by Ash Krafton
“It’s not prying. I was trespassing on your property. You have a right to know.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can talk about it.”
“What’s a man to say?” He lifted his cup, snatching a quick sip, testing the temperature. “I meant to jump. Then you shouted and I slipped and you know the rest.”
She hid her frown behind her cup, not wanting to seem impolite. Inside, her belly twisted into a knot. He wanted to die. How reviling a thought. Who would willingly want to meet Death early? It was horrifying enough to meet Him on time—
“Your situation must be grim, indeed, to choose such a drastic undertaking.”
He chuffed out a laugh that was swallowed in a fit of coughing. When he regained his breath, he shrugged, a quick shake of his head. “We all have to die. I’d rather die by choice rather than by consequence.”
“Ah.” She lifted a finger toward the tea tray. “There’s biscuits, if you like.”
“You seem nonplused.”
“I am unsurprised. However, I have a rather unique philosophy regarding the nature of death and so it would be quite rude of me to remark critically upon someone else’s views.”
“Not a big fan of death, are you?” The smirk on his lips didn’t reach all the way up to his eyes.
“Almost everyone dies,” she said.
“Almost?”
“I’ve learned to avoid speaking in absolutes.”
“You’re very young,” he said. “Too young to be too wise.”
“I’m much older than I look.”
“How old do you think I am?”
A familiar game. She’d played it over and over throughout the years. Guessing another’s age was more than putting a number to a face, however; it was measuring the distance in someone’s eyes. It was gauging the length of their journey while considering the terrain they’d tread. Lives were made up of more than a succession of days. Lives were to be weighed for the experiences, the trials, the joys, the losses that rippled the satin smooth flow of time. People would look at Senza and proclaim you are eighteen.
And she always responded you are right. She never told them just how wrong they were. They’d never tried to measure the distance in her eyes.
She surveyed Piotr as he sat on the couch, waiting for her judgment. His clothing was simple but clean, denim jeans and a button shirt. Cuffs rolled back from his wrists, top two buttons undone. Could be a mark of casual dress, could mean the shirt was too small for him. He was rather tall, she’d noted earlier, when she showed him into the cottage. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and the glint of a gold chain flashed inside his collar. He wore a wristwatch and his boots were polished black, or at least had been before he scuffed them on the side of a cliff.
Hmm. Casual, then, rather than negligent in his wardrobe.
For all the casual air about his dress, he sat with excellent posture, not a common thing in this era. He neither hunched nor slouched, especially odd in a man of his stature. It spoke of discipline, or pride. She suspected a little of both once she glimpsed the tattoo on his forearm, a fuzzy blue-black anchor. He had a past military history.
Now, for the face. Brown eyes, creased on the sides. Could be age, could be a remnant from a lifetime of laughter. Or it could be the cigarettes. She spied the outline of a paper pack in his shirt pocket. Smoking would add years to his face.
But the litmus test would come when she looked into his eyes. When she measured the distance.
She leaned forward, peering at his face. That distance was lifetimes long.
She blinked in surprise. What could have aged him so? All these twists and turns and trials were variables in an equation but when it came right down to it, she was better than anyone else at this game.
“Fifty-two,” she announced, feeling more than a bit of smug certainty.
“Wrong.”
Her mouth fell open. “I am not.”
“You are.” He reached behind him and tugged his billfold out of his back pocket. Flipping it open he slid out his identification card and held it up for her inspection.
His picture looked so much younger. Less weight about his mouth, more buoyancy in his eyes. She saw his birthdate but couldn’t calculate his age.
She’d forgotten what year it was.
He stowed the wallet back in his pocket. “I’m thirty-five. I know. I look much older. That’s cancer for you. It wears a guy out.”
She covered her mouth. Cancer was a word that had not improved in its connotation over the last several decades. “I’m so sorry. The treatment is difficult, yes?”
“It’s ineffective. Stage four lung. Worst of the worst. Thanks to these, among other poisons.” He patted his breast pocket. “Speaking of which, do you mind if I smoke?”
Smoking did not bother her. The lack of a proper receptacle, however, did. She was not overly fond of ashes. “I don’t know if I have a proper tray.”
Senza went to the kitchen and opened a cabinet, hoping for a bowl. Inside the second cupboard, she found a yellow glass ashtray, a heavy cut-crystal design.
Closing her eyes, she pinched her lips together. Why would Knell have left this here?
The warmth of the fire did not reach all the way into the kitchen, its tiled walls and hard floors chilled from the constant wind. Although there was no draft, nor any open window, an icy weight brushed her neck. She turned, glances darting about the empty room, expecting to see Knell.
No one. Just her nerves. A stranger in the parlor, and everything required for his ease provided. Knell knew. He always knew.
Returning, she smiled, but it was a tired stretch of lip that lacked humor. She held out the ashtray, not willing to make prolonged eye contact.
He seemed to note her expression. “I can go outside.”
She shook out her head and gestured for him to take the ashtray. “Should you be smoking if you have…?”
“Just say it. Cancer. Cancer,” he repeated, leaning toward her.
