Joe

by H. D. Gordon

  He smiled then, and stood from his spot on the bench, straightening his neatly ironed button-up shirt and his pressed slacks. He grinned, actually, because Monday was coming quickly and it would be all right. He walked toward the Blue building, where his next class would begin in half an hour. As Danny neared the Blue, a male student bumped Danny’s shoulder hard as they passed each other on the walkway. The student–his name was Michael, not that Danny knew or gave a shit–had been looking the other way and had turned abruptly on his heels. Danny stumbled back a few steps when their shoulders made impact, feeling the hot breath of his hate breathing down his neck. Jock, Danny’s mind flashed, growling silently in disgust.

  Michael said, “Oh, my bad dude. Sorry.”

  Danny gave a large grin and waved a hand. “Hey, no problem,” he replied.

  Jock-boy gave an uneasy smile and continued on his way.

  Yeah, no problem, Danny thought, staring after the boy for a moment so as to commit his face to memory. No problem at all, you fucking fool. I hope I see you on Monday, because you’ll be sorry then. You don’t know shit. You’ll be sorry. I Decide, and all of you don’t know shit!

  Why then, when he looked back at the jaguar, had he glimpsed an image of the raven sitting there? Grinning at him. And in his head a childlike voice sang, I know something you don’t know.

  He shook his head, and when he looked again the dream-raven was gone. Just a silly dream. He glanced around at all the people going about their days, and grinned, but it was a little forced.

  They didn’t know shit.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Michael

  He was passing through the Quad when he spotted the raven-haired girl—Joe, her name was Joe, but he kept thinking of her in terms of her hair—crossing the east end of the Quad in that swift way that she had. He stopped in his tracks and spun around to go catch up with her, not totally sure why. Something hard slammed into his right shoulder as he turned. Though his eyes were still following Joe, it took him a minute to realize he’d bumped into someone.

  “Oh, my bad dude. Sorry,” he said.

  The guy he’d run into was, in a word, plain. He had dull brown hair, a straight nose, and modest, firmly pressed attire: a light blue button-up shirt tucked into khaki slacks. The guy said, “Hey, no problem,” and smiled at Michael amicably.

  Michael stared at him for a tiny moment, noticing that the guy was not entirely plain. No, not entirely. His eyes were a deep, glossy black, and though his mouth was turned up, those black eyes seemed to be…burning with something. That was the best way Michael could describe it, and because he had always had a talent for reading people, his returned smile was forced and no doubt appeared a little uneasy.

  But Michael had other fish to fry, so he hurried on his way, casting thoughts of the not-so-plain guy out of his head and catching sight of the raven-haired girl once again. He hurried after her. When he caught up to her, a little out of breath and having no idea what he intended to say, he slipped in beside her and matched her pace.

  Her head was tilted downward and her dark hair fell into her face. She seemed to be preoccupied with something, clutching her notebook to her chest, and didn’t take notice of him. Michael cleared his throat. “Oh, hey Joe,” he said, as if he hadn’t just damn near run across the Quad to catch up with her.

  Joe’s head jerked up and those strange eyes settled on Michael. His accelerated heartbeat didn’t slow. “Hey,” she said.

  “Where you headed?”

  She’d already tilted her head back down, and Michael wished she would look at him again so he could see her eyes, but her hair made for an effective curtain. “Huh-home,” she said. “You?”

  “Yeah, me too. I only have one class on Fridays.” He paused, searching for something else to say. “Where are you parked?”

  “Juh-just on the uh-other side of Blue,” she said, speaking slowly.

  Michael smiled. “Me too. I’ll walk with you.”

  Man, he felt like a douche. It was a real challenge making small talk with this girl.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “So…what are you doing on Monday?” he asked, finally finding his words. “Because I got this poetry thing here on campus, I mean, it’s just a reading and probably not too many people will even be there, but–Hey, you okay?”

