From The Dead

by John Herrick

  Jesse’s jaw grew rigid. “So you’re telling me if some prostitute or heroin addict who’s still high walked into the church, they’d be welcome?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And the other people in the chairs are just waiting to say hello?”

  “I hope so. If not, they need to stop and remember the way they used to be before they became a Christian.”

  “So you don’t see a difference between right and wrong?”

  “It’s not a matter of right and wrong. It’s about allowing people to change.”

  “So what do you think of me?” Jesse said.

  “Truth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you’re searching for something. I think you’ve decided to make a change somewhere in your life—exactly what, I don’t know.”

  “You’re telling me you never wondered what kind of life I lived in California?”

  “Of course I did. But in the end, that’s none of my business. Everyone walks through life their own way.”

  Jesse’s guilt wrenched inside. “Geez!” he shouted. “Will you get angry at me just once! Stop being so fricking understanding all the time!”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell me I’m a screwup! Tell me I don’t deserve to be in your family anymore! Tell me something that takes the guilt away!”

  “Guilt? What guilt?”

  “Never mind.”

  Still on his feet, Jesse fumed as tension hung thick as concrete in the air. He didn’t know how these arguments began, but they had occurred often in the past.

  Chuck appeared at a loss for words. “I don’t think you’re a screwup,” he said at last.

  “I wish you would.”

  “I don’t see you that way. I remember where I came from before I was a minister, before I even met your mom—I was a teenager who got into a crowd I shouldn’t have. Started smoking pot behind the factory where I worked in the summers—pot had just come on the scene at the time. Other details I’d be too embarrassed to go into.” Chuck peered at his silent son. “I know the attraction in running wild. I’ve been there.”

  “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know about my life—you don’t even know about my last six months!”

  Jesse wanted a remedy to take the stain away—the one that festered in him. When he searched for a way to erase it, to make up for his faults, he couldn’t find one. Life had begun to improve with regard to Drew, Caitlyn and his family, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t fulfill his yearning. Jesse wanted to be free. But the freedom he sought was internal, not external. He’d tried a physical escape to L.A., but to no avail. So he remained trapped.

  “What are looking for from me, Jess?” Chuck said.

  “I’m looking for a difference! You have no idea how I detest myself as a preacher’s son! I hate that I’m considered open territory for anyone who’s interested in my privacy. I hate that I’ve had to share you with anyone who asks! I hate that when I look at you, I see a part of me—because, and this might hurt you, but I don’t want to be you! Do you realize I got forced into this? You got a choice in the preacher thing; you chose to sacrifice your privacy. But I never got that choice! That’s why I never visited: I didn’t want the life you had to offer! Do you know what it’s like to be fourteen years old and have adults scrutinize you, against your will, like they’re entitled to it? Do you think I ever got a thank-you for it? I can’t be the person they want me to be—I can’t be you! I can’t break away from it, but I can’t reconcile it inside of me! And like it or not, when I see you, you symbolize the issue. When I see you, I’m reminded of my faults, of who I’ll never become.”

  Angry, Jesse stormed out of the room. In the lobby, he passed Maureen—of course she had returned from lunch in time for the outbursts. She said nothing, but Jesse was sure she had heard plenty.

  CHAPTER 42

  Hours later, still in a simmer from his argument with Chuck, Jesse clenched his jaw and grabbed a knife from its wooden block. He peeled an onion and, to vent his frustration, diced it with forceful chops. He picked up the scent of ground beef as it browned.

  When Eden opened the door to the house, she heard the knife chops before she saw their source. Jesse’s ears burned.

  “What’s for dinner?” Eden asked.

  “Taco salad.” With half the onion chopped, he used the blunt edge of the knife to slide the pieces into a large bowl of lettuce. Then he resumed with the other half of the onion.

  Eden set her purse on the counter and took a seat. She crossed her arms and took in the sight of Jesse as he unleashed his anger on the innocent vegetable. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said in his irritated-guy grunt. His next verbal clue didn’t arrive until he cut his finger by accident.

  A minor cut, he shifted to the sink to wash it. Eden jumped up and headed over to him. When Jesse insisted he was okay, she finished the onion while he wrapped a clean paper towel around his finger and sat down at the table.

