by Lindy Zart
“Hey.”
I jump, instinctively taking a step back from the man with missing teeth and body odor who stands really close to me. I study him, looking into his glassy brown eyes. I couldn’t guess his age. There is a grocery bag over one of his bony arms, and from what I can tell, it holds a collection of clothes, books, and food. Comprehension hits me, hard and cold. He’s homeless.
“You done? I need to make a phone call.” He points a dirty, jagged nail at the payphone behind me.
“Um…yeah. I’m done.” He continues to watch me, and after much longer than it should take, I figure out it’s because I’m blocking the path to the phone. “Sorry!” I move to the side and let him pass, turning around to watch him shuffle toward the phone.
The man pats himself down, searching for change. I dig in my pocket for quarters, and with shallow breaths keeping the full force of his smell at bay, I set the money on the ledge beside the phone, quickly moving back when he looks over his shoulder.
On impulse, I sprint into the gas station and load up my arms with food and bottles of water. I noticed he doesn’t have many teeth, so I opt for softer foods. Ignoring the cashier’s bemused look as I open my arms to allow the food to fall onto the counter, I quickly pay, bouncing as I wait for him to bag it.
As if the world is temporarily on my side and agrees with my plans, I spot the man sitting on a bench just as a bus pulls up across the street from the gas station. A bus. Of course. I hightail it over to it, the bags hitting my legs as I go. It feels strange to leave this town that Blake grew up in, but at the same time, it feels nothing but right, because I know this isn’t the end. A temporary one, for sure, but I will see Blake again. I’ll make sure of it. I just hope he still wants to see me by then.
“This is for you,” I tell the man, gesturing to the multiple plastic bags I set by his feet as I try to catch my breath.
He looks from the bags to me, suspicion turning his eyes a darker shade of brown. “Why?”
What do I say to that? And what does it say about humans that he has to ask?
“Just because,” is all I say.
The man drops his gaze, clasps his hands together in his lap, and doesn’t acknowledge me again. I turn away, listening as the bus puts on its brakes and comes to a shuddering stop. I get it. I don’t like handouts either. Sometimes, though, it’s about survival instead of pride. I don’t know anything about him, or his circumstances. I just know I have a little bit, and he has less than that. I wonder if that way of thinking is what ultimately had Blake help me. He saw I needed help, and he helped me.
God, I love his heart—that he denies having.
It isn’t until I’m walking to the bus that I hear softly from behind, “Thank you.”
I smile and tighten my grip on my pink backpack. I nod without looking back, and climb up the first step. A road trip via bus isn’t the strangest thing I’ve done. I think I can manage it.
12
Blake
It’s too quiet when I get back to the house. And not because it’s actually quiet, but because Opal isn’t here.
After I left Opal at the gas station, I almost turned back. But I didn’t. I kept driving. And driving. For hours. Aimlessly, and then with purpose. I drove past the house that I lived in as a child, knowing nothing will get better until I see my dad. I drove through the cemetery where Billie now resides.
I parked the truck on the road near the row of tombstones, walked to the simple gray stone that marks her resting place, and I apologized for the actions that took her life and gave me mine back, something I’ve never had the courage to do before. After Billie died, I finally woke up. I found I wanted to live. She couldn’t, because of me. That guilt has kept me from a better life.
Opal told me to forgive myself. I always thought I needed it from everyone else, but maybe the one I need forgiveness from is me.
And lastly, I sat beside my grandfather’s grave, and I told him about my life. Every regret, every hope. I confessed every sin, told every truth. I talked to my grandpa as if he was sitting beside me, listening with his head bent to the side, like he always did when he was in deep thought.
I told him about Opal, and how she makes me feel, and how I can’t explain what it means, but that I already feel the loss of her.
Back on the porch at home, I drop my head forward and close my eyes. A gust of wind hits my back, tells me another storm is on the way. The sun is low in the sky, and its fiery heat is aimed right for me. Something falls inside the house and my shoulders jerk up and back. I can’t deal with Grennedy right now.
I turn to leave once again, and the front door to the house swings open.
“Are you going to stay out here all day?”
I meet my brother’s expectant gaze. “I was thinking about it.”
Graham nods his golden head, a hand towel draped over a shoulder and a can of wood polisher in one hand. “Instead of moping, or whatever it is you’re doing—”
“Brooding,” Kennedy calls from inside.
He smiles faintly, showing a hint of unnaturally white teeth. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shift my stance. “Why don’t we talk about what you’re doing with that towel and wood polisher? Are you and Kennedy into some kinky stuff I don’t need to know about?”
His lips flatten. “Your house is appallingly dirty. I’m cleaning it.”
I fight a smile. “Got a casserole in the oven too?”
“Chicken!” This, again, from Kennedy.
“I don’t have chicken.”
“You had next to nothing in your refrigerator and cupboards. We got some groceries while you were gone.” Graham studies me, looking like he wants to ask questions about why I was gone so long, and where I went, and what I was doing, and why I am without Opal—who is Lori to him.
