“Not the last two. I didn’t open them. But I read the other letters.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She’s my sister,” she said. “My actual blood. My actual flesh. She’s dead. If she wrote something, I can read it.”
I counted to three silently, in my head. Striving for control. “Did you take them?”
“Your fucking letters are on top of your fucking table,” she said. “But what the hell makes you so special that she writes you and she doesn’t write me? Huh? I knew her four times as long as you did. I taught her how to ride. Hell, I’m the one who told her to go after you.”
“You…you did?” This was news.
“‘Oh there’s this cute boy, he plays baseball,’ she said after her first day of school. I told her to go after you. After you got married, she asked me what I thought. I told her I was happy for her. I did everything for her, for the two of you, to keep you happy. When you were just being a whiny shitty prick, sitting there crying at her bedside, I kept her together and I kept you together. And what does she do? With her last hours alive? She writes you. And she hid it from me. And then a year later makes me deliver them. God, if I’d known what was in that package I never would have—” her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “So now you get help, and what do I get? What am I left to do?”
All kinds of answers came to my mind. I had all kinds of advice for her. None of it was nice. None of it took into consideration the fact that Natalie might have a gun in her purse. Truth is, I thought I knew why Emily’d written letters to me and not to her sister. It was because she knew Natalie was already strong enough to make it through, and that I wasn’t going to be. Not in the face of losing her. Emily knew I’d need the help. But I was too angry to say that out loud.
“Keep the fucking letters,” I said.
“What?”
“You’re not dealing with your own fucking grief, you’re just putting it on me. You want the letters so bad, you go and get them. Get a dog. Clean your room. Build a house. Make an ass of yourself on stage. Who fucking cares.”
My phone rang, just then, while Natalie was staring at me in shock.
It was Rae. I answered.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You saw the book, didn’t you?”
“I don’t need you trying to fix me,” I said. “Leave me alone.”
I hung up, furious. I turned back to Natalie, gave up on mastering my voice.
“I don’t need Emily trying to fix me either. And I sure as shit don’t need her sister trying to make me feel worse about a whole lot of shit that isn’t my fault.”
My phone started ringing again. I didn’t even look at it.
“Get the fuck off my property,” I said to Natalie. “Leave me alone.”
I went past her, into the house. King ran in past the screen door just as it was swinging shut, and I slammed the front door as soon as he was through it. Dead bolted it. I’d have to change the locks.
I waited there, clenching and unclenching my fists, until I heard her truck pull angrily out of my driveway, spitting gravel as it rolled onto the street.
I went into the kitchen. Seven letters open, two letters sealed.
It was stupid. It was all stupid.
I grabbed the letters, threw them in the trashcan under the sink.
The whole thing had been stupid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I tried to calm down the way you’re supposed to. I really did.
Punching pillows, I don’t know that that’s ever worked for anyone. I got into my truck, drove to a secondhand sports equipment store. Bought a heavy bag. Fifty bucks ain’t cheap, but it was a hell of a lot less than what I was going to spend on new furniture if I smashed what all I had. So really, it was kind of a deal.
Drove it home.
King knew something was wrong. He’s not stupid, that dog. But there wasn’t a thing I could do for him, not just then.
I downed a beer and then chained the heavy bag up in my garage. There was just enough calm in me to wrap up my hands before I started pounding that thing. Downed another beer just before I started, even though the alcohol would slow me up some.
After an hour, I was utterly exhausted. And I was still mad as hell.
I knew I wasn’t feeling rational, so in a brief lucid moment, I slipped my phone into the crack between the fridge and the wall. Somewhere it would take calm, coordinated effort to retrieve it from.
Because there wasn’t anyone in the world I could talk to that would make any of this feel any better.
My rage was still there, but now it was a cold rage. A rage I thought I could silence by watching TV. I let myself fall into the couch with a bottle of whiskey. King came up and snuggled with me, and at some point I fell asleep during the game with my shoes still on.
I woke up in the dark because King had to pee and he was whining by the door.
“Quit your whining,” I said, stumbling into consciousness. I let him out into the backyard, let him get his business done. Then I walked back into my house. I went back to the couch, tried to sleep. Couldn’t.
I didn’t know what time it was until I got to my truck. Nine or so. I’d slept for a long time.
I’d killed her.
That’s what this was all about.
That’s why I was angry at Natalie, that’s why I was angry at Rae. It’s why I was angry at Emily, Maggie, myself. I was angry because I’d been so goddamned stupid and selfish and I’d overlooked the single most important thing in the world. I’d taken Emily’s health for granted. I’d taken for granted that things that are happening just keep happening.
All my life, that’s what they’d done. The Royals played every year. I went to school every year. My dad’s work kept up. My granddad drove trucks. My mom gave me scary and meaningful advice. And my wife? My wife had kept me going, and I thought I was keeping her going. But instead, I’d just taken her for granted. Assumed she’d always be there. No need to get health insurance, not yet. No need to look into her lack of appetite, not yet. It was just stress. That’s what we’d said.