“Cancer,” she echoed, her voice scant. She set the glass dish on the coffee table and retrieved her tea, the safety of her chair.
“There you go. First battle, victory to you.” He plugged a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, drawing deeply. The tip glowed like fury. Inhaling loudly, he held the puff before letting it billow out in a thin plume. “Say the word and you conquer it.”
“You can conquer cancer?”
“No, just the word. Don’t give it more power than it has the right to have.”
“So.” She watched him enjoy his cigarette, the draw of the smoke, the tap of the cigarette against the glass dish. He maneuvered the cigarette with such grace, as if it were an extension of his hand. It was rhythmic, almost a dance. She’d never smoked herself, other than occasional dalliances on the elaborate hookah pipes in Victorian parlors. That had always been for show, not for satisfaction. “Is there no hope?”
“Nope,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I’m one-hundred percent a goner. Death is fast on my heels.”
She wrinkled her nose. His teasing references to death were distasteful.
He sighed a plume of smoke. “I just don’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of having the last word. I figure he gets to do that a lot, and I’m a stubborn jerk. I want to ruin it for him by dying before he can come for me.”
“But either way—”
“Yeah, yeah. Either way, I’m a dead man. But I always lived on my own terms. I want to die that way, too.” He started another deep inhale but began to cough, a shoulder shaking wrack that dislodged him from his seat in an effort to quell it. She reached for the cigarette and ground it out for him, and held his tea ready. He sat, the spell momentarily passed. Taking the tea cup, he drained it in three rough swallows. “I’m sorry. Guess this is more than you bargained for when you went out for a walk today, huh.”
Her walk today. She’d forgotten. She walked out to the cliffs. She remembered the moments before she had spied him. The locket—
Senza
felt around her neck. Not there. Not there! And yet, she lived.
She felt the lump of metal through her bodice and plucked it out. The chain spilled out, dangling from her palm. It was broken.
“Snapped the chain, huh? I’m sorry. I can fix it.” He half-stood and reached for it.
She snatched it out of reach, shying from him like a wild animal.
“Hey, easy.” His tone was gentle, as if he were calming a spooked horse. His palms open, his brows upturned, he continued to murmur comforting nonsense. “I won’t take it from you.”
She relaxed a little. She couldn’t wear the locket if the chain was snapped. It had to be fixed. She gripped the amulet tight enough to hurt her fingers. “How?”
“A pair of pliers, if you have ‘em, or a piece of wire if you don’t. You can hold onto your bauble. All I need are the ends of the chain. See? Easy.”
“I am not quite sure.” She looked around. This tiny house was a mystery to her. Such a far cry from the early days, when she’d been deposited into lavish apartments and cozy hideaways, so different from the sumptuous sepulcher she’d known only hours before. “Maybe there’s a tool box out back. On the back porch.”
At least, she thought it was a back porch. She hadn’t given more than a glance out the kitchen window when she was making tea, or when she felt the ghost of Knell’s touch on her neck earlier.
“Okay.” He got up and walked out through the kitchen.
Listening to his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor, the slam of the screen door, the sounds of scraping and metal sliding on metal, she poured another cup for him.
In a few moments he reappeared, snapping a pair of red-handled pliers. “Come sit.”
He pointed to the couch. When she didn’t move, he wagged his fingers at her. “The chain isn’t long enough to reach from there.”
Senza stepped carefully around the small table, noting how small the couch was. She lowered herself like she was spun from glass, careful not to touch him. He slid his fingers down the lengths of the chain, lifting the ends and examining each one.
“You’re lucky. It’s a big, thick link. I wouldn’t be able to fix it here if it had been finer. Then again…” He eyed her hand, fingers tightly wrapped around the amulet. “You need a tow chain to support that heavy thing.”
She snorted and lifted her chin. It made him laugh.
It didn’t take long for him to repair the chain; he’d only had to thread the distorted link through the other and bend it closed.
“I can’t thank you enough,” she said.
He looked away, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket. “You saved my life.”
She draped the chain over her head, settling the amulet and its familiar weight to its rightful place, next to her empty heart. “You saved mine, as well.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t know if I should thank you or demonize you. I figured fixing your necklace would err on the side of politeness.”
“Well, then.” She lifted her tea cup. “To civility.”
He picked up his refreshed cup and mimicked her toast. “Cheers.”
Senza excused herself, leaving the tea in the room with him. She was simply unsure what to make of him and so escaped to the cliffs, peering hard at the ocean and the horizon that had melted into the depths of darkness. Hours passed effortlessly, her thoughts muted and vague. The locket was heavy tonight, so much more so than it had been before she’d taken it off, intending to fling it into the sea.
She’d meant to end herself. Piotr had meant the same. Somehow, they managed to foil each other.
What to do now?
She supposed he would leave while she was out. Would he pick up where he’d left off? A cup of tea didn’t cure a cancer and his troubles were still very real. Would she find his body in the morning? Would there be no trace left of him, the only proof he’d ever existed found in a tray full of ashes?
At length, the night grew too chill for her comfort and she tread the path back to her cottage. A lamp burned in the front window, and the door lantern was lit. She didn’t remember lighting them. Cautiously, she pushed open the door. The parlor was empty but a great racket came from the kitchen. She stepped inside, tugging the door closed.
