This Side of Salvation

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  I opened the box.

  My knees felt glued to the floor as I pulled out one memento after another. Like the office-supply store itself, the box’s contents dated from before my birth, even before Mara’s birth.

  The top folder held green sheets of papers with wide dotted and solid lines, John’s first spelling attempts. In the top left corner, straight across from his full name and grade, was a carefully drawn doodle of a jet fighter. I admired his early career focus. When I was that age, I wanted to be the first garbage man on Mars.

  I set the folder of school assignments aside. The next item was an unsealed envelope, the flap merely tucked inside. Lucky for me, since it was too old and yellow to convincingly steam open and reseal.

  Inside were two strips of photos, from one of those booths found in the mall and on boardwalks. In the photos, John is maybe three or four years old and sits in Dad’s lap, laughing at his goofy faces. My father sticks out his tongue in one, puffs up his cheeks in another, crosses his eyes in a third. In a fourth, he combines the crossed eyes with fish lips.

  Dad would’ve been about twenty-seven, which is how old John would be now. They had the same thick, dark, coarse hair, the kind that curls when it grows longer than half an inch. As the fingers of my left hand combed through my own fine, straight hair, a shade lighter than theirs, my right thumb brushed their square jaws.

  The most important thing John had that I never will can’t be seen in a mirror. After Mara and I came along, even when John was still alive, our father bore a constant weight of weariness. Whether it was age or work or drink, Dad never let himself be this free and silly with me and my sister.

  The man in these pictures was someone I’d never met.

  Remembering my mission, I returned the items to the box and kept searching. Dad’s desk was enormous and ancient, from before the days of computers. Its heavy drawers squeaked when I opened them. The top two held office supplies: envelopes, boxes of extra staples, rolls of old stamps that wouldn’t even be enough to mail a letter these days. Random crap, in other words.

  The bottom drawer was tall, the size for files, but it was locked. I pulled out the shallow drawer in the center of the desk, on the off chance that—

  “Ha.” A small key lay in a black wooden tray, mixed with paper clips of all sizes. It fit inside the lock of the big drawer, which slid open without a sound. I pawed through the hanging file folders, featuring exciting labels like VET BILLS and CAR REPAIRS and TAX FILINGS >5 YEARS AGO.

  The last folder, in the back of the drawer, held no paper I could see, but it sagged like it contained a heavy object. I shoved my hand back and down to see what it was. Something metal or rubber or both. I grasped it and brought it out into the light.

  “Shit.”

  The pistol was a dull black, a sharp contrast to my pale skin. It was hard and cold, but lighter than I would’ve expected. Then I noticed with relief that the bottom part of the grip was empty. It wasn’t loaded.

  My hand already shaking, I set the gun on the desk, pointed away from me. Then I gingerly reached into the back folder again and drew out a small box of ammunition.

  A single clip, but enough to end one person’s pain, an end that would be only the beginning for the rest of us.

  Dizzy, I rested my forehead on the desk. Maybe Dad got this for protection against intruders or for target shooting. Maybe it was a gift from a friend.

  No. No one who knew what’d happened to John would give us a gun. And everyone knew. Our friends, our teachers, the newspapers. It was too sad and bizarre not to make headlines.

  I could think of only one use Dad would have for this weapon. I refused to make it easy for him.

  My head clear now, I went downstairs to my laptop, checked the Internet to find out what kind of pistol it was and how to ensure it was fully unloaded and that the safety was on. Apparently this one also had a trigger lock, so I was good to go—literally.

  The nearest branch of the Schuylkill River was ten miles away, so I dusted off my bike, gave the gears a quick lube, and headed out, leaving a vague “went for a ride” note for Mom and Mara. I tried not to think about the plastic bag in the storage compartment behind my seat, and tried even harder not to disobey traffic laws. The last thing I needed was to get pulled over by a cop.

  How could you bring this into the house, Dad? How could you even think of leaving us that way? You’re better than—than him, right?

