On Tenterhooks

by Greever Williams

  “Did he come back toward the pharmacy?”

  “Uh, I don’t think so, sir. I don’t think he was gone long enough to get all the way to the back of the store. Why?”

  “Jimmy,” said Martin, ignoring the question, “what time did you get here today?”

  “Oh, same as always, sir. I took over from Ruth at midnight.”

  Then he frowned, looking down at his watch.

  “Only got about 10 minutes to go now, s’long as Giselle makes it in on time. She usually comes in right at eight, you know. Not fair, if you ask me. She should get here early, clock in, get the drawer counted and be ready to ring the customers by eight. And that’s not the worst of it! Giselle calls in sick way too much, the way I see it. Sometimes I have even had to stay late, ‘til Mandy comes in at 10. I always get here around 11:45 of an evening so I can clock in, get settled and be ready to actually work at twelve. But that’s me, I—”

  “Jimmy,” interrupted Martin, “I certainly appreciate your promptness, but right now I need to know if you saw anybody unusual in the store, or if you have seen anybody over near the pharmacy at any time since you’ve been here.”

  “Unusual, sir?” he asked. “Well, lemme see. I had the usual midnight shoppers that came through. Y’know, the regulars. And around 2:15 I got the drunkies rolling in after the bars closed, looking for a cure for their munchies and whatnot.”

  Jimmy chuckled at his own joke. Martin didn’t smile.

  “Anyway,” Jimmy continued. “Weirder than that? Yes, absolutely. There was some albino-looking preacher man that came in around three or so. He was singing to himself, walked up and down a few of the aisles. I was real bored, so I kept an eye on him. He didn’t buy nothing. He didn’t even look at stuff —almost like he was just here to be here, or something. That was about it. Nothing else weird. . .unless you count that ninety-dollar tip I just scored. I’d call that weird. Good. . .but weird, I guess.”

  Martin stared at Jimmy, and then looked down again at the letter he still held in his hand, thinking.

  “A preacher?” he asked.

  “Yes sir! He had the whole outfit on—old-timey lookin’ hat ‘n all.”

  “Was he tall and really pale?”

  “Yep! You know him?”

  Martin was scared. Was it the man from his dreams? The description sounded so similar.

  “Thanks Jimmy,” he said, turning back down the toy aisle to return to the pharmacy.

  “Oh,” he yelled back to Jimmy, “please tell Lloyd I’d like to speak with him when he gets in.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Will do sir!” he yelled in reply, shaking his head.

  He checked his watch, strained to see the parking lot through the glass front door. Seeing no one in sight, particularly his tardy relief, he swore under his breath. He turned the volume back up on the portable TV he kept under the counter and returned to his stool, hoping that his shift would end on time.

  Chapter 12

  Nearly a day after she sent her message to Zack, Abby got a response. Between classes, she had checked her social network account and found a new message waiting from her newest “friend,” Say Goodbye to Me. It had arrived right before lunch, but she had not opened it yet. Although she still was skeptical, she did not trust how she might react when she read it. She wanted it to be a private moment.

  Now at home, she stared at her Inbox. The message stared back with the same headline she had used when she submitted her message: Re: Goodbye. As with any other conversation, this one showed the first line of the new response. It read: Heya Gabbsalot!

  Her heart was tight and her throat was thick. “Gabbsalot.” That’s what Zack had called her since she was three years old. She had been late to start talking, but as he liked to put it, “Once she started, we could never shut her up!” Over time, he shortened it to “Gabbs,” but he never called her Abigail or Abby, and no one else ever used Gabbs.

  Hearing Zack’s voice in her head forced her to relive his death once again. Her nightmare had some of the facts right, even though she had not been at his final game nearly a year ago. A case of strep throat had kept her at home. Zack had just come off the field at the end of the third quarter of what was slated to be S Tech’s easy victory over one of their division rivals. Thanks to his precision passes, the Armadillos were already ahead by three touchdowns. As he left the field, cheers went up from the home team side. Zack took off his helmet and raised it up to the crowd to thank them. As he lifted it up, it slipped through his fingers. The helmet crashed down on his head. Those who had been nearby said he stood still momentarily. In the next instant, he crumpled to the ground, as if invisible puppet strings had been severed and gravity had taken over. The standby EMS crew worked for several minutes to revive him before taking him to the hospital. But as Abby and her parents were told later, Zack had likely been dead before hitting the ground.

  He was solid. He was strong. He was smart. Now, he was dead. None of his strength, his kindness and his compassion had helped him. It was instant death, instant goneness. He was gone with no chance for her to say “thanks” for being big brother Zack and for letting her be Gabbs.

  One week later, the neurosurgeon officially ruled the cause of death an intracranial injury, a massive bleeding of the brain due to extreme blunt force trauma.