  Elbow on the table, Jesse held his finger upward and applied pressure to the cut to aid the clotting. Besides his recent nosebleed symptoms, he had noticed cuts took longer to stop bleeding as well, so he waited.

  The ground beef continued to snap and sizzle on the stove. The scent of black pepper and green chiles engulfed the kitchen. After she added the remaining ingredients to the salad bowl, Eden sat across from her brother. “What happened today? Why are you so ticked off?”

  “It’s nothing. I had a fight with Dad, that’s all.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “No. I don’t want to go into it.”

  “Maybe you should. Obviously, internalizing it hasn’t helped.” No response from Jesse, so

  Eden asked, “Why do you get so upset with Dad? It used to happen all the time. What did he do today?”

  “It’s not what he does—more like what he doesn’t do. Look, it’s confusing; I’ve never figured it out.” Jesse took a deep breath. Lucky he hadn’t sliced his hand, he figured a count to ten might serve him well at the moment. At last he said, “It’s a constant frustration that doesn’t go away.”

  “In you?” she clarified.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “I feel a weird sense of guilt. And I can’t escape it—it just lurks in me day and night. I end up so confused that I don’t know what I feel or who I’m angry at: Dad or me.”

  “And this just started happening?”

  “Are you kidding?” Jesse murmured. “It started when I was a kid—maybe fifteen.” He stared at his finger, where blood had seeped through the layers of the paper towel. Jesse rewrapped the cut with the unstained portion of the towel. “I hate living in his shadow. If I imitate him, I’m a fake; if I act like myself, I make the preacher look bad. All I ever wanted was to break free,” he said. “Geez, I just wanted to figure out who I am. That was the plan when I went to L.A. The acting didn’t take off like I’d hoped, but at least I was free to be myself—whatever that is.”

  Eden listened. Both of them were preacher’s kids, but each had adapted in a manner that matched their respective personality. Eden hadn’t found it problematic. Jesse, on the other hand, had sought unique opportunities to vent.

  “You visited me out there,” Jesse continued. “You know what I mean: The place is always full of life.”

  He watched her ponder this for a moment. Then she said, “I also remember you called it cosmetic over there, not to mention the pressure to project an image—kind of like a minister’s kid in reverse.”

  “Sure it was cosmetic, but at least it was active.” He bit the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit. “Maybe I have too much time to think here.”

  “To be honest, after all those visits, I never thought you seemed happy there.”

  “Things got dry the last couple of years. But before that, my life was in constant motion. Remember all the running around we did when you first visited? We had a blast.”

  “I’m not talking about external st
uff. On the outside, yes, you seemed upbeat and at home. But I could sense sadness about you, the kind that dwelt deep down. I could see it in your eyes—a longing, a distanced look, the way you would gaze at the Hollywood hills. It’s tough to hide your eyes, Jesse. It looked like dense smog settled into them, a heaviness that stood between you and the utopia you were seeking.”

  Jesse let out a soft, knowing laugh. “So many people there,” he said, almost to himself. “How can someone be surrounded by people, by friends and a girlfriend, and yet feel so—alone?”

  Eden allowed the comment to settle before she asked, “Have you talked to Jada lately?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Jesse’s finger had stopped bleeding. He headed to the wastebasket to toss the paper towel and wash his hands again. The meat for the taco salad looked ready. He tossed the salad, fixed two plates, and spooned the beef on top. After he brought two glasses of water and sat down again, Eden said grace over dinner and they started to eat.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But I saw the way you and Jada used to interact. I had the impression Jada was a distraction. A welcome distraction: It got your mind off other things.”

  Jesse relented. “Psychoanalysis from a social worker,” he quipped. “And your diagnosis?”

  Eden acknowledged his prods with a grin, yet kept her words sincere. “Maybe you felt a hole inside and tried to use Jada to fill it.”

  With a snicker, Jesse swallowed a bite. “I think we used each other.”

  A pause.

  “Do you miss her?” Eden asked.

