The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  I turn at the words. Hugh's father stands, back turned, looking out at the darkness of Denver. I hesitate. I'm not sure whether I should even say. Whether I shouldn't just keep my mouth shut.

  "No."

  Damn.

  "What?" he says, voice like the snap of a trap.

  "Hugh wasn't going to continue.”

  Damn my big mouth.

  "What do you mean?" he says, prowling closer.

  "Hugh was tired. This wasn't ever what he wanted. He just...he just wanted more time with Sophie and I. He was missing out on our life together. He wanted..."

  "Stop," he interrupts, putting up a hand to silence me.

  "It's true. This was your dream. Not his.”

  If ever there were a point where I've regretted my propensity to talk too much, this would be it.

  "Then you take his place."

  My mouth drops open. I might have to pick it up off the floor.

  "His seat is now vacant. If you present yourself to the Governor, he'll have to confirm you," his large sun spotted hands work quickly as he speaks, as if he's shaping the future with them.

  "You're insane," and there goes my mouth again.

  "Excuse me..." he whispers, it is much more threatening than a yell, than a scream.

  "Let me rephrase. You are insane to think I would even want the job. You must have taken complete leave of your senses to think I could or would even think about that now. And you're a terrible father to so soon forget your son, to try and patch together some half plan to fulfill your own political ambitions."

  "You are out of line," he says, pointing a finger at me. His eyes twice their normal size, chest heaving with indignation and fury.

  "I'm not Hugh! You don't own me."

  "He chose to do what he did," he says with a flippant wave of his hand.

  "He wanted to make you proud. And you, you wanted more and more. You were never happy with what he'd done. You had to live through him, to feel important because of what HE accomplished," I say.

  My voice rises higher and higher with ever word. I'm almost screaming at the end.

  "Hugh owed it all to me. The Yale acceptance, the legislature, both would have been impossible without our last name and my decades of work to make it great. Whatever he was, he owed to me," he spits, leaning across the distance between us, towering over me. Devoid of control.

  I always thought Hugh overreacted when he talked about his father, how domineering he was. I know better now.

  "You didn't deserve him. He loved you. He would have done anything for you. You saw power, just power, and now he's gone. And I pity you; you're going to have to live with it your entire life. Live with what you threw away.”

  I speak softly; I have no raw anger left. It’s not true. I don't pity him. Not right now anyways. Some day I will, because he will realize just how much he lost and nothing will ever change it, nothing will ever make up for it.

  Only silence follows. No hateful replies or contrite apologies. Just silence. Silence that echoes off the marble, the plush sofas, the emptiness, the dust mites suspended on the air. My feet are painfully cold and my legs are seizing up. So I leave.

  I'm not a hero. It's a thought that reverberates with every step I take away from a man whose son was murdered two days ago. As typical, my hot head ran away with my well-meaning heart. I'm seething. As if on repeat, I turn over his words. My chest heaves, but not from exercise. I fume over the words of the bitter old man.

  Hugh was wasted on them, I think scathingly as I curl back up with Sophie, staring at the patterned ceiling.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It's a relief when the room lightens with the first streaks of dawn. Nightmares recede in the early morning air, but the outline of a man standing over Hugh's body returned in full force. He had no face, no features...and he haunts me. The faceless man. Though the room is warm I shiver deeply. I'm exhausted and yet cannot fall back asleep. Sophie sleeps peacefully, her lips parted, her small chest rising and falling with deep even breaths. Clutched in her hand is my phone. I haven't had the courage to look at it. The thought of all those people and their "good intentions" makes me gag. I need to know though; I need to know what the public knows...who the faceless man is.

  I pick up the phone with shaking fingers. Hugh and Sophie's faces fill the screen. It feels a bit like unlocking Pandora's box. I open Safari and Google Hugh's name. News stories saturate the screen, some even with accompanied by videos. I watch them all.

  There are few facts I glean from the news hysteria. State Patrol and Denver PD chased the suspect through the Capitol Hill neighborhood where he was subsequently lost in the maze of alleys. The man has not been identified. My heart drops at this. Sources report Hugh refused entry to the man and told him instead to walk through the visitor's entrance and the accompanying metal detectors.

