by Amarie Avant
My mouth rises at each edge.
“Hell, if Lincoln told him that while they were running the streets for beer, I see the friendship. But then again, I don’t think so. Instead of them coming back so soon, your dad would have attempted to ransom him, just to fire a real gun.”
An unfamiliar tightness clings to the pit of my stomach. “So you believe Lincoln explained to Dad just who he was?” Why is it important to me that my father reveres Lincoln for who he is and not status bequeathed to him?
“Nah, he probably didn’t tell Deon. Lincoln had to have wowed Deon over with his mouthpiece. Besides the British accent and terms, they both seem to talk a lot of shit.”
“Crap, I have fallen in love with a man who is just like my father,” I mumble and sip wine.
In a room flickering with illumination, my mother’s smile shines brightest. “You’re in love with Lincoln?”
I wave her off. “No, Mom, stop being so enthusiastic.”
Comparing Lincoln to Hosea has become second nature so, how could I be in love with Mr. Zager?
She points her salad fork at me, head cocked just so. “Uh, you just said you were in love with him. Hello? You said, you’d fallen in love with a man just like your pigheaded father! And perhaps my ears have defied me, but the telling is all in the eyes anyway. I think he loves you too.”
“Did I?” My tongue glides across my top teeth.
“You know what they say about a slip of the tongue.”
“Then I meant I’m fond of him. Deeply fond of him,” I murmur in thought. “We haven’t been acquainted long enough for love.” Heck, not even long enough for him to have been so supportive and accompany me here.
“Why fight it?” Mom asks.
The waiter steps over in the nick of time.
“Roasted red mullet fillet, please,” I speak up, “and I’ll take the white Burgundy once it’s ready.”
“Chicken Marsala for me, thanks,” Mom says.
He offers a wine pairing for her dinner, but she declines. The instant the waiter turns on his heel, Mom is back to me. Her elbows are on the table, chin resting in her hands. She is dramatic as ever and she forgot to don one of her expensive-ass wigs.
“Ooooh, placing your elbows on the table will get you in so much trouble,” I joke.
Her gaze locks onto mine, and she doesn’t back down.
“Dang it, Mom. I can’t be in love with Lincoln because I still obsess about Hosea. Try that on for size!” I scoff.
“That’s perfectly fine, Siobhan.”
“Not if I am unable to move forward in the current relationship I have with Lincoln. Half the time we’re together, I assess him based on how Hosea would do this or that.”
Not convinced, Mom waves a hand for me to continue.
“All right, Lincoln is different from Hosea as night to day. Hosea could hypnotize you with words of endearment and ginger kisses against the mouth. His backrubs were excellent. On the other hand, there's Lincoln, whose words of endearment are punctuated with ‘bloody’ here and a good number of ‘fucks’ there. There’s no telling what he’ll do to surprise you. Lincoln is just that spontaneous.” I think back to the yacht and the bike ride—pre pit bull—and oh, I guess he does have a way with words. When we are running, there's always a wealth of motivation. So I tell her as much.
“Mom, I’m telling you, Lincoln in some odd way is perfect.”
“I’m hearing you.”
“It should be against the law for two people to be in a relationship where a man doesn’t uplift a woman or encourage her. He makes me a better woman. He has forced essential oxygen into my lungs and made me want to breathe again.”
“I hope God continues to bless your relationship with Lincoln.”
“But I still can’t be in love with Lincoln.”
Her hands fly to the air, then Mom reaches forward and says, “Girl, I don’t know where you’ve been, but I’ve raised my children to always strive for the best for themselves. You’ve been in a funk since Sammy.” Her eyes mist somewhat but are still shiny and stern. “You had the best with Hosea, and I’m telling you, God showered down another blessing on you, baby. In some lifetimes, women are too stupid to accept the gift they’ve been given. The Lord chose Hosea for you. He is gone. You’ve endured trying times. So the Lord turned right around and double blessed you with Lincoln too.”