  Joe was looking at him now, her silver-blue eyes staring firmly at his own. Her shoulders were all tensed up and her mouth was set in a straight line. As he watched her, she parted her lips as if to say something, the look in her eyes striking Michael as something akin to fear. No, he thought, looking at her. Not fear. Terror. He was about to ask if she was okay again when she spoke.

  “Muh-muh-Monday’s no guh-good,” she said, and as an after-thought added, “I wuh-want to, but Muh-Monday’s just…no good.”

  Somehow Michael got the strong feeling that that answer had not been the one that was on the tip of her tongue just a moment ago. She was smiling at him now, but he recognized it as the forced, false one that she gave all of the customers at the bar she worked at. Did she intend to be so mysterious, he wondered. He thought the answer was probably no.

  She was looking down again. His curiosity got the best of him, as it often did. “Hey, is something…troubling you?” he asked. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but you kinda look like a ghost just walked over your grave.”

  She surprised him by bursting into laughter. Her hand went up to her mouth to stifle the giggles, and on the side of her face that was not visible to him he thought he saw her hand reach up and brush a tear away. What was so funny that she was literally laughing herself into tears? The feeling that the raven-haired girl was hiding something increased and concern took the place of his curiosity.

  They had reached the parking lot, but Michael didn’t want to let her go without…without, well, making plans to see her. But he could think of nothing else to say and was about to tell her goodbye when she turned to him and grabbed his wrist. Her hair fell back from her face and she stared at him for a moment with those strange eyes. She seemed to be debating with herself over something. He waited, his heart leaping in his chest with her soft but desperate contact.

  Finally, as if making a decision she might seriously regret later, she said, “Luh-look. You sh-sh-shouldn’t be here on muh-Monday. I-I think…juh-just skip your classes on muh-Monday.”

  Michael’s brow furrowed, and he found that he couldn’t bring himself to look away from her. “I-I can’t miss Monday,” he stuttered, as if her impediment had transferred to him. He smiled even through his confusion. “Besides, I see you on Mondays.”

  Joe released her hold on his wrist. Her eyes studied him for a long moment, and then she sighed. “Puh-pleeease,” was all she said.

  “A-all right,” Michael said, and then he grinned as a thought struck him. “I’ll play hooky on Monday if you play it with me.”

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut at this and her head fell forward again, the curtain of her hair shielding her face once more. “I can’t,” she mumbled.

  That was twice that she had turned him down. Well, third time’s the charm, right?

  Michael folded his arms over his chest defiantly. “Okay, Monday’s no good. Then Sunday. You hang out with me on Sunday, to make up for my missed Monday with you, and you got yourself a deal.”

  Her head jerked up and a smile slowly spread across her face, and for a moment, Michael thought that she might throw herself into his arms. She didn’t, of course. “You’re s-strange, you nuh-know that?” she said.

  His grin grew. “You must’ve rubbed off on me.”

  She smirked now, as if thinking of some inside joke. Then she nodded. “Fuh-fine, Sunday it is. Be at Landry’s t-t-Tobacco st-Store in puh-Peculiar at eight-thirty.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he called. “Eight-thirty in the morning?”

  She didn’t look back, but over her shoulder, she said, “Yup. And b-bring some gloves. I’ll meet you th-there.”
<
br />   Michael stared after her until she was out of sight, and then began making his way over to his own car. He was happy. Despite the fact that she seemed to turn his usually smooth conversation skills into mush, he had gotten her to agree to a date. Well, sort of.

  And only on the condition that he skipped his classes this Monday.

  Had she been serious about that? He sure as shit thought so. But…why?

  Monday’s no good.

  Yes, but why not? He thought that maybe he should try to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Claire

  Her sister was on to her. Claire could feel it. Nikki had been hanging all over her since yesterday, when she had demanded that Claire skip her philosophy class to go have a girls’ day. Nikki was like a hound dog sniffing around Claire’s emotions, trying to figure her out. Claire loved her sister, but the whole, what’s really bothering you? thing was getting on her nerves. Couldn’t a person make plans to kill themself in peace? Apparently not.