The sound of something heavy being moved across the floor reaches my ears, and I look around him through the open door, not wanting to answer the questions he wants to ask. I don’t even know if I have answers.
“What is she doing in there anyway?” I spy a glimpse of the backs of Kennedy’s legs before they lift to the air like she just threw herself face first on the couch.
“She’s helping me clean.” At my dubious look, he adds in a quieter voice, “She’s mostly drinking wine and trying not to break things—and she thought we should talk alone.”
“Great. I so love having heart to hearts with my big brother.”
Graham lifts a finger, striding inside. He comes back minus the hand towel and can of wood polisher, but with his shirt twisted and his hair mussed. I swear there is a pink tint to his tan skin as he steps from the porch to the ground. I move to the ground as well. He hands me one of two beers he brought with him, and I catch the label of the NA brand.
“Must be serious if you brought out the non-alcoholic beer.”
My brother fiddles with his cell phone, sliding it into the back pocket of his shorts. “I set the timer on the phone. We have twenty minutes until the chicken is ready.”
“For?”
He starts walking toward the back of the house, and I follow. “Who is Lori, and what is she to you?”
“It’s a long story.” I uncap the non-alcoholic beer, and sip it.
“I’ve got all night,” my brother tells me.
I glance at him.
He looks back, serious and attentive.
“Why are you really here?” I demand, turning my gaze to the swirling clouds above. They darken as I watch, fold in, and grow.
“Because you’re my brother.”
“Why are you drinking NA beer?”
Graham grins. “Because you’re my brother.”
I tap my bottle to his before I take another swig of the beer and reach down to pick up a stick, staring at the brittle brown bark in bemusement as images of Opal’s smiling eyes and
laughter kick me in the gut. “Her name isn’t Lori.”
From his expression, I can tell that he has to work to keep all the queries unspoken. Graham straightens his shirt, clears his throat. He’s naturally high-strung, and I admire his present restraint.
He lets out a slow breath and levels his eyes on me. “Okay. What is her name?”
I look at the pond, and again, I see Opal. Shivering in the dark water, silhouetted by an approaching storm. “Opal,” I say with a smile in my voice. I look at my brother. “Her name is Opal.”
Graham goes still, his eyes locked on my face. I turn from his probing gaze. Some things—okay, most things—I like to keep private, but especially how I feel about Opal. I’m not ashamed by it. I just want it to be mine to know. No one else’s.
“She more or less hijacked my truck in Illinois.”
“She stole your truck?” Graham blinks in disbelief.
“I stopped at a gas station, and when I got back out to the truck, she was in it.”
“But she didn’t go anywhere?”
“Well, the keys weren’t in it. But, I don’t think she would have taken it anyway.”
“You don’t think?”
I look at Graham. “She was sleeping.”
His eyebrows furrow. “And you didn’t know her before this?”
“No.”
“And then what?”
I shrug. “We got a motel room, went to a circus, came here.”
“It all sounds really sensible,” he comments.
I’ve thought of Opal nonstop since I met her. I tell myself the fascination with her will fade in time. I tell myself in a few days, maybe a week, I won’t think of her near as often.
“Can you fall in love with someone in less than a week?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Instead of looking away, I focus on Graham’s green eyes, and in them, I only see understanding. My shoulders loosen. It feels good to have someone who won’t judge. I should have known I’d have that with Graham. After all, he is my brother.
“You can fall in love with someone in an instant,” he replies, and I know he’s thinking of Kennedy.
“How? It doesn’t make sense that you can meet someone, and know, immediately, that they’re the one.”
Graham shrugs, staring straight ahead. “Love doesn’t make sense, and I think that’s how you know that’s what it is. I saw Kennedy, and I just knew that she was supposed to be something to me. She was different from everyone else.”
“Kennedy is definitely that.”
My brother laughs, looking like a class act with his perfect looks and clothes, nonchalant pose, and beer. I can’t even resent him for it; the guy has got the biggest heart. I’m glad he’s here. Even though I am loath to concede it, I need him right now.
“A storm’s coming,” he states.
I look at the house with the lights on in every room. Graham doesn’t like the dark, or enclosed spaces, courtesy of our dad’s extraordinary disciplinary skills. Kennedy lit up the house for him. I love her for it.
“I’m going to see Dad tomorrow.”
Graham stiffens immediately. His eyes lock on mine. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No.” I finish off the beer before I talk again. “I have to do it on my own. I have to say what I need to say, and then I have to let it all go.”
“I’ll be here when you get back,” he promises.
I swallow against a tight throat and nod. “I know.”
A minute passes before I speak again. “It’s funny, you know? I always thought I needed someone else to protect me from him. I never realized I could do it on my own.”
My brother studies the bottle in his hand. “I’m glad you realize it now.”
“Me too.”
He slings an arm around me as we walk back to the house. My inclination is to move out of his partial embrace, but I don’t, and the longer I let Graham give me a semi-hug, the more it doesn’t seem odd. I feel changed, like the past so many days have altered my perception.
