Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  He was known as a man with a temper, and strange ideas. He died at the farm. A heart attack – there was local gossip that maybe he had died of something else ... but nothing was proven. The police let go of their enquiries. The farm was repossessed, and we were all made homeless. That was when she started working at Yum Yums, and began writing to Passaro, then visiting him. He was a monster. I didn’t understand what my mom was doing.

  Amanda was a good mom. She tried to be a good mom. What happened with her second husband, the rumours about him ... she protected her children as well as she could. She tried to protect Noah.

  There is something wrong with our society, Rachel. What happened to Mom in her childhood, first marriage, then her second ... her actions in seeking out this criminal – murderer – came from everything she had ever known, the society that surrounded her.

  Recently I went back to the farm where it happened, where my stepfather died. I went back with my husband. He took me; he knew I had to have one last look. Our correspondences seemed to rake it all up, but I’m grateful for that, Rachel, because I needed to go and see, I needed to show and tell my husband, before I put it behind me forever.

  Since its repossession it still stands unlived in. I was told that a few families have been to look at it, but no real interest. Men see too much work. The women feel too much pain. Buildings hold memories, too. It isn’t a place anyone would wish to bring up a family. The truth is, it’s a small community and word gets around quickly.

  Stephen Passaro had told his friend all about Mom, what my stepfather had done to her, the same friend who supplied Amanda with the heroin, and then he must have told someone else. That someone wrote something that eventually you read, Rachel. Why you contacted me.

  My husband and I drove to the farm, and we went inside to look. I had to; no matter what memories it brought back, the horror and terror of living there.

  Adjacent to the house were the sheds where the sheep had been kept. I thought about what Mom had written to Passaro – about my stepfather – a man who had abused her and threatened to do the same to her children, and what he had done to Noah, and what she had done to my stepfather. Did I agree with her action? The stink was crushing inside the shed, of animal faeces that had never been cleared properly.

  It was common but hushed knowledge locally what Mom did ... when she found him. What wasn’t common knowledge is why she did it. I like to think she would never have done what she did, but for Noah.

  The night before Mom killed my stepfather, she had to take Noah to the hospital. My stepfather did what he had threatened, using the rod, and it was Noah he chose, the week before. A dirty rod, one covered in sheep excrement. It took a week for the infection to take hold.

  That was why Mom killed my stepfather – because of what he did to Noah. My stepfather had a small heart attack, he couldn’t move, she used the rod, finished the job of the heart attack. I don’t agree with what she did, but I understand why she did it.

  Why did Mom befriend another monster? I think it is a pattern. She found Passaro because she thought he would understand her, she thought she would understand him. We do strange and unexplainable things in our confusion.

  I want you to understand my mom, Rachel, so you are able to write about her, and others like her, with empathy.

  The money you have sent me I have used to put towards my college education. Something Mom always wanted for me.

  Good luck with the book, and remember to send me a copy when it is finished. I’d like that.

  Godspeed,

  Sincerely,

  Mary Lou.

  I read it through twice. I knew what Amanda had done but this letter explained the grotesqueness with love. I put the paper on my lap. Would I have done the same? The answer came quickly. Yes. No doubt.

  Joe’s image moved through my mind, and inside my head I moved towards the opening of the shed in Toledo to find fresh air. I took a deep breath and the taste in the back of my throat was not the acrid smell of excrement but the warm taste of toffee.

  ‘Joe,’ I mouthed.

  Amanda had done what I intended to do. She had taken revenge on the man who had abused her son. Thank God, Noah had survived. He was living happily with his big sister. Some endings were happy. Mine couldn’t be. Was that why Joe came? Because he didn’t want me to join him?

  It was though, the only thing I did want.

  A cusp of sunshine fell across my face and, despite Mrs Xú’s tea, the thumping at my temple became stronger with movement. The hangover was nothing compared to chronic insomnia though, and, in the after-glow of proper sleep, despite the headache, tranquillity visited me for a few moments.

