by Eli Constant
Fine, Jim. I’ll pull out the big guns. “Jim, you are like a father to me.”
“I’m old enough to be your damn grandfather,” he says roughly, but I can tell he’s softening to me.
“Fine, then you’re like a grandfather to me. Maybe that’s stupid, considering the relationship we have, but that’s how I feel. I’ve already lost my father and everyone else that I called family. I don’t want to lose you too.”
He nods, the crimson flushing his face bleeding away until he looks normal-skinned. “You play dirty, Tori.”
“I do and I don’t plan on cleaning up my act any time soon.” I reach out and take his hand, squeeze it gently and then let go.
He smiles. I smile. It’s intimate and there’s warmth between us that’s never been there before. Nothing to see here, folks, just a near-death to make a relationship grow.
“So, can I pack you anything?” I poke, making it clear that I’ve won the war. The EMTs know it too and they’re shifting his body onto the stretcher. He’s taking it like a sullen child, but he’s no longer vocalizing his displeasure.
“I keep a backpack in the hall closet for when I stay at the bar. It’s got everything I need,” Jim says, weariness suddenly clouding his face.
“I’ll get it.” I move away, down the narrow hall that leads to the three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Opposite the first bedroom’s door is the linen closet. Pushing open the bifold doors, I spot a bulk black pack on the floor.
I return as the EMTs are lifting the stretcher so that it’s the height of a normal dining table. “Here.” I set the bag on Jim’s lap. “Anything else? Do you want me to come with you? Can I call anyone?”
“No. You’ve done enough.” He reaches out and finds my fingers to give them a quick squeeze. “It’s weird, but I get the strangest feeling that you’ve done more than enough.”
I follow the stretcher as it’s pushed out of the house and towards the ambulance. Darryl is already back in his squad car, waiting to follow them to the hospital. I feel a drop of rain fall against my hair as the little caravan pulls away from Jim’s house. Looking up, I see that not a single star is now visible in the night sky. The little gaps in the clouds have closed. It’ll be another day of thunder and lightning for Bonneau.
When I sit back in my Bronco, rain droplets splattering against the windshield, I finally look at the clock mounted into the dash. The green neon glow tells me that it’s three in the morning.
Chapter Eleven.
I don’t go back to sleep when I arrive home. I can’t. There’s too much going on inside my brain, the synapses firing like overeager soldiers on the frontline. I’d almost lost Jim. Pretty much the only family I have left.
And he was two feet into death for long enough to see me, to see me. Would he remember? Would he know now, what I am?
I need to focus on something else. Anything else.
I think about painting, greeting the dawn with a few brush strokes, but I don’t have the heart for it. No brain to sleep. No heart to paint. No courage to be what I am. I might as well be Dorothy Gale’s fucking entourage on its way to meet the wizard.
Deciding on coffee and diving back into the book I’d been reading before bed, I fill my percolator with water and grounds and plug it in. It’s sizzles and pops and fills the entire apartment with the heady scent of Columbian roast. As the coffee brews, I pad in sock-covered feet over to a small hallway closet where I keep all of my outerwear and sweaters. My hands make a beeline for an overly-large black hoodie. It used to belong to Adam. I wear it when I need to feel like something’s knitting me back together.
Body cozily incased in the fading sweater, I fill my favorite mug to the very brim. It’s a quirky one boasting Wednesday Addams saying “What doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms.” I’ve always related to dark, little Wednesday Addams. I think if she were real, I might actually have a best friend.
I look down at the coffee now that it’s ready and I frown. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t know what I want.
So I make myself drink it, because I don’t want to waste.
I’m glad I do. The black coffee is delicious, with just the hint of bitter dark chocolate flavoring the liquid. I’ve never been one for fancy coffee. Just a good brew in a good mug and I was all set. I debate sitting at the four-person kitchen table that’s painted a happy shade of robin’s egg blue, but my book is back in the bedroom. I don’t want to walk to the room, grab the book, and walk back. It’s easier just to take my beverage into the other room, snuggle into the covers, and read.
