The Solitude of Passion

by Addison Moore

  I glance around for a weapon, but the place is so damn bare there’s nothing shy of a rug on the floor. I pat my jeans for my hunting knife before remembering it’s in my backpack which I stupidly left it in the trunk of the car. It houses my passport and a picture of Lee, and suddenly I want nothing more than to get to that picture because clearly logic isn’t invited into the equation.

  “Please God, let me see Lee again,” I whisper below a breath. “Just let me hold her one more time.”

  I bolt up and run out the back as a barrage of gunfire explodes from behind.

  Outside, clouds lay in strips over a sodden sky. The sun melts over the horizon, still affording enough light to amplify the landscape. I dart up through the bushes until I hit the main road, and my heart lurches when I spot the car I arrived in sputtering down the street without me. It’s teeming with bodies, struggling in low gear as it tries to barrel up the hillside.

  “Shit,” I grunt as I try to flag it down.

  A barrage of uniformed officers pour into the street, corroding the landscape like wolves on the prowl. They fire an errant round of shots, inspiring me to take cover in an overgrown bush.

  It all happens so fast. An entire band of men come in, clad in black, shouting and screaming like human megaphones. I peer out at them as they collect themselves in a group. The one with the thick neck and short arms appears to be in charge. He carries the appeal of a death ninja as he barks out commands, and the men break out into groups of two and three in an attempt to fulfill their mission.

  The guy in charge levels his weapon to his eye and manages to blow out the windows of the tiny car as it hits the crest of the road.

  Oh God, no. The faces of the outreach team flash through my mind. They’re good people. They don’t deserve this.

  All hellfire opens up on the car as the small sedan slows to a crawl, curving until it gently butts into a tree.

  Three of his apostles take off for the wreckage. Not a window survived the ambush, a shower of red sprays what remains of the shattered glass.

  One of the officers tosses in a softball-sized flame through the windshield, and the entire cab ignites like a bonfire.

  Not one body moves inside, just slumped figures igniting like torches.

  “Shit,” I stare out in disbelief.

  The bastard in charge gives a victorious shout as the unmistakable sound of glee swims from his voice. He fires a celebratory round into the air. This was his party, his deadly rules in play. The innocent beings that lost their lives were simply his prey.

  The fire in the car dulls down to embers. Those people had families, wives, children waiting for them at home, and now they were gone in the most horrific way possible.

  I get up and stagger backward as the stench of smoke sears itself in my nostrils. This is all too surreal, one minute I’m dreaming of Lee, and the next I’ve entered a nightmare. This is the stuff you read about—watch on the news, for sure not something I ever imagined myself caught up in.

  A stream of officers jog into the street. They shout into the night as they circle the area. They smell blood, and they want it all. Still thirsty, unsatisfied from the mass slaughter they just pulled.

  My heart tries to stomp its way out of my chest. I’d bet good money I’m about to have a cardiac episode—reenact my father’s death in the least romantic way possible.

  Something solid cracks over my skull, and a blast of agony splits through my body.

  My face plants itself in the soil as the world fades in and out of existence.

  A boot introduces itself to my thigh by way of a solid kick, and for a moment I’m thankful my balls were nowhere in the vicinity.

  The angry boot rains down an assault of both the verbal and physical variety until pain ricochets through my skull like a boomerang on fire.

  Two men with loose smiles stare down at me. They look happy to have me, a toy of their very own to torment.

  Lee flashes through my mind, and I can’t think straight.

  He shakes his weapon at me, and I get on my knees—hold up my hands for good measure. The shorter one kicks my legs apart until the seam in my jeans threatens to burst.

  “You spy?” He squawks it out so quick it sounds like the whoop of a police car, and for a moment I’m hopeful. “Say, you spy.” He glances back at the amassing crowd of his comrades in arms. They share a laugh while settling in for the show. “You say spy, you live.”

  Doesn’t sound like a bad alternative, so I nod into the idea.

  “I’m a spy,” I volunteer a little too eager.