  I continue to read newspaper articles, devoid of emotion. I wonder at my reaction and shut off the phone. The ground shifts like sand. In three days I have become another person. I am lost within my own life-as if it wasn't mine to begin with. I rake my hand over my face, pressing the palm into my eyes-feeling the pain of it, trying to contain the screams building inside of me. My throat tightens treacherously around the scream, squeezing it out of my esophagus.

  I can't scream.

  Screaming doesn't solve anything.

  Sophie will hear you. Sophie. My girl. I'm not sure how it happens, but focusing in on her stifles the panic inside of me. When I was a wife and mother, being a wife came first. I always felt if our marriage was treasured and taken care of it would benefit Sophie exponentially. The switch confuses me.

  There's movement in the rooms around me. The stifled sounds of water running through pipes and muffled early morning voices. I wonder whether I should risk getting in the shower or call for my mother. I opt for the latter and make my way to their room.

  "Mom?" I say softly through the door. "Coming," she comes out smiling, hair pulled back into a loose bun.

  "Do you mind sitting with Sophie while I shower. I don't want her to wake up alone."

  "Of course," she says and walks back with me. "Here," she holds up about half of the shopping bags, piled in the corner of my room, "makeup, hair products, clothes, its all there."

  "Thanks," I say with a quick glance at Sophie and scoot into the bathroom.

  I peel off my jeans and white shirt and vow to never look at them again. They smell of stale sweat and look as though they've been balled up at the bottom of a suitcase for a month.

  The shower is entirely made of glass. The warm water slides down my back, working on the knots of muscles on my back. I'm gazing off into space, trying to exist in another world, when the door slams open. I grab for a towel, slamming the water nozzle off. Sophie stands in the middle of the room with half crazed eyes and a face full of anger.

  "Sophie, baby, it's ok I'm here. I'm here," I sink to my knees, cradling her body. She lets out a strangled howl.

  "YOU WEREN'T THERE. YOU LEFT ME!"

  "I'm so sorry Sophie," I croon. I want to say I was just in the shower and her grandma was right there but the words get stuck in my throat on the way out. She knows it all; she knows I was in the next room.

  "I don't want Grandma. You can't leave me. Daddy's left me. Not you too Mommy," Sophie says with the same wild eyes, a thin film of betrayal covers them.

  There isn't much to say. I sit and rock her, trying to calm her hysteria. The door closes behind us, pain etched on the plains of my mother's retreating face. She wants to help and even though she can rationalize Sophie's behavior through the filter of grief...it aches nonetheless.

  We sit on the floor until Sophie picks up her head she smiles guiltily at me.

  "I'm sorry Mommy," she doesn't quite meet my eyes as she says this.

  "It's my fault Sophie. I won't do it again. You won't have to wake up without me,” I say, cup her little cheek and smile.

  "You should get dressed Mommy. Your towel is falling," she laughs,
pointing towards my chest.

  "And so it is," I say and hike up the white towel, "well we can't have that. It's not proper."

  Sophie giggles and scoots off my lap. She sits in the middle of the bathroom floor gazing up at me. I look through the shopping bags, apprehensive because my mother and I's styles don't mesh at all. They are just simple black and white clothes, a scarf, and a couple necklaces. So I pull on some black slacks and a soft cream sweater and add on the scarf.

  I have spent the entire morning avoiding my reflection, but in the end I catch a glimpse. Last night's wanderings didn't do me any favors. I'm even more pale than usual and the normal bags under my eyes have now turned a ghastly shade of grey. It’s a face that wouldn't look out of place on a corpse. I pull a little on the bags under my eyes absentmindedly. Sophie gazes at me in the mirror, so I tear my gaze away and try to force a smile.

  Little though I care for it, I massage in foundation, brush color on my cheeks, and swipe on mascara. My resemblance to a corpse has lessened. At least I've made an effort for my daughter. She's seen my daily ritual more times than I can count...perhaps I can inject some normality.