My bedroom is toasty. I hadn’t shut off the space heater I keep in the corner of my room once autumn arrives. The Victorian has baseboard heating upstairs and it’s not nearly enough to keep my apartment warm. Downstairs, Dad had central AC and heating installed. It would have cost a lot more to run all the duct work and such upstairs too. I switch off the heater and then fold my body into bed, pulling the thick down comforter far enough up to cuddle around my waist.
It’s amazing how cool the house gets. It’s not even that chilly outside. Sixty maybe. I wonder if it’s my fault that the house gets so cold. I don’t remember it feeling like this when Dad was alive, even in the dead of Winter.
When Dad was alive.
God, Jim had almost died.
I try to read as I drink the coffee.
I get about fifty pages into the book when I realize I’m not really reading anything at all. My eyes are just moving over the words mechanically.
Dropping the tome into my lap, I pull Adam’s sweater close to me, lifting the collar and smelling it, wishing it still smelled like him. His cologne was long gone, the last things I’d spritzed with it long washed. Tears threaten and I lower myself to curl up on my side. Maybe I will try to sleep. Sleep and forget everything.
My body begins to feel heavy and my eyelids drop. It’s starting to lighten outside, just that little glow of navy blue creeping into the blackness. It’s nearly five o’clock. If I do fall asleep now, I can manage two hours before I need to get up and dressed. Max and Dean are always here by 8 o’clock to get started. They like to arrive early and leave early, whenever possible. I don’t blame them.
If I didn’t own a funeral parlor, if I had a life outside the dead, I’d be eager to finish work too.
The book is wedged between my body and the mattress now. I pick it up and turn over to set it on the end table next to the empty Wednesday Addams mug. She’s giving me a grim smile and I smile back. It’s like she’s telling me going back to sleep is a bad idea and I know it. Of course it’s a bad idea. After the day… and night I’ve had, I’m sure my imagination is pretty lean on lovely things to build dreams out of. More than likely, only nightmares await behind my eyelids.
My cell phone is nestled against the pillow next to mine, the alarm is set, and I allow myself to succumb to the tiredness of my body. It only takes me a few moments to fall back asleep. And, blissfully, I am not plagued by disturbing visions. I do not dream about Adam or Jim. I sleep like the dead.
Chapter Twelve.
Max and Dean are handling most of the business today.
And I want to race out of the big, oppressive Victorian.
I want to have my bags packed with all my important things and clothes, full-to-the-brim fuel canister ready to be poured across the porch wood, cigarette between my lips, ready to drop into the flammable liquid. I want to watch my entire life burn. I feel it is the only way to cleanse me of the clean-up from Lilly’s funeral.
Of course, I don’t. I walk out like a sane person, shivering because the sweater I’m wearing isn’t quite warm enough for the dreary fall weather, and I get into my car to head to the hospital to check on Jim. Because I’m sane. Or, at least, I’ve gotten very good at pretending to be.
Erasing the memory of her from my business wasn’t even that bad really. It definitely wouldn’t have been from an outsider’s point of view. Business as usual- simply a matter of tossing the already-wilting fl
owers into the trash, vacuuming up the salt from around the table, throwing away the leftover pamphlets- the ones that showed her face smiling up at me. Just the normal aftermath of death. And that was my career. My life path.
Death.
So the cleanup shouldn’t have affected me. It was the same with every funeral we managed.
Or at least it had been the same... Until I got on my hands and knees to grab a fallen bloom from beneath the table Lilly’s child-sized casket had sat on yesterday and I spotted the stuffed bear. The mother must have dropped it in her grief and then forgotten about it. I found that hard to believe. The little stuffed animal was so worn, so well-loved. How could Lilly’s mother not hold onto it for dear life? How could she not make sure it went into the coffin?
It was too late now to fold Lilly’s small hands over the tufted fur. I debated calling the mother, seeing if I could drop it off to her or if she’d like to pick it up, but instead, I found myself taking the little animal and holding it beneath one arm. I’d carried it upstairs to my room and I’d set it gently on my bed. Its little glass eyes were haunting and too intelligent.