  Another round of barking laughter lights up the night. One of them helps me up, pats my back like we’re old friends. A long scar decorates his face from his ear to his lip and I wonder if that’s what waits for me on the other side of this incarceration.

  A shorter man steps forward and butts his weapon into my ribs, forcing me onto the road and into a balloon-shaped patrol car that looks straight out of a cartoon.

  They motion for my hands behind my back and throw on a pair of zip-tie handcuffs before shoving me in. Two of the guys hop up front, and we take off into the country, past the car still glowing with bodies, past the potato sack wearing cleric lying prone in the street with a bullet through his forehead, past a small child watching dazed from the side of the road. Hovels float by, then nothing but stretches of dry, flat fields.

  The sun finally sets, and I wonder if all my hope of ever seeing Lee again has set right along with it.

  Two weeks later

  Max

  I’ve prayed on a few occasions. Although, I’m pretty sure this is the only one that’s ever been answered—and I was joking at that.

  Mitch’s funeral.

  Memorial. Whatever. Here we are with the weeping, the gnashing of teeth commencing, and I can’t take another damn minute. All the glory of pulling down his curtain is gut wrenching. Any moment now I’m about to show all of Mono that Max Fucking Shepherd has a heart—once the waterworks start.

  I glance at his oversized picture, framed and mounted, and I fight hard to stop the tears. Mitch gleams a brilliant smile. He looks like he’s advertising dental floss, not his untimely demise. Instead, the black and white pictorial adorns the altar as a final reminder of his effigy. Another picture sits to its right—one of him and Lee. Wedding picture. It was the best day of his life, marrying Lee, I’m sure of it—would have been mine if that were me.

  You never know when you’re smiling for the camera, which shot might make the pamphlet at your funeral. Maybe we should all pose for a funeral pic. Leave the guesswork out of every other picture we ever take. No more macabre thoughts running through your mind as the photographer counts to three.

  I glance over at Lee. I’ve got a clear shot of her huddled between Janice and Colton. She’s beyond miserable, zombie-like with a steady river of tears tracking over her cheeks. I glance down at the neat, glossy brochure folded in my hands with Mitch’s countenance on the front like a slap in the face. I skim the timeline of events planned for the service. She’s not in the lineup. I can’t imagine she’d want to speak today. It’s standing room only in the back. It’s quite a turnout with everyone in tears—nothing but heartbreak city.

  Colton steps up to the microphone and gives a loud warbling sigh. “I never imagined I would have to do this.” He reevaluates the crumpled paper in his hand before stuffing it in his pocket. It’s eerie to look at him. He’s all but a double for his brother. I bet it kills Lee to see him. “Mitch was a great guy. If you knew him for five minutes you figured out pretty easy how genuine he was. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked. Well maybe not his favorite Townsend T-shirt riddled with holes, but I’m sure if you asked real nice he’d give you that one, too.”

  A low rumble of laughter circles the room.

  This is good—break up the atmosphere a little—take the edge off all the heart wrenching sorrow everyone’s drinking down to the dregs.

  “Once, when we were kids, Mitch and I
thought it’d be a great idea to take our dad’s golf clubs and hit a few balls in the backyard. Since he was younger and less likely to get in trouble, I made Mitch promise he would say it was all his idea if we got busted. We tried hitting some balls but discovered it was much more fun to pitch the clubs into the next field—see how far we could fling ‘em. About halfway through the irons, Mitch launched a big Bertha like it was a missile, only this time it didn’t go into the next field, it went over the roof of the garage and planted itself in a windshield. Turns out Dad came home a little early for dinner.” Another round of titters. “Mitch took the blame.” Colton looks remorseful. “He always kept his word.” His eyes meet up with Lee before she dips her nose back into a wad of tissue. “Fast forward about five years. We’re both sitting on the beach, and a beautiful blonde struts by. Mitch took one look at her and said ‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry.’” He nods toward her. “That was Lee. Again, Mitch kept his word. Whether he made a promise to someone else or to himself, Mitch was a man of his word. It was an honor to be his brother.” He pushes his palm into his eye. “Mitch, I’m gonna miss you,” he chokes out the words before heading to his seat.

