by Aric Davis
“Soon. We haven’t even officially charged you, to be honest. Some of the boys upstairs are just getting antsy to put a face and name to this stuff.”
“OK.”
“You need a ride?”
“I can walk.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The police station was only a few blocks from the shop, and Mike could see the news trucks in front of it as he walked up. He could see Becky and Lamar talking to a man in a suit, and then he saw Becky slap the man. Mike smiled and hated himself for being a traitor to Deb. Lamar saw him and jogged over, nearly tackling him when they met.
“Are you OK?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“I did the best I could to fix up the apartment, but the cops only let me start cleaning a couple hours ago. It’s still pretty bad, man. When Sid died it was on tile and linoleum, but now…”
Lamar trailed off uncomfortably and said, “I’m so sorry, Mike. Becky’s a disaster. The reporters have been calling and stopping by all day. I had Becky cancel your appointments for the next couple days; I hope that’s alright.”
“It’s fine, I think I’ll need it.”
“Mike, there’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t know if you’d been thinking funeral or what, but…”
“Deb wanted to be cremated.”
“Yeah. Well, her dad called this morning, and he’s going to have her flown down to be buried. He’s on his way right now.”
“I’ll just have to explain her wishes.”
“Mike, this sucks, OK? I know it seems like everything sucks right now, but he’s got the legal right to do what he wants, and he’s madder than hell. He’s not going to listen to you or me or anyone else. He told me to keep my ‘nigger ass’ away from him and that if he did run into any of us we’d be talking to his shotgun first. Not a balanced dude.”
“So that’s it, then. She’s going to be buried in a place she hated, by people she hated, and I won’t even be able to go to the funeral. That’s a good finish. Goddamn, this all seems like a dream. I need to sleep, just shut off the noise for a little bit. She’s dead. She’s really dead. If I would have been home none of this would have happened, just like with Sid. I need a fucking beer.”
“No drinking, not tonight. You almost killed yourself after Sid. Do you want to stay with me for a couple of days?”
“No.”
Mike spared a glance at the departing TV truck. They’d be back.
Becky walked over to them, her eyes bloodshot, her nose running. “Mike, I’m so sorry. So sorry. Deb was awesome. I just don’t see how this could happen.”
“I don’t really see how either, Becky, but it did anyways. I’m going upstairs, you guys.”
“We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Mike walked around to the back of the store. He was moving like he was twenty years older than he was—a slow, awkward, and beaten crawl to the steps. He didn’t look back.
When he came around the back of the store, there was a man sitting on the stairs in a T-shirt that said “Ranger Up” on it.
“I don’t know who you’re with, but now is not the time, pal.”
“I’m not with anyone, Mike. You tattooed me about a month ago—an eagle, like my son’s, remember?”
“Jeffrey. I remember. Sorry to be curt, but what do you want?”
“I wanted to thank you again for the tattoo. It changed my life. I saw your girl on TV, and I needed to talk to you about something.”
Mike sat down heavily on the gravel and listened to a man he barely knew tell him about the car he’d been restoring at night with his deceased son. Too tired to do anything but take it in, Mike drank in the man’s words like a man dying for water.
When Jeffrey embraced him and left, Mike was left with this thought: Jeffrey was either crazy or not, but the words were true either way. Mike crept up the stairs, ready for the worst.
The stain on the floor was bad, the smell of cleaning chemicals worse. Around them he could smell Deb—he could feel her in the apartment.
He didn’t look in the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and wept into his hands. Though he thought he never would again, he slept.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Mike.”
He rolled his arm over to grab Deb and see what she needed, but of course she was gone. It all flooded back.
“Mike.”
He sat upright in bed, delirious with exhaustion.
“Mike.”
The voice was quiet, but it was there. He grabbed the crowbar he kept by the bed and walked slowly into the kitchen. The voice called to him again, but there was no one in the living room. The bathroom door banged open behind him, and Mike spun—and then dropped the crowbar on the floor.
Sid stood before him. She shook loose a Camel from an ancient-looking pack, and then she lit it off the stove the way she always used to. When she bent to meet the flame, Mike could see the yawning exit wound in her head. She puffed twice on the cigarette and shut off the flame. Mike could smell the smoke and wondered if he’d ever smelled in a dream before.
Sid sat at the table and said, “Have a seat.”
He did.
She drew hard off of the cigarette and exhaled. He could see the smoke in the air; he could feel it around and in him. “You got yourself some bad luck with women.”
He nodded.
“Aren’t you gonna speak? We used to be buds, Mike.”
“Hello, Sid.”
“That’s better. Now you look like you could use a pick-me-up, is that about right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, first things first. What’s done can’t be undone. I can’t bring your lady back, just like I can’t bring myself back. I’m here because I never left all the way. That day before I shot myself, I made a little prayer that you’d never kick me all the way out of your life like you wanted.”
“I’m sorry for that, Sid. I hurt you, and it wasn’t fair.”
