will, I’ll still love you.
I would never have gotten in the truck that night if I’d realized he’d been drinking. By the time I knew that it was more than a bad mood, we were parked in the middle of nowhere.
“Look at you,” I’d said. “You’re acting just like your father. Why do you have to be so mean?”
“Shut up,” he snarled. “I’m sick of listening to you.”
“And I’m sick of you acting like this,” I said. “I won’t let you drink around the baby.”
“That suits me fine. Maybe it’s not even mine.”
I felt as if he’d kicked me in the stomach. In the dim light inside the truck his face looked like a stranger’s.
“Gabriel, how can you say a thing like that?”
“I’m sick of you ragging on me all the time! This is the real me! Take it or leave it!”
“And I’m sick of watching you kill yourself with booze! If you hate life so much, why don’t you just blow your head off?”
“Maybe I will!” he roared. He kicked me out of the truck; actually kicked and pushed me out. Then he went around back and dragged Jack out, leaving us there, by the side of the road. We waited in the dark for Gabe to come back for us, then we walked home. That was two nights ago. It was the last time that Gabe and I spoke.
Usually, after we fought, he’d call and apologize. I’m sorry, honey girl; it won’t happen again. He’d say he was going to quit drinking so much. He’d promise that things were going to change.
This time he didn’t call me and I didn’t call him. I was too angry. I was too proud. This is the last straw, I thought; I’ve had it.
We were supposed to go to Mendocino for dinner this weekend. Gabe told me about it on Monday night, the night before he turned on me. We were parked in his truck, in front of my house. Gabe had his hand on my belly. My folks were inside, watching the news on TV. I thought: Wait till they hear the news about this baby.
He told me he’d made a reservation at Collins House, a beautiful old inn overlooking the sea. I said he shouldn’t do that; it’s too expensive. He doesn’t make much money at the planter box factory.
“We’re going,” he said. “You deserve the best. We’ll have a nice dinner Saturday night, just you and me and Jasper.” That’s what he jokingly calls the baby. He’s sure it’s going to be a boy. Gabe patted my belly. “It’s hard to believe he’s really in there. How does he breathe?”
“Through the cord, I think. It’s complicated. Gabe, we’ve got to plan this out. We’ve got to tell our families.”
“You’re the one who’s been putting it off. Honey, I want you to marry me.”
I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t get married right away.” I’d always thought we would, someday, but things were happening too fast. I had to finish high school. And what about college? I was going to go to college. How could I be a wife and mother? I wasn’t done with being a girl. I felt as if someone had handed me a script and said, Here, you play the woman.
“Why not?” Gabe said. “That’s what people usually do, especially when they’re going to have a baby. Besides, I love you.”
“I love you too. But that doesn’t mean we need to get married.”
Gabe looked mad. He said, “Most girls in town, they’d jump at the chance, if I asked them.”
“Then go ahead and ask them! How about Susie Richards?”
“I hardly even know her.”
“You must think I’m so stupid! I know what’s been going on!”
“It ain’t going on anymore,” he said. “Anyway, she didn’t mean nothing to me.”
“Then why did you sleep with her?”
“What do you want me to do?” He hit the steering wheel, hard. “I’m not a little boy, I’m a man! You make love to me once, then cut me off! What difference does it make now? You’re pregnant!”
“Thanks to you!”
“Hey, you were there too!”
He was right, of course. I’d written the script with my own hand.
He left abruptly, tires squealing. I went into the house. My mother sighed. My father gave me an elaborate frown.
Gabe called the next day. He’d said, “I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry I’ve been acting so crazy. It’s just that I’ve got a lot on my mind, with the baby and everything.”
“It’s the beer,” I said. “You’ve got to stop.”
“I wasn’t drunk last night!”
“No, but you’d been drinking.”
“Just a few brews. What’s wrong with that?”
“You can’t handle it,” I said. “You’re an alcoholic.” That was the first time I’d let myself admit it.
“That’s ridiculous,” Gabe said. He joked about it; the problem wasn’t him, it was all in my head. “You never want to have any fun,” he said. “No wonder you want to be a teacher.”
He came by after supper so we could go for a drive and talk. We were going to let Jack run on the beach. We never got that far. We started to argue. Gabe was scary. I’d never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to hit me.
He said an alcoholic was someone old like his father, or someone who drinks hard liquor, like David. Not someone like him, who enjoys a few beers. He said I was just making up excuses so I wouldn’t have to marry him.
“That’s not true!” I said. “Why won’t you listen?”
“’Cause you ain’t the voice of God!”