  Impressive. Colton actually managed to string whole thoughts together to create a cohesive eulogy.

  I glance over at Hudson. I wonder what Hud would say about me if it were my memorial service? He’d probably accuse me of being too damn uptight. He reminds me of this at least twice a week—thinks I’m digging an early grave by diving into the books everyday, keeping tabs on input and output. What he fails to realize is that if I didn’t run the ship with both hands on the wheel, we would have capsized long ago. My father may have dreamed of this empire, but I built it, just like Mitch deconstructed his father’s good intentions with a few select boneheaded moves.

  Mitch could have listened to me. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t reach out to the guy. My door was always open. I even offered to take him to lunch and go over marketing strategies a couple of years ago, but he couldn’t see past his pride. The fact he had a dead weight brother, one that rivals my own, didn’t add to the situation.

  The room darkens. A video presentation starts out with Mitch as a baby.

  Baby. That’s the elephant in the room—Lee’s growing middle. Now what? Stand by and watch Colton, the bumbling uncle, swap the baby bottle with a beer bottle? Lee isn’t even cognizant of what could happen with too much Colt around an innocent child. She’s too blindsided with grief. Nope. Not letting that take place—not going back East this time. I’m not letting Lee out of my sight. I’ll wait until she’s ready. She will be eventually.

  Mitch lights up the room with an enormous smile. There’s something piercing about the way he looks out into the crowd. He inspires the waterworks to take off exponentially, and I swallow hard, fighting not to give in. It takes everything in me not to blubber like a baby. It’s a wrestling match of the highest order to keep my emotions in check, but the lights come back, and I let out a breath—I win.

  My heart breaks for Mitch. I still consider him a brother even if he went to his grave filled with hatred over something I had nothing to do with. The truth is, I cared about him. And if it wasn’t me who could have Lee, it might as well have been him. Doubtful he would feel the same now that the roles are reversed. In fact, I’d better get ready to dodge some serious lightning bolts if he has anything to say about it.

  After the service, a line snakes around the room as people offer up their condolences to the family. It takes an hour before I even reach the front, Colton first.

  “Sorry man. He was a good guy.” I pat my way past him and let Lee fold into my arms. She smells good, roses and raw earth. I breathe in the scent of her hair, feel her soft skin against mine and close my eyes a moment. I’m still so thirsty for Lee. All of those wasted Vivienne years when all I wanted was something I couldn’t have.

  My arms remain locked as I wait for her to let go first.

  “Thanks for coming.” She pulls back, holding onto my hands with her iced fingers. My eyes fall to her waist. It looks like she tucked a basketball under her shirt, and it makes her even more beautiful.

  “I’m sorry there was anything to come to,” I say it low, and my voice breaks for the first time.

  “He liked you,” she whispers through tears. “He just didn’t know how to handle it all. I’m sure if Mitch had more time he would have welcomed you back into his life.” Her left eye twitches when she says it as if she had spilled some long-guarded secret, and she just might have.

  “I’d like to think so.” I warm her hands with mine. “If you need anything at all, call me.”

  “I will.” She says it, but it feels obligatory.

  “Janice.” I pull his mother into a tight embrace. I miss Janice. She was more of a mother to me than my own could ever hope to be. Her hair is shorter, darker than it was when I logged all those hours at the Townsend house back in high school.

  “Max.” Her entire face glows with a broken smile. “How have you been?” There’s a genuine sweetness in her voice like she means it.

  “I’m fine. Listen, if you want me to take care of anything at the vineyard—even if it’s just paying a few bills. I’m your man.”

  Lee reaches over and clasps my forearm. “Would you? He did everything by himself, and I’ve been trying to figure things out, but I’m afraid I’ve missed something.”

  “Yes.” My heart thumps like a racehorse as I cover her hand with mine. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll come by tomorrow and straighten everything out.”

