Thanks a lot anyway. Yours Truely,
Gabe McCloud
39
Jennie Harding
This will kill my parents. They will think they failed me. I wish I could explain that it’s not their fault. They were wonderful parents. They’ve always loved me.
But we don’t live in a bubble. I’ve seen the world. I see it every night on the news on TV. We watch while we eat dinner. As I’m piling food on my plate, I’m looking at starving children. Or watching a story about something that’s disappearing: elephants, the rain forests, the ozone layer. Or hearing about wars, lots of wars, or plane crashes or epidemics or serial killers.
Too much is wrong. It’s too big; we can’t fix it. I can’t help anyone. I couldn’t even save Gabe. As close as we were, I couldn’t reach him.
The air is almost too wet to breathe. The waves are crashing. Jack is scared. I am stroking his fur, trying not to freak out. I’m afraid it will hurt when the water fills my lungs. I’m afraid I’ll wish, too late, to change my mind.
I used to be scared about labor pains. Then I thought: It couldn’t be too bad, or there wouldn’t be so many babies. My mother wanted lots of kids, but she had to have an operation. Once I asked her if it hurt to have me. A lot, she said, but you were worth it.
I wish I could tell my folks how much I love them, one more time, so they won’t be sad. They would’ve been so mad when they found out about the baby. They would’ve said: How could you be so stupid?
I’m not ashamed of loving Gabe. Love takes strength; it’s not a weakness. If you don’t love people, you might as well be dead. Like Gabriel’s father; he’s a vampire, he drank up his whole family. I used to want to blow my top at him, but what was the point? He couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t even change himself.
I’m worried that Donald will take this badly. I’m one of his only friends. He’s too shy to open up with most people. He’s ashamed of his occupation.
One time I said, “If you don’t like it, quit. There’s no law that says you have to be a mortician.”
He said, “My father would kill me.”
“With a knife or a gun?”
“With a look,” Donald said. But I’d made him smile and that’s half the battle. “I mean, he acts like he’s given me this wonderful gift and I’m too much of a knucklehead to appreciate it.”
“If he wants to be a mortician, that’s his business,” I said. “But you don’t have to carry on the family tradition. He only gets one life; he doesn’t get yours.”
“He gets everybody’s, eventually,” Donald said. His mother has convinced him that she’ll die if he leaves home, but she doesn’t have to stay there; that’s her choice. Donald should be free to do what he wants. He’d like to be a veterinarian. He’d be good at that, he’s so kind and gentle. Donald is one of my favorite people.
I hope he doesn’t take this personally. I hope he doesn’t think: If she were really my friend, she would never have left me behind.
I didn’t mean for this to happen. Killing myself was the furthest thing from my mind. I thought I’d be talking to Gabriel tonight, then this weekend we’d go to Mendocino—
The last wave hit the rock so hard the spray fell like hail. I’m so sorry Jack’s here. I’m so sorry about the baby. She’s depending on me and I’m betraying her. Gabe wanted a boy. I’m sure it’s a girl. She stirs in her sleep. I pat my belly. Don’t be scared, baby; Mommy’s here.
I’m so sorry about my folks. I’m so sorry about everything. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt my family.
40
Francis McCloud
I park the truck and lean my head out the window. The sun feels good on my face, like warm hands. Me and Katherine would hold hands and watch the water and listen to the waves. They sound so peaceful. Like maybe it doesn’t matter if you die, a thousand years from now the sea will still be breathing, the tide will still be going in and out.
I’m not surprised Gabe and Jennie had a special place. Kat and me had lots of special places; stretches of beach full of shells and bottle glass, or no undertow, so we could go skinny-dipping.
We always figured we made Timmy at this one place we had. We’d only been married for a couple of months. I wasn’t too pleased when I found out. I’d wanted time together, just the two of us. Then she had him and he was so—beautiful. I couldn’t believe we’d made him with our love. I’d stand there and watch him asleep in his crib and listen real close to make sure he was breathing. When Katherine nursed him I felt so proud, like this is my wife and my baby boy. I’ll kill any man who hurts them.
And then that man was me.
After he died, it seemed like nothing was right. It wasn’t the same between Katherine and me, even though we had the other babies. And I beat on the boys. I shouldn’t have done that. That’s what my father done to me and my brothers. We loved our mother, so we couldn’t touch him, but after she died we cut him dead. We never went and saw him again. My brothers moved away to different parts of the country. I haven’t seen them in years. Seems like loving our mama and hating our father was all we had in common.
I never meant to be like him with my boys. I wanted to kiss them and love them. But I couldn’t; I was frozen, and that made me mad. It made me so mad I went crazy. There’s no excuse, it’s too late to change it. My wife and my sons hate me.
Once Kat told me, “You never loved me. You don’t love me ’cause you don’t know how.”