I sigh heavily. The saying “God won’t tempt you…” roves through my mind. But honest to God, I swear my breaking point came and took me with it. Instead of reveling in the nurturing way Lincoln is with me, I do something stupid. Doubt seeps into my psyche. “How about this? He’s saved my life, I’m sure whatever he feels about me is the superhero complex.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “What is a superhero complex?”
“Lincoln saved me a few times, Mom, so he has the superhero complex to a T. Lincoln’s feelings are the residual effect of being a standup guy.”
“Swell,” she says sarcastically. “Lincoln saved your life. You feel indebted, which is equated to somewhat like love. He’s played superhero, and has phantom feelings for you.”
I purse my lips at how scathingly Mom summarizes and rehashes my philosophy. How do I explain this? “The dog, the stalker… the stanky man at the bar, the everything… He’s like Batman, everybody loves Batman.”
“Hmmm, he does kind of sound like Batman doesn’t he?” She stops teasing me to smile. “Now, you didn’t tell me he saved you from a dog. Before we get back to this impulsive theory of yours, I have a side note, I need answered. If Willow Bluff has one of the highest per capita in just about the entire US of A, how is it so dangerous? Why live there if it’s so dangerous?”
Sheesh, Dr. Beck beat around the bush longer than this, damn. The large bubble of a wine glass fits into the palm of my hand, I take a sip. “I had to get away.”
“Oh, baby.” She reaches over and takes my hand. “Forgive me. I steered us toward the damn elephant in the room, Siobhan. Tonight was supposed to be a light dinner, marked by your ornery, refusal to admit you’re in love. And damn it, I have segued toward the funerals tomorrow—”
“Funeral? Fu… funerals? What funerals?” I sputter on a spoonful of soup.
“Regina’s. Everett’s. Their funerals. We skipped the wake because you said you weren’t ready to deal with what Regina had done.”
I shake my head no. “No, no, what are you talking about?”
“While Lincoln spat out Deon’s beer. You said, you’d deal with Regina tomorrow.”
“Deal with her? I wasn't inferring…” I pause, confused by the turn in this entire conversation.
“I figured you weren’t quite ready to face the fact that she murdered Everett, and then killed herself.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Stalker/ Jeffrey Peterson
Ever the loner, I sit directly behind Siobhan at Vichy’s. Whereas she has a table for two, I have no one opposite me.
Under the name of Derek Mahoney, I scored the very same flight I had attempted to travel on as Donald Dudley. The computer whiz who often provides me with fake aliases has a fetish with names beginning in “D.” In the past, I had purchased an extra one of his expensive ass identification cards. I sort of look like a Derek anyway.
Though I haven’t made good on the gig for Grant, I have no intention of leaving Siobhan alone for now.
A basket of fresh sourdough bread and a saucer for dipping in olive oil is before me. My fingers scroll over the screen of my cell phone, and I feign interest in internet surfing or texting.
I made it to San Antonio, and was parked outside of the Lowes’ home around 5 p.m. I never had issues with waiting, and due to this being a new neighborhood for my previewing, I chose not to use binoculars as I am not aware of the neighbors comings and goings. Instead, I turned on the tape recorder of Hosea's many conversations about Siobhan.
Yet, this evening I hadn’t waited too long. In fact, I had to cut off the recording in the midst of a rather comical
story about how Hosea pulled Siobhan's pigtails and Samuel retaliated. This has always been one of my favorite parts of listening to Hosea about her past. At approximately 5:45, the bane of my existence was riding shotgun in the car of Deon Lowe.
At three minutes to six, Siobhan and Shania Lowe exited via the front doors taking the compact rental car.
I followed.
Now here we are. Siobhan is content with breaking my fucking heart with her words.
How can Siobhan say she loves him? My face tenses. Though Siobhan denied it to her mother, I heard her utter the words too. The shiny silver utensils next to me are calling my name as Shania coaxes her daughter to admit the truth.
