Chasing Those Devil Bones

by W E DeVore

  Sanger went to embrace her and she pushed him away. “Don’t. Just stay away from me. You’ve done enough.”

  They watched her walk down the hallway and heard the door to the bedroom close. Silence overcame the house, the sound of the cicadas outside barely penetrated the quiet.

  Q asked, “You ok, cowboy?”

  He shook he head. “No, Clementine. I’m about as far from ok as I can be.”

  She pulled him into a hug and he said, “I lied to you, Clementine. The day that Savion died. I saw the two of them coming from the side of the house. She was pulling down her dress. I thought I was just being jealous. Seeing things that weren’t there.”

  He let go of her and walked to the window. “CSU will be here soon. I’ll need you to give a statement.” He gestured back to the kitchen and the white cup on the countertop. “When did you find that?”

  “Savion’s funeral. I don’t even know if it’s the right cup. They gave out hundreds at this party a couple of years ago, but it seemed like enough of a coincidence for her to give up on the idea of recanting.”

  “You should have been a cop, Clementine.”

  “Still seems safer to be a musician.” She winked at him and he gave her a sad smile.

  Before he could respond, a gunshot shattered the steady cicada rhythm outside.

  “No!” Sanger shrieked as he ran towards the sound.

  She followed behind him. By the time she reached the source, Sanger was on his knees, cradling Tori in his arms on the floor of her bedroom, howling with rage and anguish. A scarlet pool blossomed beneath him from the shattered remnants of her skull. Q covered her mouth with both hands and struggled to think of what she should be doing as a panic attack crashed down on her and she collapsed in the hallway.

  She couldn’t hear anything over the roaring of the blood pounding in her ears. She watched Sanger scream and cry, begging for Tori to wake up, his face twisted in agony. When the CSU arrived, Q was frozen in terror and Sanger was frozen in grief.

  ◆◆◆

  Q awoke to a flashlight shining in her eyes. The EMT’s voice finally cutting through the rush of white noise in her ear. “There you are. You ok?”

  She nodded. “Where’s Aaron?”

  “He’s outside.”

  The EMT helped her to stand and she walked down the front steps of Stanley’s house awash in the orange and violet haze of the June sunset. Sanger sat motionless on the tailgate of his truck, covered in blood. His eyes were fixed on a microscopic dent in the pavement.

  Q blew the remaining anxiety from her body and focused on something more urgent. “Come on, cowboy, let’s get you home.”

  She wrapped her arm around his waist and half-lifted, half-insisted that he stand up. He leaned heavily on her shoulder as she walked him to the passenger side of his truck.

  As she got behind the steering wheel, she said, “I need the keys, Aaron.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed them to her. They drove in silence to his house. After she’d parked, they sat in the truck for several minutes before Sanger said, “Tori’s dead.”

  Q stared out the windshield at the setting sun. “I know, cowboy.”

  “I killed her,” he said in a strangled murmur.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He looked at her as if he really wanted to know the answer. “Didn’t I?”

  “No, my love, you didn’t.”

  He slowly nodded, and Q jumped down from the truck, walking around to the other side to help him get out, holding him as they headed into his house. She sat him down at the table and his body went limp in the chair. The normal upright strength of him had been reduced to a whisper.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, cowboy.”

  She raised his arms above his head and pulled off the bloody t-shirt, trying not to feel how wet it was on her hands. Walking into the kitchen, she dropped it into the garbage can before going to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, Q let the water run until it was hot, watching a seemingly endless stream of red run down the drain before she soaked a washcloth and went back to the living room.

  Sanger sat still, his head down. She wiped off his face and neck before trying to clean off his chest. She returned to the bathroom sink to rinse out the blood and continued to clean him off as best she could, watching his face for some sign that he wanted to talk. When none came, she knelt in front of him and took his right hand in hers, carefully washing it before going back to the bathroom and rinsing the washcloth to clean his other hand.