  "You look beautiful, Mommy," she says, walks up and slides her hand into mine.

  "Thank you. Want to get dressed? Your hair looks a little ragged. I'm going to have to pull a comb through it."

  Sophie stomps her foot a little at this.

  "Grandma says we should never ever comb my hair. She says it's a travelry."

  "I think you mean travesty."

  "Yes, that's what Grandma says.”

  "Well today we are just going to have to make Grandma mad and comb your hair. We can make it all curly again though.”

  Sophie considers this for some time.

  "Well...ok. Just don't hurt me Mommy. Its not nice."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," I chuckle and start combing out the knots. My mind wanders as I stand behind her.

  What is it Sophie will remember? What will her mind stash away? What memories will torment her slumber thirty years from now? Will I be reduced to a blithering spectacle of a woman in her mind? She must remember a strong woman, a brave mother who didn't sink into the muck and mire, a mother who was transparent, and above all a mother that was present.

  We leave the solitary confines of the bathroom, weariness settles in my soul. I stare blankly ahead, seeking out something to concentrate on. Tears stream down my face, every step torture, my husband, my Hugh. Gone.

  Sophie drops off within moments, her eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings. We curl into each other on the bed, the cool cotton sheets swaddled around us. After five minutes a soft hand raps on the door.

  I croak out, "Come in." Nancy pokes her head around the door. She looks care worn, like she's seeing more work than what's normal for her.

  "There are a couple detectives downstairs, ma'am, they'd like a word with you. They're in the library," she says, her voice soft and matronly.

  She reminds me of my grandmother. I nod and Nancy exits the room without a sound. I'm not sure what to do about Sophie. Whatever 'a word' means it’s more obligatory than anything else.

  "Sophie..." I say in a whisper.

  "Yes?" she says sleepily, her head buried under layers of sheets.

  "I have to go down and talk to some police officers. Do you want me to ask Grandma to come in and sit with you?"

  "No. I want to look at Daddy on your phone," she says, holding out her little hand.

  Her face is pale and drawn, but a smile flits across on her lips as I place the phone in her hand. She cradles it like a lifeline and sets to tracing the outlines of her father's face. I stand stupidly in the middle of the room as if I'm waiting for something to happen. For the earth to collapse. I'm useless. More than useless. I don't know what I'm doing or how I got here or how I'll ever find my way back to the light.

  Sophie smiles as I finally pull open the heavy oak door. It swings soundlessly on the hinges.

  "Whoops," comes a surprised voice as I'm pulling the door closed.

  "Dad," I say, blandly.

  He's sitting, a leg outstretched on a chair to the right of the door. A heavy mug of coffee is steaming in his hand and the dark blue circles underneath his eyes are even more prominent tonight.

  "How long have you been sitting here?" I hiss. He doesn't quail or even look the tiniest bit remorseful.

  "Not long enough," he says. I love his easy manner, his soft spirit. Nothing ruffles his feathers, nothing gets beneath his skin. Rather the opposite of Hugh's father.

  "Have you slept?" I ask, softening my tone.

  "Not really, too worried about people I love," he says, failing to mask the pain and worry behind his words.

  "Listen for Sophie. She has my phone. I'll be down talking to the police.”

  He looks as though he'd like to say more but I hurry off down the carpeted hallway and come to a skidding halt at the bottom of the stairs. From my vantage point, the library is laud out before me, full of both plain-clothes officers (detectives, I imagine) and uniforms. My heart throbs out of control. Fear creeps up on me, as though I'm confronting some wild beast, breath won't come through to my lungs. My chest heaves as though I am lifting a great weight.

  "Ah, Emmeline," comes a thick masculine voice. I've been spotted.

  A man strides over to me, the buttons on his suit coat strain precariously on their stitching. He raises his bushy black eyebrows when I continue to stare; standing on the bottom step of the staircase, feeling like a circus attraction, or the accident everyone slows down for on the highway.