  The trail between the road and the river was steep but short, and offered lots of rocks to add to the bag. When I got to the shore, I warmed up my throwing arm with stones, small branches, and discarded beer bottles, launching each as far as I could into the river.

  Finally I took the bag containing the gun, the clip, and two decent-size stones, tied it into a compact package, and without hesitation or ceremony, threw it with all my strength. It sailed through the air and plopped into the river a good fifty yards from the shore.

  Hands in the pockets of my hoodie, I watched the ripples spread and fade. By now the gun had sunk to the bottom, where it would stay long enough to rust beyond repair, should it ever be fished out.

  Okay, Dad, let’s hear you say, “Where’s my Glock?” in Bibleish.

  CHAPTER 17

  NOW

  Bailey knocks softly on John’s open door. I know it’s her, even though I’m sitting on the far side of the bed with my back to her.

  “You’ve kept it just the way he left it?” I’m not sure why she’s whispering. Maybe because it feels like a museum or a tomb.

  “Mom dusts in here every once in a while. Other than that, no one really comes in anymore.”

  “This is cute.” She taps her toe against a small metal trash can with a bug-eyed owl on it. “And this was his plane.” Bailey stops in front of a framed painting of an A-10. “It’s just like the model you showed me, the one in your room.”

  I wrap my arms around my waist, probably looking ready to puke. Feeling that way too.

  “Interesting,” she says. “Most jets are pictured way up in the sky. But this one’s in a valley.”

  “A-10s don’t get a lot of wild-blue-yonder time, John used to say. They go in low.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “It is. They can be shot down with a—what’s it called.” I make a weak gesture, miming a big weapon on my shoulder, a weapon whose name escapes me.

  “Rocket launcher?”

  “That’s it.” Duh. “A lot of the insurgents have them. You know, our government sold the Afghans those rocket launchers back in the eighties when they were fighting the Soviets.” I drop my hands into my lap. “Ironic, huh?”

  She sits on the bed gingerly, as if the mattress could collapse. “I always assumed that was how he died. I’m sorry I never asked the real story.”

  I didn’t want you to ask. “Did Mara tell you?”

  “Kane did. Mara couldn’t.” Bailey’s face pinched like she was trying not to cry herself. “I saw you were antsy in your dad’s office. Kane explained why, and about the gun.”

  I rub my ears. It’s quiet in here, quiet enough to hear the shouts, then the shots, then my brother’s screams.

  I go to John’s desk and turn on his stereo. The screen lights up but no sound comes from the speaker. It’s set to receive satellite radio signals, a service we haven’t been able to afford for months. I touch the input button for regular radio. The first station I find is blaring a commercial for a new casino in Chester. It’s noise, so I leave it on, not caring what kind of music it’ll eventually play.

  “This is a great picture of you guys.” Bailey’s standing at John’s dresser, holding a family photo taken at his high school graduation.

  I notice that John was even shorter than my dad, who’s an inch shorter than me. When I was a little kid reaching up for his hand, John always seemed like a skyscraper.

  “Look at you,” Bailey says, “holding on to everybody.”

  The six-year-old David stands on John’s feet, one hand stretched
out to each parent, chin propped on the shoulder of a scowling Mara.

  Only two people in that photo live here now. I want to smash the glass against the corner of the dresser, yank out the photo, and rip my parents from the image.

  Instead I just set the frame facedown and step away. My chest is collapsing again, but not in a good way, like when I saw Bailey in the bikini last night.

  There’s something new under John’s desk: a small plastic clothes basket full of what looks like shrapnel. I pull it out and set it on the bed.

  “Isn’t that your model plane?” Bailey lays her hand on the edge of the basket. “What happened to it?”

  “Dad happened to it.” I lift a shard of fuselage that once belonged to my original A-10 Thunderbolt II.

  “He broke it? That’s horrible.”

  “It was my fault. I knew how to make him snap. I could’ve shut up. I could’ve stopped.” I run my finger over the tail’s vertical stabilizer, where the rudder has come off. “But I wanted to break him.” My teeth grit with the need to crush the memory in my fist like glass. “I guess I finally did.”