  She was in pain. Not physically, but emotionally, which seemed to Claire to be even worse. The feeling of being totally alone in this world was suffocating her slowly but effectively. Every morning she woke up was the worst morning of her life. Dramatic? Maybe, but who gives a shit? And Nikki just didn’t get it. No one got it.

  “I know what it is,” Nikki had told her. “It’s that fucking worthless guy, isn’t it? It’s Brad, isn’t it? You’re depressed because of that stinking, greasy bastard. Don’t lie to me, Claire. I know it is.”

  “Stop acting like you know what you’re talking about, Nikki,” Claire had snapped. “You don’t know shit.”

  Nikki said, “I know that Brad ain’t worth the shit that falls out of his ass. I know that.”

  But Nikki didn’t know everything, as much as she liked to pretend. Nikki didn’t know that Claire was pregnant. No one knew that except Claire and Brad. Nikki didn’t know that when Claire had told Brad about the baby he had told her not to act like he was her boyfriend now that she was knocked-up. He told her she probably didn’t even know who the father was, but it sure as shit was not him. Nikki didn’t know that when Claire received this response from the one and only guy she had ever been with she had come home and smoked so much weed that she threw up and passed out. She didn’t know that Claire had a hole in her heart the size of Texas and that it was festering around the edges, growing dark and smelly and unbearable. No. Nikki didn’t know shit.

  And her decision was not a spur-of-the-moment thing. It had come to her slowly and slyly, presenting itself after she had peered behind the other doors—her other options—and decided that they were not options at all. None of them, not even a secret abortion, was going to solve her problems. None of those doors offered a way out. None of them offered her freedom. And that’s when the word had popped into her head, almost whispering itself into her consciousness.

  Suicide

  It was an ugly word, she knew that. To speak of it in earnest, to even think of it was…taboo. But, she hurt so much. Perhaps if Nikki or someone, anyone, had told her that it was a deceitful word, a promiser of things it couldn’t deliver, a permanent solution to a temporary problem, she may have been able to conduct more rational thoughts. But no one had said that to her. Her sister, though a writer, may have a way with words, but she did not know the words to say to Claire. And how could she, when she didn’t know shit?

  So, each day, Claire’s resolve grew.

  And with it, the enchantment of that ugly word took hold, wrapping up her mind with its promise of freedom, its lies about the end of her anguish. She was too young and naïve to be able to think past it.

  Now, as she drove out of the UMMS parking lot back to her apartment, she saw picketers out on the lawn of a medical facility just outside of the campus. The traffic light ahead of her switched to yellow and then red. For a moment she considered hitting the gas and running through it, but her foot fell on the brakes instead, and her car came to a stop. She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead, but the picketers were shouting and waving their signs around.

  They were on both sides of her car, not in the street, but crowding the sidewalks that flanked her. There were old people and young, mostly white, probably numbering about sixty in all. As Claire scanned the crowd, her grip tightened on the steering wheel and her eyes began to burn with hot tears.

  The signs said things like: Abortion Kills Babies! Abortion is MURDER, and of course, It’s a BABY, not a CHOICE! One particularly disturbing sign had a cartoon baby sitting in a jail cell, tears streaking down its face and a sign in its own hand proclaiming: I’m innocent. The caption read: Abortion is a baby’s death penalty. And the worst one, the one that made Claire slam her foot on the gas the moment the light returned to green, read: A baby’s arms are already forming 28 days after conception.

  She cried all the way home. Twenty-eight days after conception? She was already six weeks along. Could the silent thing inside of her really already have grown arms? It was a thought that she was not prepared to deal with.

  But even after she got home, drew herself a warm bath and settled into it, she found that whether or not she wanted to deal with it, the thought was already there. She hadn’t really been thinking of the child in her womb as a baby, more so just a problem. The fact that it took a bunch of fanatic picketers for her to consider it made her feel ashamed, on top of feeling depressed. What the hell was she going to do?