He pushed me out of the truck. He’d never hurt me before. I could feel his hands on me long after he’d left. He looked like Gabe, but he’d become someone else. Someone I didn’t know.
If you hate life so much, why don’t you just blow your head off?
I play the scene in my mind, again and again, rewriting the lines for a happy ending. I should’ve held him tight and n
ever let go. I should’ve said: You are a wonderful person. I should’ve told him: I’ll always love you, but I won’t live your mother’s life. You’re losing me. Time is running out. Save yourself: Gabe is dying.
I said all that, so many times. He never really heard me. The other voices in his head were too loud: the screams and shouts, the little boys crying. The past always drowned me out.
I can’t think anymore. I want to fall asleep and rest forever on the breast of the sea. The world could be so lovely if it weren’t for people. We’re cruel and greedy. We hurt each other. I hurt so bad. It has to stop. I’m sorry, little baby. Please forgive me, for bringing you here and then taking you away.
The air is thick with spray. Jack is pacing, worried.
“Get out of here, you idiot!” I point to the beach. “If you don’t leave now, it will be too late!”
Too late. He looks sad. He leans his head against my leg. I bury my fingers in his thick coat and touch the leather collar Gabe made. The waves break in a white ring all around us.
36
Francis McCloud
I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago: I’m getting the hell out of this town. Everybody hates me. They’ll be glad when I’m gone. They say, I’m sorry about Gabe. Or: How’s Katherine taking it? Or they don’t say nothing. They turn away. What do you say to a man who’s lost his boy?
My boy is gone! I can’t take it. It’s like God’s killed me, then woke me up so I can die again, every day. I could’ve sworn Tom saw me when I drove by the store, but he didn’t even raise his hand. We’re talking about his nephew! His sister’s baby boy! And he looks right through me like we don’t mean nothing! He hasn’t even picked up the phone!
I’m going to drive down the highway till I get to San Diego, or maybe even Mexico. I’ve got to keep going, I’ve got to keep moving, ’cause if I don’t keep moving, I’m drowning.
Why is he dead? He was such a good kid! He could’ve been something. My son! He’s not a bum like David or crazy like Gerald. There’s something wrong with Gerald. You can see it in his eyes. If he was in a war, he wouldn’t care which side, as long as he could kill somebody. The only person who can call him off is his mother and she won’t say nothing. She’s frozen hard. Damn you, Katherine! None of this would’ve happened if you’d loved me, but you didn’t, you starved me. When we were young, you could eat me up, ’cause I was so sweet, that’s what you said. Now it don’t mean nothing, all those years together, the troubles we been through, the babies we made. I might as well be dead. I wish I was. I’d stop this truck and get down on my knees and say, God, take me and give back my son! Please, God! Please!
I’m going nuts. I’m screaming in this truck like someone can hear me. I have to have a drink. I am going to get drunk. No reason not to. No one to stop me. I could keep on driving, nobody would care, nobody would even try to find me.
Except for Jennie’s father. He’d hunt me in hell. He looked like he wanted to kill me, downtown. Stopped his car right in the road and ran up to the truck.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted. “You’re supposed to be looking for Jennie!”
“I am,” I said.
“In the liquor store?”
“I was getting some cigarettes, do you mind?”
“You listen to me!” His eyes were wild. “I know I should feel sorry for you, but I don’t, God forgive me. I despise you. I want my daughter back!”
“You’ll get her back,” I said. “She’ll turn up when she’s ready.”
“We can’t take that chance! We’ve got to find her!”
“We could get more people to help us look.”
“No,” Harding said. “I don’t want them to know she’s pregnant.”
“Are you kidding? They already know,” I said. “This is a small town. What’s more important: your daughter or your pride?”
“You talk about pride, you worthless bum? You killed your own son! You ruined his life!”
He was screaming at me. I got out of the truck. Joey Hammer ran up and grabbed me. He said, “Calm down, Franny. Just calm down. Wes is upset. He don’t know what he’s saying.”
Ask Joey; he was there. It was an accident. The baby climbed out of his crib. He’d never done that before. He learned real quick. Then Katherine was screaming—
I’ve got to keep driving. I’m going to start over. This time I’m going to do things right. Some women think I’m still good-looking. Not my wife; she can’t stand the sight of me. Thinks I’m a no-good drunk. I’ll drink to that. Soon as I can find a place to pull over, I’m going to break open that bottle.
The ocean’s so big it makes the sun seem small, like a little toy ball. I should keep on driving. But then I’d never get to see my grandchild, Gabriel’s son or daughter. Katherine had boys, so she might like a girl. I can picture the baby in my mind. She’s got yellow hair and twinkly eyes. Her daddy looks so proud! He’s laughing and tossing her into the air, and the baby’s laughing too. Her mama’s watching them, smiling.