I can’t explain what compelled me to keep Lilly’s stuffed toy. I just knew that I needed to. For me and for her.
I really, really hope Terrance pins Don to the wall and catches every other bastard involved in her death. I hope they find the other girls. I worry my hopes will be dashed.
I’m driving slowly. The sky is still an endless mass of clouds, but it’s not raining at the moment. The Bronco is rumbling in an unpleasant way, a knocking sounds interrupting the thrumming every once in a while, like something’s loose in the engine bay. I’ll need to take it in for a check soon. I put so much money into the car every year that I could probably have afforded to buy a new one by now.
But I can’t stand to part with the Bronco.
When I pull into the hospital, the rain begins. It doesn’t even have the good grace to wait until I’m into the hospital. I’m so tired of the rain. As I shift into park, the miniature monsoon intensifies until it’s a great sheet of endless, glassy wet that makes it hard to see much further than the nose of the vehicle. Great, wet drops splash against the Bronco’s hood and send miniature tsunamis coursing across the scratched paint to cleanse away dirt and pine needles.
I haven’t needed to wash the Bronco in forever. The weather has done the job for me. So. Much. Rain. What I wouldn’t give for a full day of sunshine.
Reaching behind me, I dig against the floorboards and through the piles of discarded disposable coffee cups until my fingers grip the umbrella there. I smile as I open my door and spring the canopy into action. I’m greeted by a hundred yellow rubber ducks spread evenly across a navy blue background. I love ducks. Rubber ducks in particular. I have a matching pair of boots buried in my closet. I don’t wear them too often. The last time I had, it had been to visit the police station. I’d endured hours of creative taunts. Terrance had even joined in, the jackass.
Wishing I’d put on my rain boots—despite the fashion flop that they are—instead of my suede flats, I do my best to avoid the puddles that already exist. They are quickly expanding, joining new little puddles being birthed by each wet drop. It’s rained so much lately, I doubt there’s been enough sun and warmth to fully dry some of the larger ones. Just weeks and weeks of water added to water until the lot is more a lake sporting small islands of concrete than the other way around.
When I’m under the safety of the overhang where cars can momentarily park to drop off and pick up patients, I shake out my umbrella and close it. I then shake myself, like an angry cat that’s been given a bath, until I feel the last bit of dampness fall from my face. My hair is dry, thank goodness. I can’t stand wet hair.
I’ve called ahead, so I know what room Jim is in. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the hospital. It’s not a large place, but it still is a maze of corridors and blind turns that disorients me every time.
Last year, when Terrance took a bullet to the shoulder, he was in the hospital for a few days. Complained every minute of it, of course. He may be the sort that takes naps at work, but that’s only because he’s always so ‘on’ that he has to force himself to rest. I’m not good friends with his wife, but we’ve met enough times that she’s confided in me how little he sleeps at home… ever since the death threats. Things had calmed down a lot, but Terrance still couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep deeply. I could understand. I’d be the same and I didn’t even have a partner and kids to think about.
When Terrance got shot, it was my fault really. I’d been my normal self, said something sarcastic to a guy—to a guy who’d killed his wife and buried her beneath the grass in their home’s backyard—holding a gun. Terrance had moved in front of me, blocking the aim of the gunman. He’d let himself get hurt to protect me. That’s one of the reasons I’m determined to get in shape and learn to defend myself now. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt in my stead.
I tap on the door softly before entering. There was no response, but I walk in anyways. If he’s asleep, I won’t wake him. But just sitting a while won’t hurt. I feel I need to, after him nearly dying. The proximity of us makes the fact he survived more real to me and I need that right now. The realness of life instead of the realness of death. Jim is the antidote to my sorrow over Lilly.
The curtain is pulled around his bed. It’s a private room, so thankfully I don’t have to contend with prying eyes.
“Jim?” I speak softly, the question floating around the softly-swaying material of the curtain.