I do the best I can, but nothing went the way I planned. It wasn’t just Timmy; it was everything. Her brother calling me a crook, in my own house. Like I’m some low-life bum! The scum of the earth! All this crap about stuff that was none of his business. And what does Katherine do? She don’t say nothing. She just looks at me!
Damn you, Gabe! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t open this bottle and drink the whole damn thing. All you are is a ghost. You don’t even exist. That ain’t my boy at the funeral parlor. My boy is gone. He ran away. He’ll be back someday. I almost killed him, drunk as a skunk on this same stuff. His mother looked scared, but he didn’t. He said, “Go ahead and shoot me, you crazy old fart! You’ve already killed everybody in this house!”
Oh, Mama, please! It hurts so bad! God, do you hear me? If you hate me so much, why don’t you kill me?
All I need is a sip, a taste to clear my head. I open the bottle and lift it to my lips—
My mouth fills with Gabriel’s blood.
I’m choking and gagging. I spit it out. Everything I swallowed is coming back up. The bottle explodes against a rock.
If I was man enough, I’d blow my head off. Make everybody happy. They’d all be glad. But I’m too scared I’ll go to hell, a special hell for men who kill their babies.
God, I’m sorry! God, please help me. I’ve thrown away the bottle. I’ve kept my vow. I’ve got to stay sober. I’ve got to find Jennie. I’ve got to help my wife, but I don’t know how.
We used to lie on the beach and look up at the sky and plan how our life was going to be. I’d make lots of money and we’d buy a big house, and have a bunch of kids, and do some traveling.
The farthest I’ve ever been is Las Vegas. There was never enough money. We got bogged down. And by the time I figured out that the boys really loved me, they didn’t even like me anymore.
Once when Gabe was little we went to the beach. We were on our way home from somewhere, him and me.
I took him to my and Katherine’s favorite place, this pretty little cove where we made Timmy. It’s hidden from the road. We had to climb down the path. It was real steep. Gabe was holding my hand.
We must’ve stayed down there for a couple of hours. I showed him how you could walk out across the water, to a rock that looked like a throne.
“We’re the kings, Daddy!” Gabe loved that place. We had a picnic: a bag of potato chips and a bottle of Pepsi-Cola. Then we had to get off because the tide was coming in. We stood on shore and watched the throne disappear. Gabe s
tarted crying. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s still there, you just can’t see it.”
All the way up the path, Gabe kept asking, “Can we come back, Daddy? When can we come back?”
“Soon,” I said, but we never did. There was always too much going on.
Gabe didn’t forget; he had a memory like an elephant. He’d say, Daddy, can we go back to that special place?
And then I realize that he’d found it on his own.
I start the truck and roar south down the highway. The turnout is just where I saw it in my mind, hidden behind blackberry bushes gone wild. There’s a set of tire tracks in the sand. Another truck was here not long ago.
I run down the highway to the nick in the cliffs. The path’s worn deep and feels familiar to my feet, like I’d walked it every night in my dreams.
When I get to the last turn, I look down on the beach. My heart starts pounding like the waves.
The rock has almost disappeared. It looks like Jennie and the dog are standing on the water.
41
Jennie Harding
The waves suck at my feet. Jack fell, but I grabbed him. He’s soaked and shivering, pressed against my skirt. I’m fighting to keep my balance.
Why? If I wanted to die, I could let go right now and let the water claim me. What would it prove—that life is painful and pointless? More pointless than this?
How strange it would’ve been, on Tuesday night, if we could’ve looked ahead and seen all this coming. There were so many things I counted on, Gabe. This wasn’t one of them.
I wanted to make the world a better place; to do something helpful, like be a good teacher. Ignorance breeds fear and fear breeds cruelty, and don’t tell me that’s not true, Gabe. Just take a good look at your father.
I wish I could see that man again. I’d say: Look what you’ve done. You destroyed your family. He wasn’t alone. Gabe’s mother helped him. Everybody talks like, Oh, poor Katherine, but she could’ve stopped him, she could’ve left. I’d never stay with someone who hurt my children. You can’t love somebody you fear.
And look at you, Gabe. You ran away from yourself until you couldn’t run anymore, until you dropped with exhaustion. All you wanted was to be unconscious.
You must be in heaven now. Gabe, can you see me? What would you tell me, if you could?
The waves are so high. The water is rising. Soon we’ll be eye to eye. Why am I so afraid to die when it takes more courage to live?
If I choose death, I’m giving up. I’m leaving and taking my baby with me. I’ll also take a part of all the people who love me. Their lives will never be the same again.
Could I be a good mother? Will my daughter love me? Will she end up on a rock like this someday? I can only give her life; I can’t give her paradise. I can’t even give this child her daddy.
Gabriel, I don’t want to leave you behind. Time will carry me far away. But I don’t want to die. I want to break the chain of sadness. I’ll miss you so much. It will be so painful. Maybe being alive is like having a baby; it hurts a lot, but it’s worth it.