“I know it’s late, but…” Piotr leaned through the doorway. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Senza went to the kitchen to find Piotr in the midst of making supper. The oven blazed, flooding the small room with warmth and aroma. She hadn’t eaten much over the year she’d spent here in her cottage by the sea, but she remembered how she’d once enjoyed it.
And it had been a long time since she indulged herself. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“Ah, well. You left so suddenly I never had the chance to say goodbye. I needed something to do while you were gone.” He pulled out her chair like a proper gentleman.
She bunched her skirts and sat down. “What if I hadn’t returned?”
“Everyone comes home in the end.” He glanced at her as he took his seat. He lifted a warming cover to reveal a tidy roast, carrots and potatoes making an appetizing garland. “Besides, you hardly look like the wild night life kind of girl.”
She plucked a green bean from a steaming bowl. “You might be surprised.”
“Nothing surprises me.” He served them both, heaping the food generously on each of their plates. What an appetite he must have. “Except maybe one thing. Why are you here? All alone?”
“I prefer solitude.” She poked at a carrot with the tip of her fork, not particularly relishing the conversation.
Chewing, he made a disapproving sound. “It’s not healthy.”
Healthy was a relative term, wasn’t it? The absence of illness. Absence of pain or unrest. It wasn’t a state of absolute being; it was simply a state of desirable being.
She reached for her glass, wishing to cleanse her palate. “Being around people isn’t healthy.”
“You can’t catch cancer from someone.” His tone was flat. He seemed to apply a little too much vigor to the pepper shaker.
Ah. She’d insulted him. If that was what he needed to think, so be it. Normally, it was preferable. It enabled her to remain apart, alone. A little alienation often went a long way.
But Piotr—his eyes were tight from the strain the additional distance had placed on him. He was not accustomed to solitude, it seemed. She softened. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I know you didn’t. Look. I didn’t exactly make overnight plans this morning. I figured I’d be sleeping with the fish. Could I impose…” He spread his hands, his words trailing off awkwardly.
“You mean to sleep here?” Her empty heart fluttered inside as a panic zinged through her. The locket warmed, sending the thump of a beat through her. It had been so long since she’d needed a beat. The sensation wobbled her.
“I shouldn’t have.” He pushed away from the table, taking his plate to the sink, his dinner barely touched. Such a waste.
“No. It’s fine. The couch, will it do?”
He half-turned. “Are you sure?”
“It’s a small comfort. I haven’t much to share but, should you wish to stay, you may. As long as you wish. But, Piotr…my comforts are limited and you may find me to be unremarkable company.”
He returned to the table and reached for his glass. His expression alarmed her. He was too interested. “Thank you, Senza.”
“Now, eat.” She nudged the bowl of beans toward him. “You need to keep up your strength.”
Weeks passed, and Piotr stayed. He’d come to this place to end his life and had made no future plans. No future, either, he’d joked, but neither of them laughed when he said it.
He possessed great humor, as black as it was, and was well-educated. Most afternoons they talked until he was too tired to listen; after a nap and a meager meal, they talked again, well into the night. Not very exciting company, but good company all the same.
Some days, Piotr was consumed by a terrible anger. He never raised his voi
ce or was rude in any way; Senza knew, all the same, and gave him space. He had a lot to accept in the short time that was left for him. On certain occasions, that anger was over-ruled by his dread of being alone, and their conversations would dance around the terrible topic that never seemed to lift itself away.
He had a fondness for sweet red wine, which was always in abundance in a crate on the crooked back porch. Apparently, Knell provided for Piotr, as well.
Except in the most significant of ways. Piotr was dying, and Knell did not manifest to cease that terrible process. Piotr’s appearance and vivacity changed with an unsettling speed, especially considering Senza hadn’t aged a day past seventeen. One did not require medical training to see he was dreadfully ill, and worsening with every passing day. Eventually, the vigorous conversations faded, slowed, and nearly ceased.
Some days, he only seemed to possess enough energy to walk the short distance to the front porch, braving the relentless wind. She kept to his side, content to do whatever he was well enough to do. They spent afternoons watching the path of the sun overhead, counting the gulls or the distant ships at sea.
They sat on the porch one afternoon, watching a far-off storm tumble its way up the coast. Piotr had been as sullen as that wall of cloud in the distance and Senza had spent the morning baking, hoping the warm scents of fruit and spice would ease his spirit.
“Say this is our life.” Piotr lifted his hands, palms facing, and planted one hand on each thigh, making an imaginary measure. “You ever get the feeling that you’re right here—”
He wagged his left hand, indicating the beginning of the measure. “You’re always right here, in this part of your life. Your heart, your brain, your optimism—everything you ever want to do but haven’t done yet, the feeling like you’re not ready to grow up unless you absolutely have to? This is where you always are. Where you should be.”
He gritted his teeth. “But everything else says you’re here.”
Now, he jerked his right hand. “You’re at the end. You didn’t even get a chance to get there yourself. You just wake up one day and find out someone did it for you.”