  Bailey touches my shoulder, her voice quavering. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t here for them last night. I knew they’d be hurt when they found out I was gone.” I clutch the plane’s tail in my palm until the pain radiates through my wrist and up my arm. “But I didn’t think they’d leave me because of it.”

  “They left for their own reasons, David. We might not know what those reasons are yet, but—”

  “I could’ve convinced them to stay, I could’ve begged them. But I—ow!” I drop the tail, biting back a curse. My hand is left with a purple-red streak, the skin unbroken but bruised.

  I bend over to find the piece of A-10. It’s bounced under the bed, forcing me to kneel to retrieve it. When I reach under, my hand touches smooth leather, then laces.

  I pull out one of John’s old combat boots, from when he was a Civil Air Patrol cadet in high school. The sole is worn smooth near the toe, and one of the laces is frayed from years of tramping through the woods on search-and-rescue exercises. I remember his giant backpack full of survival gear, and how badass he looked in his camouflage.

  I want to put on these boots and kick everything in this room—the furniture, the windows, the stereo—until they shatter. I want glass in my skin and splinters in my veins.

  Then Bailey kneels down next to me, and I know I won’t smash or crush or kick anything. If I lose control, I’ll lose her, maybe forever.

  “David,” she whispers, “none of this is your f—”

  I kiss her, harder than ever before. Instead of pulling away, Bailey utters a little moan and kisses me back. My hands bury themselves in the thick mane of her hair, burrowing to find skin.

  I press forward until she lies beneath me on the rug. Her thighs hitch up around my hips and her hands slip under my shirt. Her heat penetrates through these agonizingly thin sweatpants. My body moves instinctively against hers, this time knowing what to do—no fear, no hesitation, only the need to lose myself inside her. To forget it all.

  “We can’t do this here,” Bailey says with a gasp.

  “I know. My room.” I pin her wrists to the floor and keep kissing her, as if that will transport us to my bed.

  “What about Kane and your sister?”

  I don’t stop. “They’re still here?”

  “How could you forget?”

  “How could you remember?” I put my mouth to her neck, dragging teeth over skin, while my right hand slides the straps of her shirt and bra down off her shoulder. “How’s your brain keep working while we’re doing this?”

  She doesn’t answer, but the thought enters my mind, Maybe I’m doing something wrong, and just like that the fear is back. This time I shove it aside with the twin titanic forces of rage and lust.

  I have to pull myself together long enough to get her to my room, preferably without dodging my sister or my best friend. Which reminds me, We were figuring out where Mom and Dad went, which in turn reminds me, Mom and Dad are gone, but that thought loops around to I can have Bailey in my room, with the door shut.

  Down the hall, Mara shrieks. “Oh my God! You guys!” Her footsteps come closer, running.

  I sit up fast, the blood rushing from my head, what little was there to begin with.

  My sister opens John’s door. “You won’t believe this.” She lifts her phone to show us the screen. “I just got a text from Mom.”

  CHAPTER 18

  FIVE-ISH MONTHS BEFORE THE RUSH

  Dad came home in time for Thanksgiving, in fantastic spirits. His good mood made me all the more nervous about him discovering his gun was missing. But a week passed with no mention of it.

  I didn’t know what most gun owners did with their weapons on a day-to-day basis. Some probably kept them locked away and took them out only when it was time to use them. Some probably admired them daily. My dad seemed to be in the former category. But use it for what?

  In early December, Bailey’s parents took us to Longwood Gardens to see the Christmas displays. They picked the night of the anniversary of John Lennon’s murder, as they thought the lights and trees and flowers would cheer them up. A quick calculation told me that since they weren’t even forty yet, they would’ve been in elementary school when he was shot. Whatever. I knew a kid in middle school who was obsessed with Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, even though he killed himself before we were born. And who am I to judge? I worship a guy who died two thousand years ago.