  I stared at the ceiling, imagining Amanda and the place where she had been so unhappy, where Mary Lou had been so unhappy. In my mind’s eye I viewed the farm where Amanda and her children had spent a miserable three years of their lives. The letters to her ‘lover’ on death row were graphic – as mine had been to Hemmings. I had wanted to visit the diner she had worked in, walk the streets she’d walked. Feel her life. I was indebted to Mary Lou for giving me this insight. I could not visit Ohio, not before seeing Hemmings, and this was something that brought on an inexplicable sadness, if only because it was highly likely I would be unable to go afterwards.

  Because then I might be with Joe. I hoped so. What was there that I wanted to live for? This question hovered over me like a late summer dragonfly. I missed Joe so much, every fibre of him, his touch, the timbre of his voice. My depression, because I knew that’s what it was, had been intensified by my isolation from Dad, compacted with the burgeoning memories of my childhood, the new knowledge of Margaret and of my dad’s complicity.

  I swept misgivings aside. I had to move on with my plan. I continued to bury the flashes of understanding of my own childhood because, still, I didn’t want to see.

  To see would hinder me, slow me. Make me less able.

  I was nearly ready for Littleworth, and Michael Hemmings. And I could allow nothing to stop me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Littleworth

  Michael Hemmings never thought he’d admit it to himself, but he was missing Doc Patterson. For years he’d taken the piss out of the old bastard and his ‘aura’ theory. But the truth was it did help him. He’d learnt to predict when the white was about to come, the aura that to Michael Hemmings signified chaos along with the desire to hurt himself and others.

  He hadn’t wanted to hurt Joe, though. He hadn’t. When he’d seen him on the field talking to the stuck-up cunt, Summers, he’d wanted to help the boy, even though he was Rachel-fucking-Dune’s son. He knew his mum couldn’t stand Joe, she’d told him, and this had made him feel something alien. Doc Patterson would have called it compassion. Had he felt compassion for Joe?

  Inside him, there existed a place that was long forgotten, a place that seemed to be like the sliding skin of someone else, a separate entity. He’d liked Joe. He’d shown Joe Dune, that day at his mum’s house, a part of him few people would ever see.

  Joe had seen it because Joe had watched him paint the picture.

  Had he told Joe what his mother made him do? He couldn’t remember, that was the thing, he couldn’t fucking remember anything. Doc Patterson had only mentioned it once, about what he’d done to Joe’s body. Even in court he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember. The white had been so strong the day Joe died. His mum had been in a very bad mood, telling him she didn’t want to see him anymore. She was his mum, how could she say that? The white had become dazzling then, like a fucking solar flare, the ones he’d seen on TV. Doc Patterson had said that was why he killed Joe. Had he told the Doc about his mum? Had he told him the other thing? He couldn’t remember; the fucking drugs he was forced to take stopped his mind working properly.

  Hemmings’ mood and thoughts dipped and flowed.

  A solar flare ... He could have been a scientist. He could have been anything he’d wanted to be; he was good at drawing, too. The only teach
er he’d liked at primary school had told him he was gifted. His dad had laughed. Too loud. He fucking hated Sam.

  Joe had told him he wanted to be an astronomer and move around the universe like Doctor Who. To Hemmings that was like a scientist, so that had pissed him off because he’d been jealous. And his mother, telling him he had to stop calling her, going to see her. Yes, he’d been fucking angry, because he knew that Joe would always see her. Is that why he killed Joe?

  He couldn’t remember killing him.

  And now he was attending his next tribunal review. He knew they didn’t have much choice about the outcome; the director’s position would be fucked if he couldn’t pull off making Hemmings look like a fucking excellent example of their rehab.

  He slid off his bed, thumb in his mouth. It had been Patterson who’d helped him the most; he wished now he hadn’t made the Doc’s life so difficult by agreeing to his mum’s visit. He knew that Toby had done everything he could to keep her visit away from the Doc. Toby was trying to help him, and he appreciated that. But maybe it hadn’t been the best thing.