Siobhan Lowe has fallen for that fucktard, Lincoln Zager. That shit feels like a shot to the heart. I can't even give her every part of me—
“Sir, how’s it going with the menu? Please let me know if you have any questions.” The waiter magically appears before me, a tray of food is in his hand.
Making eye contact, I nod and the waiter sails toward a canoodling couple parallel from me.
Now the denying of love has ended as Siobhan learns the truth.
“Regina murdered Everett? Mom, you just said she murdered her husband and committed suicide?” Siobhan’s words weave into my ears.
Here we are again, in this same predicament of my observing her but not being allowed the grand opportunity of being engrossed in conversation with her.
Eyes closed, I imagine the confusion, sorrow, angst… What else radiates off her face?
“Yes, honey,” Shania repeats. “The cops say there may have been foul play, but without much evidence to go on…”
“Regina wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do such a thing.” Siobhan gasps, her breathing becomes labored.
“You didn’t know?” Shania draws a sharp breath. “Baby, I honestly don’t understand how you were unaware.”
“Nnnnoooo.” Siobhan begins to cry.
“Excuse me, sir.” The waiter is back from adding freshly grated parmesan to the couple’s meals across the way.
My bright gaze shine as I open them, perceiving the confused look and the way the waiter wrinkles his nose. “I was… praying.”
He gulped. “Oh, I’m sorry, usually I wouldn’t disturb a customer during prayer. It’s just that, well you kinda looked—excuse me for being so blunt…” the waiter says, grimacing as if in an attempt to cushion the truth. I look like a fucking weirdo. Go ahead, have some balls.
“Well, you just looked in pain,” the waiter finishes, shifting on his feet.
“Thank you.” I glance at the server’s nameplate. Addressing someone by name often extinguished fires, I say, “Thank you for your concern, Arnold. I had a lot to pray about.”
Arnold nods, the discomfort in his eyes disappearing by the second.
Ears perked, I listen to Shania mention about driving home. I have to get outside before she left with her mother.
“Actually, I think I’ve lost my appetite.” I arise, pull out a ten-dollar bill as tip for just a glass of lemon water on tap. I need to step outside first, so they are none the wiser.
“Oh, no, I can’t.” The waiter beams modestly as the crisp money is placed in his hand. “Thank you, and I will surely be praying for you too.”
Chapter Twenty
Siobhan
The darkest shade of brown, and the same hue as my skin tone is exactly the color Lincoln’s eyes once were. While having the time of his life, Lincoln’s eyes were this rich ebony complexion of pure and utter beautiful. Man, had I thought those obsidian orbs were seductive before.
But the light is plunged out of his gaze the instant we make eye contact. I had been such a blubbering mess that whatever Mom had told him while driving home hadn’t fully penetrated because he’d just walked outside of the house with Dad.
They were tipsy and slurring mildly comedic vulgarities to each other. Until they noticed me.
“Oh, baby girl.” Dad’s grin fades. His arms are open wide in the same manner that they would’ve been if I had skinned my knee, falling from my bicycle. His pep talks were the best … until Lincoln.
Now Lincoln’s eyes are a metallic shade of black. And instead of moving into one of Dad’s big bear hugs, I propel myself into Lincoln’s arms.
Lincoln’s chin presses at the top of my head. His solid body is my haven.
“What the heck happened?” Dad says.
“She found out about Regina… and Everett.” Mom’s reply is muffled.
“Talk to me, Siobhan.” Lincoln tips my chin. “Regina, she’s your pal we came to visit?”
I'm speechless.
Mom speaks up once more. “Regina was her friend. The police say she snapped, murdered Everett, and shot herself. The coroner has held their body for two weeks now. I really just don’t understand, Siobhan. I don’t understand how you weren’t aware of any of this. I assumed that was why you called. Besides all the calls and messages, I left a voicemail on your phone the very next morning after you finally responded to my first voicemail—”
“No, you didn’t.” My tone is harsher than necessary.
“I did. Then another message just two days ago, to see if you were planning on attending the funerals, especially since your god babies…”
“Oh.” My legs cave from underneath me. Lincoln steers me toward the porch swing.