  Coming back into the room to find him still frozen in grief, she sat cross-legged on the floor and untied his shoes, taking them off his feet, waiting for him to say something, anything, but he just sat still, staring beyond her. She stood him up.

  “Aaron, you need to take off these jeans, before the blood dries. It’ll be too hard to take off later.”

  He nodded and stepped out of them. She wiped down his thighs and stood to go to the bedroom, tossing the bloody washcloth in the bathroom sink as she did. As soon as she walked into the bedroom, she was overwhelmed by the smell of Tori’s perfume mingling with the Ivory soap and cedar smell of Aaron Sanger.

  The sheets on his bed were tangled and a pair of earrings rested on the nightstand. She tried not to notice the other evidence of Sanger and Tori’s last night together and Tori’s last night on earth. She searched the closet for a t-shirt and some athletic pants and returned to the living room.

  Sanger sat motionless on the couch. She handed him the clothes and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When she came back, he’d already dressed and resumed his earlier posture. She sat beside him, waiting for him to speak. She put her hand on his knee and he started to tremble. He turned and buried his face in her stomach and screamed, crying with rage and misery.

  She stroked his hair and whispered, “That’s it. Let it out. I’m here. I’m here.”

  She enfolded him in her arms and rocked him back and forth as he yelled out his agony, soaking the front of her shirt with his tears. He finally grew quiet and she continued to rock him, waiting for him to sit up. After several minutes, she realized he had fallen into a fitful sleep. She lay him down on the couch and picked up the quilt folded next to the TV stand, covering him with it.

  Q quickly stripped the bed and shoved the bedding into the washer on the back porch, not wanting Sanger to see her work. Picking up his jeans from the floor, she emptied the pockets before tossing them into the trash can with his t-shirt. As she made herself a cup of coffee, Sanger’s phone rang on the counter and she picked it up without looking at the caller ID.

  “Aaron Sanger’s phone,” she said.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is his friend, Q. He’s asleep,” she replied.

  “Q? This is Rex. His new partner? How is he?”

  “Not good, Rex. Not good at all,” Q said.

  “Look, we got a hold of Tori Gerard’s medical records. She was nine weeks pregnant. She was also manic depressive; did he know that?”

  Q blinked back tears upon hearing confirmation that Sanger had just lost the family he said he wanted. “I don’t know, Rex. Why?”

  “She’d stopped taking her antidepressants because of the baby. Against her doctor’s advice,” he said. “Please tell Aaron. This wasn’t his fault. She tried to kill herself the last few times she stopped taking her medicine, too. It’s a pattern. This is just the first time she succeeded.”

  She thanked him and hung up, watching Sanger’s shoulders rise and fall as he slept. She sat beside him on the couch and stroked his hair. He rolled over and opened his eyes.

  “That was Rex, Aaron. Tori was nine weeks pregnant.”

  He nodded and covered his eyes with the back of his hand, looking away from her. “So, it was mine.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Why would she do this to herself?”

  “Rex wanted you to know that she had chronic depression, Aaron. She’d stopped taking her meds because of the baby.
That might be why she hurt herself. It was already in the back of her mind to do it, she just needed a reason. She’d tried it before.”

  “I wonder what it was,” he said. “The baby, I mean.”

  Q shook her head mutely, studying his face.

  “I always wanted a daughter,” he said. “I would have loved her; we would have made it work. I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard. I should have told her I’d wait for her. Why didn’t I just tell her I’d wait?”

  “You did, Aaron,” she said. “I was there. That’s exactly what you said.”

  “No. Before. I should have told her I’d wait. I should have told her I knew Stanley was dying and I’d wait. But I wanted her to choose. I wanted something that was mine. Something that I could have. I got greedy.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she replied. “You just took up some space for yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He sat up and yelled, “Then tell me why she’s dead!”

  Q put her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye, saying forcefully, “Because bad things happen, Sanger. You know that, just as well as me.”

  His momentary surge of power vanished, and he shrank back. “You would have made a good cop. You have no bedside manner.”