  Talking to Toby sometimes encouraged him to think of Joe and the time leading up to the day he couldn’t remember. That day had ended so badly, and not how he’d predicted, when he picked the boy up on the field. He’d felt something for Joe. A foreign feeling when Joe had told him why he’d run away from home, and Michael Hemmings’ fragmented mind went back in time to the trial. To Liam and Rachel. The smug-looking perfect fucking couple. Not.

  He knew that Rachel didn’t know; this gave a little comfort because he hated Rachel Dune. It also brought the yellow. Cascading through the ward. Patterson had taught him about the yellow aura.

  It was the aura that signified he was gaining some enlightenment.

  Lost in his thoughts Hemmings didn’t notice that Toby was standing by his bed, a letter in his hand.

  ‘For you, Michael,’ Toby said. He seemed subdued.

  Hemmings looked at the postmark. It looked interesting. America, Ohio.

  He opened the letter. It began simply and normally enough. She lived in Ohio, the US of A, had been married twice, and both husbands had given her what for, but it was the second one – a man who inherited his parents’ farm in the depths of Ohio State – where her story started to get interesting. He continued to read.

  The second husband had a thing about the electric rods that he used to stun his sheep. On a bad day for the writer of the letter, the husband, instead of using household implements to insert into her ass or cunt would use the rod. The husband didn’t ever turn on the electric. What the husband did was to threaten to do the same to her three kids, and turn it on, if she left him or told anyone what turned him on. As things worked out, the husband had a heart attack one day while using the rod on his sheep. The writer found him, not quite dead, and promptly put the rod up his ass and finished him off by switching it on.

  He carried on reading. The husband had left the writer with massive debts; the farm was repossessed by the mortgage company. She and her three kids were left homeless. She was, she informed Hemmings, now living in a trailer park. She found his story in an old newspaper that a lone, unexpected tourist had left behind in the diner she was working in. The diner was called Yum Yums. There was more, but not as interesting as the first part.

  Hemmings lay flat on his bed. ‘Interesting. Says I’m a man she could get on with. She understands me, Toby, what do you think to that?’

  ‘She has good taste.’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Toby asked.

  Hemmings bit his thumb. ‘Yeah, I like it.’ And he did like it; he liked the way this woman gave him details of her life. He liked that. He delved inside the envelope looking for photos. From America. Somehow this made Michael Hemmings feel extremely important. A bit fucking famous. But he found no photo.

  The letter was signed Amanda McCarthy. A large scrawl, child-like. It reminded him of Joe Dune’s writing, like the signature Joe’d put on the bottom of his paintings.

  Michael Hemmings put the letter neatly on his bedside table and got back on the bed, flipping quickly over onto his front and trying to ignore the brown aura that seemed to be enveloping him. He was thinking about Joe again, which made him think about his mum, her visit. And about Joe. Again.

  He wanted to be alone to think about Amanda McCarthy. She wanted to come and visit him, and he’d like that, very much. Oh, would he like that. He looked forwards to her stories.

  He drew his knees upwards, bringing himself into a crouching tiger position, then collapsed flat in the bed, delving inside the envelope, hoping to find a photo but knowing there wasn’t one there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Amanda, could I have a quick word?’ Stanley said as I let myself into the school with a steaming hot coffee in my hand. I’d been given the combination code. I placed the coffee on the side. He looked at the cup. ‘Back on coffee?’

  As part of my plan to be Amanda I’d tried to take up the habit of drinking tea, a small detail but one that could, in the future, be important, like the left-handedness. I admonished myself for buying coffee instead; it was a mistake that later I couldn’t afford to make.

  Stanley had noticed. So would Hemmings.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he continued.