She leaned toward him violently, and Mike could smell something that wasn’t smoke or anything right. It was unnatural and awful. “You don’t get to apologize. Remember that. I am not here for your fucking sorrys. There was a time when that was all I wanted, and I was young and scared and had a gun in my mouth. Now I know different.”
“Alright. So what do you want?”
“I want you to be happy, Mike. That’s all I ever wanted. Don’t you know that by now?”
She stubbed the cigarette out on the table. It left a little scorch mark, and Mike watched her play with the butt. At least two of her fingers were broken and hanging loose from the rest of her hand.
“When you wanted to do coke, who showed up? When you wanted to drink yourself to death, who was in that fucking bathroom? I’ve been a fucking guardian to you, and you’re too dumb to even see it. Why do you think I’ve been around so much? I was trying to get your lady fair out of here for a little bit so she could live, maybe scare you into breaking up with her. But you ignored me.”
“I didn’t know.”
She leaned toward him again, menacing him. “You fucking knew. You always knew. Why else would I be in that bathroom? You didn’t really think I was just some tic of your brain telling you to be nice to women, did you?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know what I thought.”
“I’m here—and have always been here, whether you can see me or not—to protect you. I didn’t want to leave because of you, and I still don’t leave because of you. I tried as hard as I could to warn you, and it still didn’t work.”
“Why didn’t you come to me like this and just tell me?”
“Do you think this is fucking easy? I just float around and come find you like some fucking parlor trick? I’m able to be here because someone passed here recently. That’s it. Not that it does you or her a whole lot of fucking good now.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Becaus
e I liked her. She could feel me in that bathroom. We talked when she showered. She couldn’t see me, but she never stepped on me. She felt there was something there, and rather than run from it like you, she liked it. And now I need you to do something for her. It won’t be easy, and you won’t like doing it. But you’ll do it. I know you will.”
Mike felt as though his head were going to split. The dream—it had to be a dream, he could think of it in no other rational way—had gone on too long already. He watched Sid light another cigarette on the stove and sit back down. The smells, both of earth and the chemical odor coming from Sid, were more intense now. He could barely smell the cigarette over them.
She spoke again, quieter now, and she leaned toward him so far that he thought she might topple into him. Mike could see the horrible wound in her crown as she spoke. When she’d finished, she stubbed out her cigarette on the table and palmed the butts. Then she stood and said, “I can’t be with you away from here. Most of this will need doing by you, and you alone. This is your burden, Mike. I’m going now, but I’ll see you when you get back. I love you, Mike.”
“I know you do, Sid. I love you too.”
“You’re a good man. You always were, but you’re better now.”
She walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Mike stood and made his way back to the bedroom, a part of his brain screaming as he walked about why he needed to go to bed when he was dreaming. Mike let that internal voice rage as he lay down to sleep.
When he woke, the kitchen smelled of cigarettes. He was wondering at the power of the mind that it could project something like that into reality when he saw the twin burns on the table.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The bus had been traveling for what felt like forever. The ticket had claimed it would be a twenty-three-hour trip, but they’d already been going for almost two full days. No one had mentioned layovers, or stops for connections, when he bought the ticket, but those things had come in spades since they’d left.
The time was fine, though; it was time to think about what had happened, and what still needed to happen.
Becky had gained access to Deb’s MySpace and Facebook accounts through her friend’s laptop, so in addition to updating the shop’s Web portfolio to reflect the loss, she’d added a small eulogy to Deb’s profiles. In addition, she’d set up a trust to take donations in Deb’s memory for a local group that helped feed poor children. Mike had always thought of Becky as flaky, but he’d changed his mind behind a red face while she took care of everything exactly as Deb would have wanted it.
The other thing she’d done without asking him was to print off all of Deb’s blog posts so he’d have something to read on the trip. Mike had always stayed away from computers, but the pages were a little window into the mind of the woman he loved. They left no question that she’d loved him back, and he knew she would have taken this trip were the situations reversed.
Lamar was handling the business end of things, and he’d wanted to get started on filling Deb’s now empty booth. Mike had told him to do what he needed to about interviewing, but he didn’t want any new faces when he returned. Lamar had seemed almost offended at that, and Mike felt bad for saying it—of course Lamar wouldn’t have hired anyone without him.
He felt skinned, utterly cut to the bone with emotions, and every part of him knew the trip was something that had to happen. It was, he thought ruefully, quite a Deb idea. Sid had said he’d know what to do, and he’d done it so far. What he was going to do when he got to North Carolina was still shrouded in gray. He hadn’t rented a car, and the nearest bus station was at least ten miles from her town. The best-case scenario would include good weather.
Her writing wasn’t bad, and it was with a melancholy joy that he read it for the first time. It was mostly a work blog, but the entry that said, “I met a boy” made his heart leap. There were other occasional musings about their relationship, but she mostly stuck to entries explaining some of the more elaborate work she did. He could tell that a legion of less experienced artists had been following her exploits and writing in response. He was happy that she’d shared so willingly, and it made him feel guilty for never having done the same. He’d taught Lamar, but that had been as much about his wallet as it had been about his friends. Thoughts like that were sour in his head, but her writing was sweet.