So I’d let her convince me to ignore it, and I’d ignored it, and I might as well have put a bullet in her gut because I sure wasn’t doing anything about the cancer that was in there.
I went to Lou’s, sat down at the bar. None of my friends were in, which was fine. Hadn’t really expected them. Ordered a beer.
Lou, he’d given me the advice he was going to give me. No need to trouble him. I just drank that beer and watched the game like I cared about it.
I drank two more after that.
I shouldn’t be alive.
That thought came through the fog around my brain, like a beacon from a lighthouse. Exactly like a lighthouse, actually. A lighthouse doesn’t say “come this way, come towards the light,” it says “what the hell are you thinking, don’t head over here, there are rocks and you’ll shipwreck.” That’s what that thought was.
I steered clear.
One more for the road. I got the beer down, went out to my truck, and broke the one law I cared about in this world. I drove home drunk.
I stumbled in through the door.
My stupid house.
I should have given it to Natalie.
Emily left half of what she owned to her sister. Emily also had owned half the house—I’d insisted. If I’d given Natalie the house, she would have had to learn what it’s like to live in the goddamned city, with goddamned people everywhere. She would have had to live with Emily’s memories all around her. She would have had to live in Emily’s house like it was some open-casket funeral home where the bodies never got buried, they just stayed out in the open, and every time I walked into the house I saw her face.
I didn’t want to see her face.
There was a portrait, framed, along the stairwell.
I went out to the garage, got my hand wraps. I wrapped up my fist, then I put my fist into the glass. King jumped up, then went to hid
e in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, King,” I said.
I swept up the glass, and I threw it and the picture into the trash.
It wasn’t just me in the house. I had to remember that. Don’t scare a dog. It took me ten minutes to convince King everything was okay.
Dogs are stupid, I guess.
After that, I went through the house with a trash bag, threw every picture of Emily into it. I wasn’t going to live in a funeral home.
It wasn’t enough, though. You can’t destroy the memory of someone, not without destroying a bit of yourself. I needed something more. I took my guitar out of its case, went out to the back porch and closed the door behind me. I didn’t want to scare King.
Then I smashed the ever-loving shit out of my guitar. I smashed it into the deck until the body detached from the neck, then I set the neck up against the fence and kicked it, snapping it like firewood.
I stumbled and fell, because I was too drunk to be doing things like that, and I lay on the patio for a good while, who knows how long. Who cares.
I was starting to sober up, though, and I wasn’t ready to feel that way. That got me up and back in the house. Went to the fridge, grabbed a Coors. The fridge started making the worst noise. A kind of rattle and hum. I stared, confused, with the door open, and then I saw light coming from behind the fridge. My phone. Right. My phone was on vibrate.
I found the broom and used its handle to knock my phone out to where I could grab it. I’d missed the call. It was my brother, Mike.
I called him back.
All the people in the world I thought I couldn’t call. I’d forgotten about Mike.
“Luke,” he said.
“It’s past midnight,” I said.
“I couldn’t sleep. I was lying there, and I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve heard from you, and I couldn’t sleep. How you doing?”
I thought about it. “Can I come see you?” I asked.
“Always,” Mike said.
“Thanks.”
“My wife’s asleep,” Mike said. “Meet me at the church. We’ll talk there.”
They call it a sanctuary. At the funeral, I’d thought that was cruel. A stadium, that’s a sanctuary. A place you go to forget. To be free from all the shit of the world. Even a bar, you might call that a sanctuary.
“Hey, Luke,” Mike said. He stood up when I walked in, and I went to join him. We sat a few pews back from the front. We sat side by side. Which is an easier way to talk to a man, to be honest. I’d rather meet the Lord’s eyes, where He was looking down at me from a painting on the wall, than my brother’s. That’s the way of the world.
“I was pretty hard on you when we were kids,” Mike said.
I didn’t say nothing to that.
“I know I was hard on you. It made you strong, though. I don’t think that’s why I was doing it, I can’t claim it was as noble as that. But that’s what it did. It made you strong. One of the strongest people I know.”
“I used to feel strong,” I said.
“And then you went through something harder than anyone since Granddad Cawley did. You buried your wife, just when everything was starting. Most people alive today, they aren’t strong enough for that. And you know what? On their own? There’s no one alive or ever has been who is strong enough for that.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You don’t have to go through any of this on your own. I don’t think you can. I think it’ll kill you. Not because you’re weak. No brother of mine is ever going to be weak, not after what I put you through. But because you’re human. You’ve got people who care about you. Mom, Dad, me. God. Life is hard. It’s not fair, it’s never seemed fair. But He’s with you. He’s always with you. He got His people through the black plague. He got His people through World War II. Not all of them alive, that’s not what God does. But He got them through it, spiritually. You can lean on Him. That’s what He’s there for.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Let me guess. You weren’t sure, all growing up, if He was real. You went to church because you loved the rest of us and it wasn’t worth putting up a fight. Then Emily died, and you either hit upon the idea that it was God’s fault or that God didn’t exist.”