But that’s not Gabriel. Gabe is dead. That’s not him and Jennie with the baby. The couple in the picture in my mind come close, and I’m looking at Katherine and me.
37
David McCloud
When Frank comes home, I’ll have to tell him Gerald’s in jail. Then he’ll get mad like it’s all my fault. Like, I’m the oldest, so I should set an example. As if anybody cares what I think. They think I’m a joke because I don’t have any money, and if you don’t have money, nobody takes you seriously.
I don’t think that’s right. You should get some points for doing your best. So maybe you aren’t some big-time genius. Maybe you’re just some guy on the bench. Maybe you don’t even make the team. Maybe you’re just some fan in the stands. Maybe you’re the damn pigskin.
I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. It gets me. Trouble is, once I start, I forget to eat. Sometimes Gabe would make me a sandwich. He’d say, Buck up, Sport! You gotta keep up your strength! It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.
I miss him so much. He’s only been gone for half a day and sometimes I don’t see him for weeks, like when I take off or get a job or something. But this time feels different. His room looks so different. I was in there a while ago and nothing’s changed; his clothes are everywhere, his bed’s not made. But it just feels wrong, like a stranger’s been in there. I laid down on the bed and put my head on his pillow. It smelled like Gabe.
Oh, Gabe. I’m dying.
While I was in there the phone started ringing, but it stopped by the time I got out here. I thought Ma might’ve got it, but her door was closed. The whole time I was with her she didn’t say nothing, but at least she patted my head. That’s something.
Then the phone rang again—it’s been ringing all morning—and it was Sheriff Reese saying Gerald was down at the jail. So when Frank comes home, I’ll have to give him the news. If he ever comes back again. It’s like people keep leaving, but they don’t come back. Like maybe this place is haunted. Like maybe if I opened my mother’s door, the room would be empty. She’d be gone.
I wish Uncle Tom would call. He’d make things better. He used to be around a lot, before the big fight, when all that stuff got said. Everybody looked so sad and shocked. Then they got mad and started yelling.
I may not be too smart, but I’d sure do things different if I was king of the world. For instance, starting right now there’d be no hard feelings. People wouldn’t say mean things, and if they did, they’d be sorry and apologize and people would forgive them.
There wouldn’t be any yelling or hitting or wars or killing. Everybody would be happy. And if you made a mistake, you could try again and nobody would laugh at you.
I should eat something. My hands are shaking. These cigarettes make me feel lousy. Pretty soon I’m going to get myself together; quit smoking and drinking, and start eating right, and take some vitamins, and get a job so Gabe would be proud of me. He always said, Don’t let the
m get you down. Pick up the pieces one at a time and don’t try to climb the mountain in an afternoon. Something like that. I knew what he meant. He always cheered me up.
I wish I could tell him, Thank you, Gabe. I wish I could say, I love you. I wish I could say, I’ll always be your big brother and I will take care of you and none of this happened, and I’ll give you a good example.
Oh, Gabe. Little buddy, little brother.
Someone’s knocking on the door. I can’t find my shirt, but I put on my sunglasses so people won’t know I’ve been crying.
I open the door. Uncle Tom is on the porch. His face looks real old and tired. He hugs me and says, “I’m so sorry, David,” and I’m bawling in his arms like a little boy.
38
Gabriel McCloud
Dear Mrs. Sanders,
I’m sorry what I said after class the other day. I didn’t mean that stuff. Your a good teacher the best I ever had its not your falt I’m quitting school. But what’s the use? I’ll just end up at the mill so I might as well start now and make some fulltime money. Eight bucks an hour and medical benefits. I can use that my teeth are bugging me. I don’t like the mill the saws are to loud they can really drive you crazy. They give us earplugs but they don’t work good. The other thing I don’t like is your hands get cold because there aren’t any walls just these tin roofs and the wind freezes your fingers. But you might as well get use to it and then it won’t bug you. Like Shadow Man! Ya! That guy could eat stones but it didn’t do no good they pulled his plug.
Thanks for offering to help me write the people at the comic but it would just be a waste of time. They’ve already bumped him off or maybe he’ll turn up fighting nazis or communists. I don’t care that much its just a comic.
So anyway I just want to say I’m sorry I’m quitting and I won’t graduate but I’ll be there in spirit. Ya! With all my friends that’s the one thing I’ll miss. But there’s no sense waiting to start my real life I might as well make some big time bucks. Maybe I’ll even get you a present or pay for that book I lost. Ya!
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