He inquires, “Shania, you left Siobhan two voicemails?”
“No, I left her more than that. Almost every day.” Mom purses her lips in thought. “A week back, I called the Willow Bluff police. A cop went by your home and left a business card taped to the gate when you didn’t answer. The officer said she’d go by a second time, yet didn’t answer my calls. Your father and I had just gotten plane tickets when Regina and Everett’s bodies were released. I’m always helping down at the church with funerals, and since they’re so close to us, your dad and I changed the flight. Deon had a red eye for tonight.”
I’m in shock. I don’t recall a Willow Bluff PD card on the wrought iron gates, but I can only assume the cop visited while Lincoln and I were at his house. The melancholy of my mom’s voice tells me she’d exhausted any ideas she could consider. She probably had begun to wonder if I felt like being bothered.
“Siobhan, after we returned from San Diego, did you receive my missed calls and voicemails?” Lincoln inquires.
“Not even one…” I murmur, clouded eyes searching his. Why bring up the time I refused to see him?
He rubs the back of his neck. “Bollocks. I assumed you were just being stubborn about keeping me out of your business. Either the stalker has been going through your phone while you are asleep, or he tampered with it—”
“Stalker!” Mom gasps and Dad shouts at the same time.
I glare at Lincoln.
He addresses my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, your daughter is being followed by a deranged bloke.”
They begin with an onslaught of questions. Lincoln and I try our best to answer each of them.
About thirty minutes later, Dad interlocks his hands on the top of his head. “Damn, when we came to visit with you after Hosea disappeared, that damn detective sarcastically mentioned a potential stalker.”
I huff. “Detective Ortiz never believed me, so why worry you all?”
“You changed the damn subject.” He folds his arms, frowning his disappointment in me and himself. “We’re your parents.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom paws my cheek.
Dad turns to Lincoln. “Tell me more about this guy? What does he look like? I’m gonna kill the bastard.”
He says, “I am searching for him. I want to kill him myself.”
“Not if I find the motherfucker first!” Dad argues.
Chapter Twenty-One
Siobhan
I’ve heard that when someone very close to you dies, sometimes it doesn’t sink in. Instead, the pain creeps up or lashes out. A song or the faintest scent or some other minute variable can set you off.
With Sammy, the void was instant. He and I had always been close.
With the disappearance of Hosea, I felt more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.
Now, Regina is gone. Both caskets are closed with an assortment of roses atop each one. Perhaps that’s the reason why it hasn’t sunk in. I’m not quite yet ready to feel it. I cried my eyes out last night, today I’ve bottled up my emotions.
After the funeral, everyone heads over to Everett Godwin’s parents’ home. The two families obstinate that Regina hadn’t murdered Everett. Foul play is whispered throughout the ceremony, and though justice is a bittersweet dream, it’s a relief both families have come together since death has plagued all of us back to back and so soon.
Another relief? Mr. Murrell is nowhere to be found.
Lincoln never left my side last night. With us wedged on my twin-sized bed, I cried myself asleep in his arms. This morning he phoned the associates that he had planned to meet and cancelled his plans to attend the funeral with me. Now we are seated on a loveseat in the den. Everett Junior has followed Lincoln around like he’s the favorite uncle and has plastered himself on the opposite side of Lincoln. Lincoln’s hand slips into mine every so often. The touch or a look reminds me that I am not alone.
“You’re a pro at the motivational quotes and speeches, Lincoln. But what exactly did you tell Junior?” I smile at Lincoln, rubbing Connie’s hair. It’s in neat braids. The toddler is asleep in my lap.
“Just to be strong is all.” Lincoln shrugs.
At the funeral, Everett Junior had been asking for his parents, repeatedly. He’d been sent from arm to arm, as each of his grandparents, uncles and aunts held him. They’d all mentioned that Mommy and Daddy went to heaven. The boy wasn't so easily enamored with heaven like Connie. As the soprano sang “Going Up Yonder,” his wails got louder too.