  I followed him into the office.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking, and it’s none of my business but I am worried for you.’ He watched me. ‘I’ve been around this business all my life practically, voice coaching, acting. I can see cosmetic work with one eye closed.’ He placed a hand on my arm. ‘You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would.’

  ‘So I’ve had a nip and tuck, haven’t most people over a certain age, women anyway?’ I grinned, still feeling the tightness in my face (an irony that wasn’t lost).

  ‘OK, that’s fine, if you don’t want to talk. I apologise for asking. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Thank you for taking an interest, but I’m fine. I’m really enjoying the course, really am, you’re a great teacher.’

  ‘Thank you! I’ve organised a little play this afternoon, with some of the acting students, I thought you could join in to practise your favourite character’s voice ... the washed up, white trash, no-hoper?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but great, looking forwards to it.’

  —

  Stanley’s idea was that throughout the day we acted out random vignettes of small scenes, concentrating on different character types. I wasn’t an actor, that was clear, but my underlying motivation gave an edge that instilled some ‘tone’. Stanley called it tone. I still wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but got the impression he was pleased with my attempts. The ‘vignette’ of the day was the emotionally disturbed American woman: a drug addict. Too many children and not enough money.

  ‘Ah, my girl,’ Stanley said. ‘You’re asking all the right questions and seem to be doing so effortlessly, “Who am I?” We see you, your character. “Where am I?” Yes, at thirty years old your character is claustrophobic, deadened by her lot. “Where have I come from?” Perfectly executed, Amanda. Abuse from childhood sometimes leading to a similar pattern in the adult’s behaviour. But your character doesn’t intentionally neglect her children ... what does she do? She looks for excitement somewhere else. We don’t know where, yet. In the last session we’ll go there, that place in the character’s head. But you’re doing well, my girl.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting late, time to wrap.’

  Stanley walked towards me. ‘What do I want? Yes. We know that. And the most important question you have to ask your character – and you – when you’re within that character is, “Why do I want it?” That’s the question, Amanda.’ His flecked, dark eyes looked into me. ‘Yes, that’s the question. “Why do you want it?” Because this is your true motivation. The reason the action unfolds. The essence of what will make the audience want to
continue watching, and listening. The only reason they will believe you. We humans sniff insincerity and subterfuge easily. We know when we’re being duped by the acting, by the voice.’ He turned and opened his arms wide. ‘Call it a day. We’ll have a later start tomorrow. Say eleven. Get your beauty sleep.’

  Mrs Xú was cleaning the window of the shop when I returned, but I felt as if she was waiting for me. Since coming here I hadn’t seen anyone visit her.

  ‘How is everything?’ she asked. Before I had time to answer she went on, ‘How boyfriend?’

  I laughed. ‘Stanley’s not my boyfriend.’

  She shrugged. ‘I not want see you getting into any trouble.’

  ‘I won’t get into trouble with Stanley.’ I felt touched that she cared.

  I thought about Jonathan. He cared, too; an ache that was nothing to do with Joe spread through my body. ‘Maybe we could drink tea together soon, Mrs Xú?’

  ‘Would like that.’ She smiled, the corner of her eyes tipping upwards. It was an open and wise smile, drawing a picture of a woman with true insight.

  —

  I took the stairs and ran up them two at a time, swearing under my breath at the low-grade pain in my thighs.

  Once in my room I picked up my notepad and pen, and opened the drawer with Amanda’s letters and other correspondence inside, trying desperately to ignore the emptiness that was spreading from my gut to the whole of my body.

  I wrote the next two letters to Joe’s murderer. The last two. I hadn’t received a reply from the first but hoped I would get one, eventually. I told him I was visiting England and looked forwards to meeting him. I found a small photo of myself pushed inside Amanda’s things. Stanley had taken it only a week before; the only one I’d allowed him to take. I folded the letters and put them in separate envelopes, placing the photo in the second letter to be posted. I put these envelopes in a larger one addressed to the company in Ohio that would do the honours of posting. Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.