It’s okay to want things.
“Where did she go?” he asks, obviously still stuck on the Opal story.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you see her again?”
“I don’t know that either.” This country is vast, and overflowing with people. All I have is a first name. No address, no phone number. If we are to meet again, it isn’t up to me.
A bird chirps on his phone just as we reach the porch steps. I’m not even surprised by the perfectly timed arrival. Things have a funny way of working out like that for Graham. He drops his arm from my shoulders and retrieves his phone, quickly silencing the alarm as he walks up the steps.
“We plan on leaving in the morning—after you’re back from talking to Dad.” Graham reaches the door and looks back at me.
“Stay. If you want,” I add, vulnerability telling me I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m standing on the grass looking up at my brother, and the symbolism of the moment hits me. I’ve always looked up to him. Unfortunately, I let bitterness blanket my love for him. I’m not doing it anymore.
It’s okay to need things too, but it’s imperative to know to need them from the right people.
I used to think I hated my brother. I was jealous of how strong he appeared. He didn’t put up with our dad’s crap. He knew the kind of person he wanted to be. Graham made good decisions. All I did was continually screw up.
I never hated Graham. I hated that I wasn’t like him.
Graham’s eyes darken, and he fiddles with the doorknob as he shifts his attention to the floor. “If you’re okay with it…we don’t want to impose. I know you have—”
The door is wrenched open, and Kennedy stands inside its frame, a bag of chips tucked under her arm. She pops a potato chip in her mouth and says around it, “We will definitely stay another day or two. We would love that almost as much as you would love that. Won’t we, Barbie?”
“Yes, Ken, we’d love that,” Graham agrees, giving his girlfriend a slanted look.
“Love is a strong word,” I tease.
Kennedy nods enthusiastically, shoving a handful of chips between her lips. “It so is. And I know you love us, and we love you, so…let’s eat. I’m hungry.”
I inhale and exhale before following the duo inside.
It’s okay to love.
13
Blake
The sky is starless and sunless as I leave the house, like a black void on the world. It’s fitting with my present destination. My dad has the ability to suck the joy out of anything. My shoulders reflexively bend forward to protect my body from the chilled air. A storm raged last night, and now it’s crisp and cool. Funny how calm it is after a storm. I was living in the storm for years, and I feel it ebbing away. Finally.
It was a struggle to get myself out of the bed this morning. I could lie and say it was because it was cold and I wanted to stay warm, or that I was tired. I could even say it was because I knew I wouldn’t see Opal today, and there is a little bit of truth to that. The hopelessness descended as it likes to do, told me to curl into a ball, and sink into myself. To forget about anything but the dark.
But mainly, it was knowing where I was going, and that I was about to see my dad.
I stop at a gas station, telling myself I need coffee, knowing I really need more time. I chug the bitter, burning brew as I stare at the house I grew up in. I get out of the truck, the sound of the door shutting unusually loud in the stillness. A few lights are on, as I figured they would be. This is the time to catch my dad, in the morning hours before he heads to the gym and then to work where he oversees the running of multiple computer software stores. I take a steadying breath and walk up to the door.
The last time I saw my dad was when I was visiting Graham in Wisconsin, and the police were involved. I’m not
expecting an emotional, joyous reunion, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a fist to the face. I knock on the door and wait.
My mom opens the door, blinking at me like she doesn’t know who I am, or isn’t fully awake. I have her eyes, her facial shape. Her mental instabilities.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Blake?” My name is slurred as it leaves her mouth. “What—what are you doing here? It’s so early. I didn’t know you were coming. Is everything okay?”
She’s aged since I last saw her; there are lines under her eyes and around her mouth I don’t remember. The pink satin robe is untied, revealing her white and pink pajama shirt and bottoms. She lost her hair from doing chemo when the cancer was rampant through her body, and now she keeps the graying brown locks short for easy care.
“I’m good,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine.”
“Are you back at Dad’s? You should have told me. I would have visited.” Faint accusation sharpens her words.
“Yeah. For a few days now. It’s a mess there, Mom. You don’t want to visit yet.”
She rarely drives, and it makes her sad to go to her childhood home. I’ve offered to take her over in the past, but something always came up on her end. She was too tired, or she had errands to run. There were always excuses.
I angle my head down, hair falling into my eyes. “Is Dad around? I need to talk to him.”
Vivian Malone swallows, her already dim light fading a little more. “Your father doesn’t live here, Blake.”
“What?” Ice shoots down my spine. “Why not? Since when?”
“Come in. Let me explain,” she urges, opening the door wider and moving to the side to allow me by.
It smells like Benson Malone in the spacious entryway—rich and bitter. Even if he is no longer here, this is the home of a man who loves money and control more than his family. The walls are white, the ceilings tall, nothing but black tiles for flooring. It’s a cold house, full of dark memories. The furnishings and accent colors are bold, unmistakable. They demand notice, much like my father.