  I’ll be happy to put myself front and center.

  By the time she’s ready to move on, I’ll be all she sees.

  3

  A Grievous Kind of Love

  Two months later

  Lee

  When I was a child I adored my mother. Her hair was spun gold, and her teeth illuminated like stars. My father was a tall man with a twinkle in his eye just for me, and I worshiped at his feet. Katrice and I would stand at the window like puppies until he came home from his job at the advertising agency. He brought colorful paperclips and discarded office supplies that delighted my sister and me. They were our treasures. Then God saw that my heart was full and removed my parents from the landscape of my life.

  Mitch.

  He filled my being with his goodness. His heart was pure, and he loved me infinitely more than my parents were ever capable. God saw that this too was good, and He took Mitch. It’s days that my heart highlights this realization that I feel like a celestial toy—nothing more than a mortal burden to those I love.

  In a tragic sense, my sweet baby will enter this world without two parents. One of them removed from the planet by fire and the other removed by emotional paralysis—with nothing left to offer but a soul caged in barbed wired—a heart of ice.

  Time is drifting. Minutes, hours—days bleed by. Time flows like some unstoppable torrent. It knocks me off balance with no proper way to navigate its force field. The day and night die, then resurrect themselves as something new, but I see it for the sham it really is—just a string of yesterdays that pile up in the end, the hopeful tomorrow dangled before us that never comes.

  It’s killing me fast, this death cloud with its intangible stranglehold.

  I’m paralyzed. I’ve become my own rotting corpse with the hand of God crooked around my neck, dragging me into each new day by force. I’m choking, all alone in my misery. There isn’t enough time to devote, collapsed in front of Mitch’s pictures, pleading with God for some new resolution to this madness. I’m nothing more than a speck in the universe. I’ve become a master of my nothingness.

  I play with the curtains while peering out the window. My heart pulsates with anticipation because Max is on his way to the house to comb through some loose ends in the office. Max has gone by Townsend vineyard every single day for the past eight weeks. He’s reassigned distributors, and production has nearly doubled under his steady supervision. But today he’ll be here, on
sacred grounds, and I’m afraid of what Mitch would think. It’s strange. The only other man I’ve had at the house is Colton, and now, out of all the penile-wielding people on earth, it’s Max who will darken these halls. It feels entirely septic bringing him here. I try to tuck away the anger Mitch felt toward him. Mitch would rather eat buckets of broken glass and swim through sewage than have Max here under any circumstance.

  His truck pulls in low on the driveway as if he were unsure himself whether or not this were a good move. I rush over to the door before he has a chance to knock, excited to see him, excited to see anybody who has the power to soothe this constant bite of pain, and Max definitely holds that power. Max has become a strange salve in Mitch’s absence.

  He strides up the walk with the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips. His dark hair stains the blue sky with just the right amount of saving grace my heart needs.

  “Hey,” he says it shy, wide-eyed with a slight grin just for me. His dimples dig in deep, happy to see me. His eyes steal the color from the sky and make it their own. It’s a wonder I didn’t bow down to his glory long before that fated night in high school.

  He’s lost the suit in exchange for jeans and a green T-shirt with faded letters that read, Ireland. The soft scent of musk and sandalwood mixes through the air, and I take him in, inhale him by the vat-full. I miss the clean scent of a man, the layer of testosterone just beneath. It makes me dizzy, makes it feel as though the altitude in the room has shifted.

  “Hey, yourself.” I wrap my arms around him and pull him inside.

  Our eyes lock, and something quickens in me. I don’t think I’ve felt him through anything but his wool suit, his crisp dress shirts, and now here I was with my hand over his warm arm, his muscles rock solid as if he were carved from granite. I take in a breath and pull away. Max has always had the power to move me on primal level, but I belong to Mitch. Mitch is my everything. His death is just another obstacle we’ll have to overcome on our way to happily ever after, and a heartsick part of me accepts this impossibility.