  The bushy browed cop just stands there though. I'm torn between turning on my heels and walking straight back up the bed upstairs and helping in any way possible to help find my husband's killer. It’s not much of a choice. I step off the stair. The portly cop leads me over to the room and then blends in with the rest.

  The room is even more tightly packed than I first assumed. There's not a free chair to be had. I search out the youngest cop and glare until he vacates his chair. There are few kind eyes in this room. Most have seen too many grisly murders, too much horror on the street, their empathy all but gone. Eventually the room parts clearing the way for an older man with salt and pepper hair. He sits himself gracefully in the chair next to me. By the way he moves and the dissipation of the younger cops, it’s obvious who is in charge. He has a kind face, patient almost, if that sort of thing could be found on a face. He is fluid, calm, and comfortable in his abilities. He studies me for a long moment.

  Behind him stands a younger man in tight skinny jeans and an even tighter sweater. He looks pinched, as if he's deprived himself of food for a few too many days. A badge, carelessly slung around his neck, labels him as a victim's advocate. I don't even catch his name when he says it. I give him a withering look but he perches next to me unabashed. I stare incredulously at him for a moment, then turn and wait for the cop to begin.

  "Mrs MacArthur..." he says, his voice catching on my name. With a rumbling breath he starts again, "I am so sorry to drag you away from your daughter at this time."

  His voice is soft, echoing his calm subdued manner. I wonder whether he was teased for his voice, whether he ever felt the need to conform to cop culture.

  "I understand you have some questions.”

  Awareness of the other officers loitering in the hallway, floods my mind, some still leer as though I'm an interesting sideshow. The interviewer follows my gaze and angrily waves his arm for the men to clear off.

  "I'm so sorry about that," he says in a low voice, turning back around to face me. "Oh, sorry, Detective Wexford. Call me Andrew."

  I stare in reply.

  "Shall we start at the beginning?" he asks, not waiting for me to answer, plowing on, "Can you tell me what happened yesterday?"

  I take a look around the library, marshaling my thoughts. It's beautiful in here, magic seeps off the pages of the books, which encircle the room, placed perfectly on the shelves. I could be at peace here...lounging
on one of these tufted leather armchairs, reading by the fire, if I were here for any other reason.

  "We were late getting into Denver. Hugh was called into the courthouse by the prosecutor's office. Sophie and I met him there. We left, drove to Denver, dropped him off at the Capitol, and ran errands, played at the park. That's when we got the call," I say, relaying the information in a monotone.

  "Did your husband interact with anyone in particular? Was there anything odd about yesterday?”

  "Aside from being called in by the prosecutor, no, nothing.” I can't seem to pull my thoughts together.

  "Why was he called into see a prosecutor?"

  "I'm not sure. Hugh didn't even know. He was questioned about trivial details about his last year as a police officer."

  "What can you tell me about the time you spent at the courthouse?"

  "It was hot. The air conditioning was out..." I begin. His encouraging smile drops minutely, "We were running late. Sophie and I went in, the people there pushed us around, and they were all gathered for some high profile case. We ran into Hugh. Walked out. Went straight to the car and left."

  "And that's it?"

  Wexford pulls out a small notebook and pen, it flies across the page and I find myself in thrall to it. The end of the pen waves back and forth, like a boat rocking on the waves.

  "Yes...there wasn't..." I say and then halt, fingers massaging my temples, "Wait. There was something. A man. A homeless man. He was standing on the sidewalk, looking into the courthouse. He had a cardboard sign, a veteran's patch on his backpack. Hugh gave him money and told him where he could find a bed for the night. He was skittish. We left. I looked back when we neared the car, he was just staring at us."

  "That's interesting," he says it like he's caressing the words, rolling them around on his tongue, seeing how they feel.

  "Wexford sounds British."

  "Yes, well...my family was. Generations back. Civil War Era, I believe."

  "Ah.”

  "Scottish?" Wexford asks with a grin.

  "Yes. Our grandparents immigrated before World War II," I say. Wexford nods, pulling his thoughts back to the task at hand.