  She could not, under any circumstances, tell her mother, but obviously she wouldn’t be able to keep it from her for long. The problem was that she didn’t think she would make it through a pregnancy, either. Not because she didn’t think she would make a good mother—and man, that thought hurt her heart—but because she wouldn’t be able to deal with all the backlash that would come when people began to figure out that she was pregnant. Her mother especially. There was just no way out.

  Well, there is one way.

  Yes, but if it has arms already…

  Claire hadn’t much pondered the question of whether or not abortion was moral. She had always felt that that sort of business belonged to those who faced the dilemma, and had no interest in digging into the affairs of others. But, it’s not “others” anymore, Claire-Bear. Not anymore.

  No, not anymore, but she still didn’t want to think about it. It was sort of a sardonic feeling, because while she longed to be free of all the demands placed on her, she wished that this one little time someone else could make the decision for her. But, they couldn’t, because that type of business belonged to the person who faced the dilemma.

  What if Brad had wanted the baby? Would she be so quick to pull the trigger then? Unhappy thoughts. Unpleasant questions. She decided she would ignore them for now. There was always tomorrow, right?

  No, not right. Claire didn’t know it yet, but on Sunday night she would get some news that would make the decision for her, that would shove her right out onto the ledge.

  After her bath she wrapped herself in a towel and climbed into bed with just that for her clothing. She considered rolling up a nice, fat joint to help her get some sleep, but didn’t. Luckily, she was exhausted enough to pass out without assistance after a time. She’d wanted that joint. One thought had stopped her from having it.

  Arms…Twenty-eight days…I’m six weeks.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Joe

  A storm was rolling in. The sky outside my bedroom window had become an angry gray. Not a breath of wind was rustling the trees. Even the air in my apartment seemed to have fallen stagnant, the world quieter somehow. I stepped outside on my second floor balcony to get a feel for what I knew may be coming. After living smack in the center of Tornado Alley for all of my life, I didn’t need the television meteorologists to tell me that a tornado watch was in effect. Most of us lifers don’t. Sniffing out a tornado becomes like a sixth sense. Or a seventh, in my case.

  The warm air engulfed me, though not a sliver of sun broke through the gray mass that seemed
to be slowly sweeping across the sky. The air was still and moist and comfortable on my exposed arms. It was a perfect temperature, really. One I had come to know well over the years. One that makes you want to just sit outside and soak it up. But the way the sky seemed to be at odds with itself, with the heavy gray bodies passing so maliciously overhead, as if preparing to face some great battle, and the atmosphere below standing so stiffly at attention. An eager spectator that has positioned itself too close to the field.

  There was a charge, too, if you knew it well enough to look for it. While the air was so still it seemed to form a soft cushion all around you, it gave off a little hum as well, a tiny, silent vibration that seemed to radiate from the warm-air cushions pressing against your body. That’s the best way I can describe it. You either know what I’m talking about, or you don’t.

  Tornado weather always gets me thinking. I’m not sure how many tornado watches and warnings I’ve lived through. Too many to count. A tornado watch is issued when there is a high potential for a twister. A tornado warning is issued when a tornado was actually seen in your area. When this happens, sirens go off in the streets, loud and obnoxious and continuous, and most of us with half a brain get underground quick. As I stood on my balcony, I got the feeling that they would be going off soon.

  A tornado was coming. I could feel it. I could always feel it, and that’s why it always got me thinking. I had heard plenty of old timers over the years talk about how they could smell the storm coming. In fact, I think anyone who lives in Tornado Alley long enough sort of develops a nose for it. This, for me, raises questions.

  I have never met another like me. Likewise, I have never seen vampires lurking in shadows or witches casting spells. But then, I haven’t seen very much of the world, either. What was it that happened over time to let people be able to sense something as unpredictable as a tornado? Did everyone possess a certain aptitude for foresight? The biggest mystery, really, was: Were there other people out there who had a gift like mine? A higher aptitude for…something. Though my fear of the world—or better yet, the things I would see if I were to travel anyplace larger than Peculiar, Missouri—would more than likely keep me tied to this place for the remainder of my life, I found the question arising in me more and more often. Surely I wasn’t the only one. Surely.