  “No, I suppose I don’t.” Q sighed heavily. “But tell me what you need anyway, cowboy.”

  “A shower, I guess.” He stood up and walked towards his bathroom. At the doorway, he turned and asked, “Can you call Ben? I can’t talk to you about this. I just can’t. You can’t understand this.”

  “No. I suppose I can’t,” she agreed, relieved that she could call in some back-up.

  While Sanger showered, Q called her husband and told him what had happened. He was in his car before the words left her mouth. When he arrived, he and Sanger sat on the front porch and Q did her best to stay busy inside, not wanting to trespass into the inner world of men.

  By the time the two men finally came back into the house, Q felt powerless. She’d washed Sanger’s sheets and hidden the bloody trash at the bottom of the garbage bin. She’d even helplessly dug through the refrigerator, looking for something she was qualified to cook. Sanger walked straight from the front door to his bedroom and closed its door. She looked at Ben in concern.

  “Leave him be,” Ben said. “He needs some sleep.”

  Ben took over her foraging with more expert hands and Q retreated from the kitchen. She sat at the table and pulled out her phone to search the Internet, seeking the websites for the only two Modern Orthodox synagogues in Memphis, Tennessee. When she saw Abe Sanger’s smiling face, she immediately knew she’d found her friend’s father before she’d read his name. She made an impulsive decision and called the office.

  When the voice mail reminded her that it was Shabbat, she cursed and hung up, redialing. After fifteen minutes of Q blowing up Congregation Shaarei Tefillah’s phone, a very annoyed version of Aaron Sanger’s voice came on the line. “I don’t know who this is, but you are disrespecting the Sabbath.”

  “Please don’t hang up,” she begged. “It’s urgent. I have to talk to Rabbi Sanger. It’s about his son, Aaron.”

  In the moment of silence that followed, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. As soon as she heard his panicked voice in her ear, she knew she’d made the right decision.

  “Who is this? What’s happened to my son?” he asked. “Is he alive? Is he alright?”

  “I’m one of Aaron’s friends, Rabbi Sanger. My name is Q Toledano. Aaron hasn’t been hurt. But Tori Gerard… Tori Stone shot herself this afternoon,” Q said. “They’ve been… seeing each other. She was pregnant with Aaron’s child.”

  Sanger’s father gasped. “Poor Tori.”

  “My godfather used to be Aaron’s partner in homicide before he retired,” Q explained. “Your son saved my life last fall, my husband’s, too. We’re his friends, but I think he needs his family. We here with him. But we don’t know him like you do. He needs his father. You need to come here. As soon as you can. Please, just get on a plane and get down here.”

  “I don’t know that my son wants to see me,” Abe said. “We haven’t spoken since his mother’s funeral.”

  “I think he’ll want to see you once you’re here.”

  Q deliberated what else she could say to convince him while the rabbi provided a long list of excuses as to why he couldn’t come. She finally landed on curse words and aggression as the best option.

  “Would you please stop arguing with me and get on a fucking plane and get down here,” she said, no longer able to contain her aggravation. “Your son needs you. Goddamn it. Do you understand me? He’s your son. Why are you both so stubborn?”

  Unexpectedly, the rabbi laughed out loud and he sounded just like Sanger. “I can see why he’s friends with you. However, I’m afraid he closed this door years ago and I don’t think he wants it opened.”

  “Well, too damned bad for both of you, I happen to be very good at smashing windows.” Ben looked over and grinned at her from the stove. When she was greeted with silence from Sanger’s father, she said, “Please, Rabbi. If it’s the money, I’ll pay for it. He needs you. He needs someone who’s just his and only his. He needs his family. His real family.”

  When he did speak, he finally said, “Call me Abe, only my congregants call me Rabbi, you don’t have to.”

  “My grandmother would kill me if she heard me calling a rabbi by his first name,” Q said. “You can stay with her, even, while you’re here. She keeps Kosher, if that’s the problem. Just get on a plane.”