  “Typically, this type of severe damage only happens with major accidents— a car wreck, a fall from a high ladder, etc. Although we couldn’t find any evidence of it, he must’ve had a pre-existing condition that contributed to the injury. Normally, the weight and velocity of a football helmet held at arm’s length should have done nothing more than left a nasty bruise, or given him a concussion at worst. But, the damage found during the autopsy, coupled with the consistent eyewitness accounts, leaves no room for debate.”

  In the weeks that followed the funeral, memorial services and candlelight vigils held her and her parents in some place of high honor. She accepted hugs from Zack’s friends, many of whom she didn’t know. She shook hands with his professors and classmates. She met people who were comfortable confessing to her that they didn’t even know Zack personally. To Abby, these confessions made their sincere condolences all the more bittersweet.

  Gabbsalot. Reading her name on the screen now made her hurt. There was an elephant on her chest and she could feel the flight response rising in her joints. Ears burned red, arms like deadweight. Her throat was thick and dry. She stared for several minutes at that single line. She was terrified and excited, balancing on a razor-thin edge, afraid to leave the page, but also too afraid to open the message and see more.

  “No. I am NOT a chickenshit!”

  She lifted her hand to the mouse, hovered over the message, and clicked.

  Heya Gabbsalot! What’s going on? Yes, this is UR big bro. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me, this is me. . .coming 2 U from the great beyond. Things R great here, but I do miss U and Mom and Dad and football and school and all that. Now that I am here, on the other side that is, all of the things that were important 2 me have suddenly become kinda mundane. No, that’s not right. Not mundane, but. . .much less important. Don’t get me wrong. . .I’d love 2 toss the pigskin around 4 old time’s sake, but none of those things drive me anymore. I guess U could say that along with that body of mine, my soul shed that life 2.

  This now is beyond life. It is not like anything U could imagine. I don’t have a way 2 communicate it 2 U across the distance. It’s kinda like my eyes and ears were always only half open down there or over there or wherever U R compared 2 me. ; ) I can still see and hear and touch things, but in a better way. Colors R brighter, sounds R more crisp and louder, but not in a bad way.

  Anyways, nuff bout me. Look, Gabbs, I C what’s going on witchu and I h8 it. We R so worried about UR well-bein, but U gotta B strong, 4 everyone. U gotta show them the way! All of us R watching, listening & praying 4 U. I know it’s tough 2 think so now, but stuff will get better. U got all this great stuff going 4 U. Go
ing 2 college and checking out all the big college studs, all kinds of madness abounds. I know UR hurtin’ sis. It hurts me 2 that we won’t B able 2 hang out again like we used 2. I get it, really I do. But U have got 2 believe me when I tell U that life does go on. I want U 2 try 2 get better. Try 2 get back to UR life, UR friends and show the rest of the world how unique and beautiful Abigail Nikko is. I know it. Mom and Dad know it and UR friends know it. But the rest of the world hasn’t had the pleasure yet. So I want U 2 get out there and show ‘em what U got. Be strong and do it 4 me Gabbs, please?

  So I guess this is goodbye 4 now. L8rs!

  Love,

  Zack

  “Oh my God.”

  She closed her laptop and stood up from her desk. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge. Abby wept.

  Chapter 13

  Veronica looked at the clock on her computer: 7:14. She had another successful twelve-hour day under her belt.

  “Seriously, time to go home,” she told herself.

  She knew she should have been happier about her day. The budget presentation had gone well—better than well. John had been on fire and Veronica witnessed some of the board members nodding along when he had presented their division’s capital budget ideas for next year. The meeting had run long, but only because of the excited litany of questions about their ideas for growth via online marketing. Both she and John had walked out of the boardroom with telltale “can’t stop smiling” faces.

  Then, earlier that evening, John had stopped by and pleaded with her to join him and his wife in a celebratory dinner.

  “Come on, Veronica,” he had said. “Amy and I will need some help celebrating. My treat—rare steaks and the finest cabernet that Fezziwig’s has to offer! You can’t pass that up!”

  “Believe me, John, it’s very tempting, and very sweet of you to offer, but I’ve got too much to get done here.”

  “Come on, please? What could you possibly have to do here that would be more fun than a night out on the town with the two of us?”

  “I didn’t say it was more fun; just that it needs to be done.”

  John sighed.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “So there is nothing I can do to convince you come?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pleading?”

  “Negatory.”

  “Serenading?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied, shaking her head and smiling.

  “Look, Veronica, are you okay?”

  “Yes, seriously, John. I promise, I’m fine. Please, go have fun and tell your lovely wife ‘hello’ from me. I’m fine. I’ll be leaving after I take care of a few more things here,” she said, gesturing to her computer.

  “Okay,” said John, “I give, I give.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “If you change your mind, maybe you could come meet us for dessert. You know where we’ll be. Take care, okay?”

  “Always.”

  He smiled, saluted silently and left her in her office.

  She felt the familiar tiny twitching of guilt. John had consistently been a good partner to her at work, and his wife, Amy, was good company. Veronica knew that he always meant well, wanting to include her in things with his own family. She had a standing invitation to any holiday dinner or festivity they held, and she had taken him up on his offer on a few occasions, but only to be polite.