I’ve waited too long. The sea surrounds me. The steps leading back to the beach are gone. Jack is whimpering. I say, “Don’t be afraid,” and wrap my fingers around his collar. We can make it back to shore. If I have to die, Lord, I want to die trying to live.
Movement draws my eye to the side of the cliff. I know those shoulders, that rangy build. Nobody else could’ve found this place. It was all a mistake. Gabe is here!
My vision clears. The man’s face ages. Gabriel’s father is plunging down the path, waving his arms and shouting. The path’s too steep, he doesn’t know the way, he’s going to fall.
The waves are roaring. I’m raging at him: “Why did you come here? It’s too late! You killed your son! I hate you!”
Then Jack and I leap into the water.
42
Francis McCloud
Jennie and the dog were facing the horizon. They didn’t hear me shouting.
The path was slick. I kept slipping and sliding. The drop to the rocks below made me feel sick, but I had to keep going, I had to save her, even though I didn’t know how. The tide would be too strong to fight. The steps were underwater. It’s been too long; I don’t remember where they are.
I am waving my arms. I am screaming her name. The waves break like thunder on Jennie’s rock. Any second they’ll pull her under.
Jennie turns around. She sees me. The look on her face almost makes me fall. I can see it plain, across the water. Her eyes are like Katherine’s. They’re awful.
She’s shouting something I can’t make out. Then she grabs the dog and jumps into the water.
The sight shoots inside my eyes and brands my brain. This is the hell that God has made me: Everything I touch dies, but I stay alive.
I search the waves, but Jennie is gone.
Too late. I’ve been too late all my life. My heart is bursting, I’m letting go, the sea reaches for me, I’m falling.
Jennie grabs my arm and pulls me back. I can’t stand up, my legs don’t work. Her eyes are as blue as the ocean. The dog runs up beside her and shakes himself. Water shoots off him like sparks of fire. Jennie’s eyebrow is cut, she’s crying blood. Beneath her wet dress, Jennie’s belly is round.
I can’t look in her eyes. I’m too ashamed. I know what she’s thinking. She hates me.
Her hand comes down and gently touches my head.
“Don’t worry, Mr. McCloud,” she says. “I’ll help you.”
43
Jennie Harding
He drove me back to town. We didn’t talk much. At one point he had to stop the truck. He was sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just so glad to see you.”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting his arm. There was no room for hate inside me anymore. I was too full of Gabe. I was too full of sadness.
We had to stop for gas when we got to town.
“You’d think at a time like this …,” he said, embarrassed.
“There’s no rush,” I said. Jack was in the back, like a sack of wet laundry, his ears folded down, looking mournful.
My parents will expect me to be ashamed about the baby. They’ll want me to put it up for adoption.
This is my baby and I’m going to keep it. I’ll try to be a good mother. I know I’ll make mistakes, but I’ll always love her, and I’ll tell her I love her every day of her life. Maybe the baby is the son that Gabriel wanted. A son would be fine. I’ll tell my little boy: Being a man doesn’t mean being big and tough. It means being big enough to be kind.
The past isn’t going to go away. I’ll always be connected to the McClouds. This child I’m carrying will be a member of their family. They’ll love Gabe’s baby as much as they know how; probably more than they could ever love each other.
It won’t be perfect. I can’t fix everything. I’m not a magician.
“We should get you to the doctor,” Mr. McCloud said. “You’re pretty banged up and that cut’s still bleeding.”
“I want to go home first.” I knew I was okay. It would take more than death to kill me.
As we got near my house, Mr. McCloud slowed down. He said, “We want to help out with the baby. My wife and I—she always wanted to be a grandma. It’s all we got left of Gabe.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He parked in front of my house. “I’ll go in there with you, if you want me to.”
“Thanks, but I can handle it,” I told him.
He said, “I guess I better get home.” I got out of the truck and he drove away.
I went up the front walk to the house I’d left that morning. That seemed like a million years ago. My childhood was over. And so was Gabe’s. But I would survive and I would teach our child well. Our daughter or son will sing and laugh and play, and run along the beach, racing the waves. So will I, someday.
I opened the door.
About the Author
Cynthia D. Grant has publis
hed twelve young adult fiction novels since 1980. In 1991 she won the first PEN/Norma Klein Award, for “an emerging voice among American writers of children’s fiction.” Over the years, Grant has received numerous other distinctions. Unfortunately, her Massachusetts upbringing prohibits her from showing off. She lives in the mountains outside Cloverdale, California, and has one husband, Eric Neel; two sons, Morgan Heatley-Grant and Forest Neel-Grant; two cats, Kelsey, an orange tom, and Billie, a barn cat–barracuda mix; and Mike the Wonder Dog, who packs two-hundred-plus pounds of personality into a seven-pound body.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1992 by Cynthia D. Grant
Cover design by Liz Connor
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1359-8
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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