“He’s sleeping.” A voice, speaking just as softly as I am, greets my ears. It’s pleasant, almost a less-dirty version of Jim’s. Like someone has taken Jim’s voice, run it through a wash cycle, and handed it out to a new body all squeaky clean.
The curtain shifts a little, catching light and showing an embossed sheen on the material. A man is backing out from the private area, his bottom half first, his top half still hanging in as if making positive Jim isn’t going to wake as soon as he leaves his side. He’s wearing dark wash jeans that cling in all the right places- at least they do from the rear view. He’s wearing a long-sleeve polo with the arms shoved up to gather around his elbows. His hair is dark, nearly jet black, and it curls softly around his neck. It’s just a little too long for my tastes. I don’t know why I assume he’s someone with the hospital. I just do. You’d think, logically, I’d realize he’s not wearing scrubs or a medical jacket.
When he turns around, there’s a twinkle in his brown eyes. And they are alive with intelligence. And very, very familiar. I fidget with my hair nervously, listening to the plink, plink, plink of the umbrella hanging at my side as it drips on the floor. The man is tall and very good looking. I’ve never been anything short of awkward around good looking men, so this wasn’t boding well for me. Adam was handsome, as handsome as a man gets, and him loving me had been a total fluke. Turns out he had a thing for quirky, awkward girls.
I’ve always thanked my lucky stars for that.
“I didn’t know Jim had a kid.” I say the words without thinking. They spill out, let loose by nervousness.
His left eyebrow quirks in surprise that I’ve made the connection so quickly. “He doesn’t talk about me much.”
“Why?” I’m being blunt—Queen of Awkward blunt.
“On account of him getting my mom pregnant while he was still married to his third wife.”
My mouth drops in a little ‘o’ of astonishment. “Um… I didn’t know.” So it was definitely more than the motorcycle that ended his last marriage.
“Like I said, he doesn’t talk about me much. Maybe he’s a little ashamed for cheating. He didn’t even know I existed until I sought him out. Mom told me who he was after my tenth birthday. He was a lot older than her too,” he lets out a chuckle, “So that could be part of why mom kept it mum for so long.” The whole time he’s speaking, the man’s mouth is curved into a slight smile. It’s… really nice to look a
t.
My eyes widened, thinking that maybe Jim had gotten handsy with someone underage or unwilling. “How much older?” I couldn’t help asking. It hit a sore spot, the spot where Lilly’s face was still firmly painted.
He lifted up a hand, as if to stop what I was thinking. “Whoa, whoa. Not what you’re thinking. It was consensual, don’t get me wrong. She was twenty, he was forty-eight. All above board.”
A twenty-eight year difference. Jim was seventy-four now which made his son… I did the mental math quickly. About my age. A lovely, lovely age. “That’s a big age difference.”
“Oh, dear old Dad likes them on the young side.”
I know he means the comment as a joke, but I think back to the Auburn haired young woman flirting with Jim in the bar. He’d not shooed her off. He’d enjoyed it. So I know that the joke is probably hiding a truth.
I shuffle my feet, looking down at my shoes and pretending to examine the water spots on the suede. I’m still gripping my dripping umbrella. I suddenly wish it was a basic black or blue, no ducks in sight. It’s always struck me as adorable, but now, standing in front of Jim’s son, I wonder if it isn’t more childish than cute.
At least I’m dressed well, in footless black sweater leggings and a soft cowl-neck olive green sweater that brings out my eyes. The beige top underneath the sweater is tunic length and hemmed in lace that peeks out from beneath the sweater. I tend to wear clothes that cover my body up. Maybe that will change when I’m back in shape.
When I’m quiet for a while, Jim’s son shrugs and the motion is effortless, like pouring water from a pitcher. I get the impression that he has perfect control over his body, that underneath the fitted pants and loose shirt lies a body that is full of power—so much so that he doesn’t feel the need to peacock around, flashing his muscles. “Anyways, my name’s Kyle. I’m guessing you know Dad pretty well. I mean, well enough to warrant a visit to the hospital at least.” He reaches his hands out and I see now that his forearm is as big as my calf. A serious Popeye-inspired appendage.