  Whenever he offered to take it beyond the doors of the office, she always felt like the third wheel. She imagined herself as Scrooge when the Ghost of Christmas Present whisked him away to the Christmas merriment in the Cratchit household. She was the outsider looking in. This was an image and a role that she did not care for.

  Veronica was 45 and single. She had no regrets, only curiosity about how different decisions in her past might have altered her life. Weekend trips were her favorite luxury. She used them to explore her active hobbies: kayaking, scuba diving, and spelunking. She even reserved the last weekend of the month to drive upstate, where she was a competitive (and successful) pistol target shooter. Lately though, since her mother’s passing, her active pastimes had become simply that—things to pass the time. Each week, she decided that the idea of staying in town for an entire weekend without a plan to focus on was too much “unknown” to take.

  One of her greatest pleasures had been scuba diving. She had earned her certification as an open water diver four years ago, and now it was an obsession for her. Once a month, she would board a three-hour commuter flight from JFK down to Miami or Ft. Lauderdale. From there she’d hop on a one- or two-day excursion to Freeport, Lucaya or another nearby Bahamian stop to explore the aquatic underworld.

  Among all of her activities, Veronica relied on the scuba diving. To her it was like a recharge for the soul. She liked to imagine how the warm tropical waters on her skin were pulling the toxins, the stresses and bad karma right out of her pores, when she submerged for each dive. The water surface was a barrier that no board member’s voice, no blaring horns, or ringing smartphone could penetrate. She was immersed, mind and body, in a world that was all her own. The steady rhythm of her respirator kept her at peace. The occasional chirping of a nearby bottle-nosed dolphin, or the gentle hum of a boat’s propeller treading through the water above, provided the only other sounds in this world. There were always other divers with her, but she liked to pretend that she was all alone and that the beautiful colors of the reef, the gentle rhythm of the current against her body and the menagerie of intricate sea life were there for her and her alone.

  No matter where she chose to dive, Veronica did her best to avoid disturbing her sacred world. In some locations, divers were permitted to remove shells as souvenirs. She had seen beautiful shells, often easy to spot on the sandy ocean floor. Pointy conchs and the fan-shaped coquilles were popular souvenirs for the casual tourist, but she never had the urge to take them with her when she left. Bringing something from this majestic world to the surface and back home to her was sacrilegious. Anything that looked beautiful in the water would look tawdry, cheap and out of place in the world above. A year ago, she had invested in an expensive underwater camera with a waterproof housing and all the attachments. Now she could take pictures to remind her of the places and the things she had seen. The clownfish staring back at her from her computer monitor was one such trophy she had bagged on a long-weekend getaway to Cozumel, Mexico, during the past winter.

  And it was from Cozumel that she had gotten the call about her mom six weeks ago. The call came at 3:35 on a Wednesday afternoon. She had been in her office when the phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Veronica Ryder.”

  “Hola, Ms. Ryder,” said a man’s voice on the other end, in a distinctly Spanish accent. “Is this Veronica Ryder, daughter of Helen Ryder?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Veronica. “Why, is something wrong?”

  “The daughter of the Helen Ryder, of Elysburg, Pennsylvania?” asked the man.

  “Yes, yes,” said Veronica. “She’s my mom. Why? Who is this?”

  “Señorita,” said the voice, hesitating, “this is Commander Guillermo De Hoyos with the Cozumel Police Department, in Mexico. I am sorry to inform you, but there has been a terrible SCUBA accident. I am afraid your mother has passed.”

  Veronica breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Um, look, Commander,” said Veronica, “there’s some sort of mix-up here. My mother has never been to the Caribbean, and she certainly doesn’t SCUBA dive.”

  “Señorita,” said Captain De Hoyos, “please try to understand me to what I am saying to you. We are not in the habit of making such calls as these without being sure of facts. I question the dive profesora myself. She was most assured to me that this was Señora Ryder’s first time to Mexico and she had only just received her diploma for the open-water diving. In fact, la profesora knew her story very well. She say she spent the entire time of the boat ride to the reef telling to her how much it might mean to you that she was learning to dive.
”

  Veronica felt her throat constricting.

  “Ms. Ryder? Are you not an avid diver as your mother described you to the professora?” asked Commander De Hoyos.

  “What?” Veronica asked. “Yes, yes, I am. But, but I didn’t know she was doing this. How did she. . .?”

  “Si,” said De Hoyos. “After hearing from the professora about the events that were occurring, the medico forense, um. . .the coroner. . .believes that Señora was attacked by her heart while diving. The professora say she turned to help another student. Your madre, she lose her breathing machine out of her mouth, and she was passed before the professora could revive her. They brought your mother to the boat and tried to revive her, but it did not work. In less than several minutos, she was gone. I am very, very sorry for your loss, Señorita.”