He didn’t sleep on the bus; Mike found the idea impossible. Too much on his mind: Deb, Sid, the shop, replacing a coworker, the very real fear of having to face life alone again. It was a jumble that he’d listen to when he took a break from reading, and one he would drown out with her words when he couldn’t take it anymore.
The bus ride was slow and it was long and it was awful. When it ended, two days after it started, in a state he’d never meant to return to, it was night.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The man at the bus station had been nice enough to point Mike on his way. There was little to no traffic, but even if there had been, he had no intention of hitching. Even if he’d wanted to, it would’ve been nearly impossible with his appearance.
He carried the printouts Becky had made him in a backpack that was empty, save for a dwindling supply of granola bars, and the only thing Sid had told him to bring with him. It bounced on his back as he walked in the warm air. He could smell the forest, and it was nice. How could anything be nice? It was nice out, just as nice as it had been the night he’d found Deb. He remembered how great he’d felt, walking home to her from his talk with Lamar. The spring in his step tonight, though, was for a different reason: the stimulation of walking was the only thing keeping him awake. Finally, unable to bear any more, he sat next to a tree and slept.
Mike woke with the sun; he was covered in dew and forgot where he was for a terrifying moment. He saw the road and remembered. He choked down a granola bar and cursed himself for not buying a bottle of water. Ready now, he walked.
The town arrived in little bits and pieces, the way the truly small ones always do. First the forest turned to farms, and then signs denoting a lowered speed limit appeared. He stopped in a gas station to buy a bottle of water and cursed himself for not putting his long-sleeve shirt back on. All the clerk saw was tattoos, and if the guy had any kind of issue with Mike’s decorations, the sheriff would be getting a call about a white trash drifter. Mike left, upset with himself for the blunder, and he wondered if the store he really needed was going to appear. If it didn’t, there was going to be a lot of backtracking.
When the small general store’s sign broke the horizon, next to that of an Amoco gas station, Mike felt relief wash over him.
The store was open already. He walked in and saw signs declaring sales on different types of grass seed and fertilizers. To one side were a pair of gas grills made to look like they were outside, fake meat and all, and just past those was a cash register with an ancient man wearing coveralls behind it.
“What can I help you with, son?”
“I need a shovel, a good knife, and some matches.”
“Well, you’ll find your shovels on the second aisle over there, near to the back. Got about three or four to choose from. The knives are in the glass case about ten feet to my right, and for the matches, are you looking for a box or just a little fold?”
“I’d like to just get a box of strike-anywheres.”
“Well that’s just fine, we have those in spades. You’ll find ’em with the camping stuff on your way to the shovels. You know, this is an interesting grocery list you have. You from around here?”
“I lived over near the base by Havelock. Just out scrapping junk for a couple days—copper’s up to almost three bucks a pound. Trouble is, that even though I brought the metal detector, I managed to forget the shovel.”
“Well, not that it’s any of my business, but if you’re scrapping, stay off of private property. Folks around here keep an itchy trigger finger on most days.”
“I figure there are enough woods to look through.”
“
Oh sure. Just a word to the wise is all.” The old man smiled at Mike. “You lost a bit of your accent since you left, friend.”
“It’s been a few years. I can feel it coming back even after just a week or so, though.”
“It’ll creep on you. Had a cousin move up north a few years ago—didn’t take but a month for his mouth to come back around. Don’t know if you’re sticking to the woods or how long you plan to stay by Mount Olive, but Dawson’s has some darn good barbecue if you’re looking for a hot meal later.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I was planning on mostly hiking, but a hot meal sounds good. I might just do that.”
The old man gave Mike a short wave, and Mike went to shop. He found the matches first, a box colored blue with two hundred strike-anywhere matches inside. There were actually only three shovels to choose from, one longer one that Mike discounted immediately and two shorter, one with a triangular tip and the other squared off at the front. He considered both and ultimately decided on the square. It would make a cleaner cut into the earth, and since the earth he planned to dig would have been recently unearthed, he didn’t figure to need a tapered tip.
Mike walked back to the counter holding the shovel and the matches. He set them down by the register and then walked to the case of knives.
The old man followed him. “What kind of blade you got in mind?”
“I had a nice lock blade, but I lost it a couple days ago. It had about a four-inch blade.”
“Just a single sharp?”
“Yes sir.”
“You ever have a Spyderco?”
“No, heard of ’em though.”
“Your south is coming back, I just heard it.”
Mike smiled. “I suppose it might be.”
“Well this here isn’t the most expensive blade I sell, but it’s one of the best. Three-and-a-half-inch sharp, so it’ll be a little shorter than the one you misplaced, but it’s a darn sure bet this will be a nice replacement.”