  By the time we arrived and got in line with our tickets, it was already dark. Bailey took a million pictures of the huge Christmas tree in the front of the greenhouse, using an app on her phone to create different effects, like sepia or green filter, or negative shots. When I made fun of her, she got back at me by “solarizing my butt,” whatever that meant.

  Mr. and Ms. Brynn let us look at whatever we wanted while they did the same. I was glad we were mostly out of their sight, because I was busy noticing how Bailey’s face shone in the different Christmas lights—and the way her hand would tighten on mine every time she saw something she loved. But the constant, overwhelming desire to hug and kiss her couldn’t make me forget the last time I was here.

  John said I could ride on his shoulders when I get tired, so I fake exhaustion by dragging my toes against the pavement. Mara calls me a baby and a wuss, but I don’t care. I am five, John is seventeen, and his girlfriend, Holly, is sick, so she couldn’t come with us. I like Holly—she smells like the orange Tic Tacs she’s always giving me—but I like having John to ourselves even better.

  I’m already on his shoulders when we pass under the giant white-light snowflakes dangling from the pine trees. I tug on John’s short, stiff hair with one hand and lift the other toward the branches. “Stop! I wanna touch.”

  “You can’t reach that high,” Mara says. “You’ll fall.”

  “No, he won’t.” John shuffles two steps to the right, putting me directly under the lowest flake. “Go for it, little man. I got you.”

  I know he does. I plant one palm hard on top of his head to steady myself, then push off. My heels scrape his collarbone in my determined upward surge.

  “Careful . . .” my mom can’t resist saying under her breath.

  It’s no time to be careful. I coil back for an instant like a snake, then thrust myself up in one long reach. My fingertip taps the underside of the snowflake. “I did it!”

  My legs slip out of John’s grasp, and for a cartoon-like moment I’m suspended in midair before I start to fall. The bright snowflakes recede rapidly like in the hyperdrive scene from Star Wars. There’s no time to scream.

  “Whoops!” is all my father says as he sweeps me up against gravity’s pull. He was standing behind John the whole time, in case I fell.

  My heart pounds so hard, I’m sure Dad can feel it through his chest as he tugs me into a hug. He gives me a quick kiss on my temple, then lowers me slow and steady until my feet hit the
ground.

  I jump up and down, giddy with having not cracked my head open. “I wanna do it again!”

  • • •

  The snowflakes were still there, beyond the lighted fountains where Bailey and I stood now, my arms wrapped around her from behind. Her shoulder blades shivered against my chest, and the fabric of her fake-wool cap scraped my chin.

  In the musical fountain show, the water danced and lights changed colors in time to the carols. I held Bailey tighter than I should’ve, as each memory of John swept through me like a needle-filled breeze.

  I’d thought I was long done with the Firsts. First Easter since his death, First Birthday, First Trip to IHOP, First Phillies Game. But everything we ever did together, that we’d never share again—like Longwood Gardens at Christmas—still waited before me. In that moment, I dreaded the rest of my life.

  The fountain’s Christmas hymns segued into “Imagine.”

  “Ohh.” Bailey found my hands and squeezed them. “A tribute for the John Lennon anniversary.” She started to sway. Not wanting to loosen my grip, I moved with her. If anyone had told me that in the middle of celebrating Jesus’s birth, I’d be imagining a world without religion, I’d have said they were crazy.

  After the fountain show, we walked toward the café, hand in hand, about ten feet behind her parents, who were also holding hands. To get there, we had to pass under the overhanging pine boughs filled with the giant white snowflakes.

  “So gorgeous,” Bailey said, reaching up with her mittened hand. “I wish I could touch them.”

  The branches had been cut back, and the snowflakes were at least fifteen or twenty feet high now. Even if I’d put Bailey on my shoulders, they’d have been out of her reach.

  So I just held her hand and watched the swaying lights dance over her uplifted face.

  • • •

  Bailey and I exchanged Christmas gifts that night, since she and her parents were leaving after next week’s finals to visit colleges in New Jersey, California, and Massachusetts, then spend the holidays in Vermont.