  “What’s your Hebrew name?” he asked.

  Q rolled her eyes at the thinly veiled test and rattled off her name for him, “Ayelot bat Eliyahu v’Miriam.”

  “So, my son’s friend is a Jewish woman who keeps Kosher?” Abe sounded surprised and a little too hopeful.

  “No, your son’s best friend is a Jewish woman whose grandmother keeps Kosher,” she said flatly. “I’d lay off that around Aaron, if I were you. He’s quite the fan of bacon and shrimp now.”

  “Your name means musical instrument,” he said.

  “Thank you for enlightening me, but I knew that already. You’re stalling.”

  “And you’re pushy. Aaron always did like pushy women.”

  He caught her off guard and she laughed. “Are you coming down here or am I going up there and dragging you here?”

  “I’m booking a flight to Dallas now. I’ll be there tonight if I can. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Rabbi, he’s in New Orleans, not Dallas. He moved here over three years ago.” Q was shocked that Sanger wouldn’t have at least told his father where he was.

  “That explains why I haven’t been able to find him,” Abe said. “Give me your number. I’ll call you when I have a flight…. Ms. Toledano, thank you. For calling me.”

  After she hung up, she sat looking out the window, her elbow resting on the table, the back of her fingers resting against her lips. Ben came in from the kitchen and sat beside her.

  “You ok?” he asked.

  She looked at him and fought the tears that were already forming. “Don’t you ever die on me, Ben Bordelon. Promise me.”

  He held her to him. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t you worry.”

  Chapter 13

  Goodbye, New Orleans

  After Tori died, something in Stanley just broke. Knowing that his son and a wife that had once loved him stood on the other side of the veil, waiting for him, seemed to give him the permission he needed to let go of this life and move onto the next. The album was barely mixed and mastered when he drew his last breath, and they’d only been able to release one song the day he’d passed away. Walter and Q had decided to release the album on the day of the memorial instead, just to buy them three more weeks.

  Q sat at the piano that had been placed on the altar in St. Louis Cathedral. She stared at the statues of the saints around her, feeling like a trespasser in a realm of idols. A giant screen display
ed a slideshow rotating between pictures and videos of Stanley. She watched her twenty-two-year-old-self sitting next to her mentor, behind the piano at his house. Seeing herself at that age, the pain searing off the screen, was almost too much to take. She had no memory of the picture being taken. It finally melted away and was replaced with the video Ben had taken at Jazz Fest. She smiled up at Stanley on the screen, her strength restored. She took a deep breath and readied herself for her part of the memorial service.

  When the video ended, she cleared her throat and said into the microphone, “I met Stanley when I was twenty-two. He built me back up after something had found a way to knock me all the way down. He taught me how to play. He taught me how to make something beautiful when something ugly tries to twist you around. The old man asked me to play this song for y’all, knowing that everyone in this room loved him and would be stunned and grief-stricken… If he were here, he’d have some opening jokes. He told me I was supposed to get y’all laughing, but I’m all out of jokes today, so the ones he wrote into this song will have to do.”

  She swung her hands over the keyboard before playing a simple New Orleans honky-tonk rhythm and singing,

  Thank you, New Orleans, it’s been a hell of a ride

  But I’m gonna have to see you on the other side

  Thank you, New Orleans, it’s been a hell of a ride

  Some of you I love, Some of you like brothers

  I’m gonna miss all my sisters and my lovers

  Thank you, New Orleans, it’s been a hell of a ride

  I wish that I could say that I was sad to go

  But I’m looking forward to my mama’s gumbo

  Thank you, New Orleans, it’s been a hell of a ride

  I loved a woman. I chased her and I caught her

  I’ve been blessed. I raised a son and found a daughter

  Tears flooded her eyes, knowing that she was the only daughter Stanley had. The memory of Stanley smiling at her from the vocal booth after he’d sung that line overwhelmed her. She saw him point to her and mouth, “That’s you.”