I shrugged. That was pretty much exactly what had happened.
“Most people don’t know God until they need Him. Until they really need Him. Like you do now. It’s not that He’s abandoned you. It’s that He’s been there for you, all along. And now is when you need Him. Now is when you can find Him. Prayers don’t save men dying on the battlefield, not more than once a generation. Prayers save the men who survive the battlefield. Will you pray with me?”
“Alright,” I said.
We knelt, clasped our hands, and prayed.
King was waiting for me when I walked in the door. Not eager to go out or anything, just waiting for me. Watching the door. Worried.
Even my dog was worried about me.
I cut my arm something vicious digging those letters out of the trash, buried as they were under broken glass. But I got them out, set them on the table, cleaned the glass off of them. I couldn’t get the blood off them, but I managed to only stain the first two, which I’d read so often I could quote them from memory. Then, and only then, I went upstairs, found the first aid kid, and started cleaning and dressing the wound.
It was on the top of my right arm, up near the elbow. Just deep enough that it might scar a bit. But after all of that, I still didn’t have health insurance, and to hell with paying out of pocket at the emergency room. I knew enough to know I hadn’t done any major damage, so I put on butterfly bandages and wrapped it up good.
Back downstairs, I sat down on the chair, felt its weight beneath me. I sorted the letters out, the seven read ones on the left, the two unread ones on the right. I picked up the eighth letter, then reached down for my knife. It wasn’t there.
I might have lost it drunk. I might have left it at Rae’s. It might just be in my other pants. It didn’t matter. The ritual didn’t matter. What mattered was the letter.
I ripped the envelope open, carefully.
“This next one, this isn’t a task. Well, it is and it isn’t. It’s something I’ve got to tell you. You sitting down? You should be sitting down for this. Because this is going to come as a bigger surprise than it should. And you need to hear it.”
I was sitting down.
“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault I’m dying. Well, dead, by now. I don’t care what you think in your sweet and lovely and stupid head. You’re my husband, and I love you madly, but that doesn’t make you my keeper. I made a decision not to go to the doctor. I made it on my own. I didn’t even tell you I was worried, because I didn’t want you to worry. It was the wrong decision, so yes, however stupid you are, you’re not as dumb as me. Here’s your task: forgive yourself. You have to forgive yourself. This one is as much for me as it is for you. You’re a good person. Hell, you’re the best husband I ever had. Sorry, my sense of humor is getting worse. I think it’s dying. You’re the best husband I could have had. The kind of man who would have gotten into my business, made me make different decisions? That’s not the kind of man I wanted. I wanted someone gentle enough to love me, strong enough to fight off the world. I found that man. I found Luke Cawley and I love him with everything I’ve got and there’s not a single, solitary cell in my body that has anything but love for you.”
My chest was tight, and I read the last sentence blinking back the sting in my eyes.
“If only you could see you like I see you.”
Tears ran down, they just poured down my face. I didn’t have time to compose myself, I didn’t have time to curl up on the couch or sit in bed or go in the shower or anything like that. I just sat in that chair, at the table we’d shared food at, and I cried. King sat at my feet, leaned against my knee, and when I finally could I reached down and set a hand on his head.
My eyes were raw and sore, they hurt wor
se than the cut on my arm. I shook so hard, for so long, that by the time stillness came over me it was a curious sensation all its own.
The first birds started singing outside before I got up from that chair. Numb, I made my way up the stairs and collapsed into my bed, into the oblivion of sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
You don’t bring flowers twice in a row. They don’t work the same way, twice in a row, at least not for apologizing.
I didn’t bring nothing but my sincerity.
It’s about a twenty minute drive to Rae’s place, but I went slow, took side streets. I thought I was going to take that extra time to run it over in my head, everything I was going to say to her. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to think it over. I didn’t want to plan it out. I would just say what I would say.
Instead of thinking, I just watched Kansas City. All those years I’d been in denial about living in the city. Like my true home was out in the country, like I didn’t belong where I was. Bullshit. I love the city. I love all the people everywhere. I love how many different lives are lived in the city. I love all the different scenes and communities and types of people all living in the same place, taking their dogs to the same dog parks. Going out on the town to the same town.
I needed to learn to accept who I was. Where I was. Single, widower. Bartender. Homeowner. Dog owner. Volunteer. Terrified wreck.
I didn’t know how to fix my life, sure. I could fix a lot of things, but I couldn’t fix my life. Lives aren’t like houses. You can’t paint over your problems. There’s no rustoleum for life. But a car is either running or it’s not, pretty much. A life? It’s amazing how banged up your life can get and keep running. I was proof of that.
Or you could take good enough care of yourself and drop dead long before the odometer racked up enough miles. Emily was proof of that.
Life wasn’t like houses. It wasn’t like cars. They don’t need fixing, not in the same way. They just need you to keep going.
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