  He mulled it over. “I thought I would. We’d been knotted together for years, kind of like a habit—a bad one, it turned out.” He shrugged and chewed on a diced tomato. “Things got rocky toward the end. We started to coast; she became bored with the relationship. It crashed and burned. Finally, she broke it off and kicked me out of the apartment. Her name was the only one on the lease.”

  Eden furrowed her eyebrows, as if she sensed a missing detail. “So why did you turn back to Ohio?”

  Jesse pursed his lips. “Why not? Where else would I go? Besides, the thought of Cait haunted me, drew me home. Jada knew nothing about Cait or the pregnancy, but she could tell I kept secrets from her.” He paused. “I’d gotten tired of it anyway, I suppose—tired of putting on a false front. I mean, even the palm trees are spaced apart perfectly. Remember? All along Ventura Boulevard.” He speared a trio of kidney beans with his fork. “At this point, I even look forward to the first foot of snow here.”

  He heard Eden crunch on a taco chip. When she swallowed, she gestured toward him with her fork.

  “I think the life’s returned to your eyes since you came back—the life that seemed missing on the coast,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I missed having you around. And Cait’s played a big part, too.” His fork clinked against the plate as he set it down. “What a contrast between Caitlyn and Jada, huh?”

  Eden feigned surprise. “Oh, you noticed?”

  “Jada seemed exciting when she and I first met. She personified what I searched for: the exact opposite of what I’d come from. That’s where it ended, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had no depth. Not like Caitlyn. Look at Cait’s compassion, her patience …”

  “Deep down, I believe Caitlyn saw those qualities in you, too.”

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “Maybe she did.”

  * * *

  Late that night, as Jesse lay in bed, he squinted at a lone stream of moonlight that filtered through lace curtains into the otherwise pitch-black room. From the open window, a gentle breeze trickled in. He could hear the hypnotic tick of a clock, which emanated from another room and teased the silence.

  His alarm clock taunted 1:41 a.m. Nowhere near sleep, Jesse got out of bed. He pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, shoes and socks. From the dresser a few steps away, he grabbed his keys and cell phone—funny how we grab that along with our keys nowadays, he thought—then slipped out of the house.

  Beneath a starlit sky and a half moon, Jesse immersed himself in the stillness of the night. He walked down Route 91, which, by this time, lacked the hum of automobiles in the distance. When he arrived home at this hour after late film shoots in L.A., he used to rush down the street to reach his apartment. Only in the Midwestern suburbs could he walk alone in the ink of night and feel secure. While others slept, this present tranquility afforded him the chance to clear his head and gain perspective.

  The air felt so fresh here. Unblemished by angry particles of smoggy tar. Pure.

  He reflected on his argument with Chuck and the subsequent discussion with Eden. Regret settled in with regard to his father—not a regret of torment, but a reaction of love to a father who exuded love. Perhaps Jesse himself needed to change. Yes, he admitted to himself: After years of carefree—and, in the end, uncommitted—living, he had bypassed certain aspects of maturity. In the past, he merely needed to get by.

  But no longer. Like a foreign piece to a mismatched puzzle, such an approach to life proved unfitting and unwelcome.

  Life seemed different now, enhanced for the better. His perspective broadened. He had a child he vowed not to turn his back upon.

  On his right, he turned into a neighborhood and walked down streets awash in a streetlamp cascade. Jesse felt his skin glow in the balmy July air. The moon, which cast fluorescent beams across the homes, also instigated shadows around the corners. Row after row, darkened house after darkened house, this community slept.

  He reached into his pocket. Cell phone in hand, he flipped it open and dialed Chuck’s phone number—his office number to avoid waking him. At the voice-mail cue, Jesse paused. He didn’t have a speech prepared. No explanation to justify his behavior or his lack of regard.

  Instead, he spoke from the simplicity of his heart.

  “It’s me,” he said. “I’m sorry.” How many arguments, what lack of appreciation and recognition of value, he sought to cover with that single phrase. “I’m just … I’m sorry.”

  He lowered his head, snapped the phone shut—and savored the wave that washed through his fibers. Another good decision stacked upon the others. Step by step.

  As he took a deep breath, he stopped for a minute and took in another glimpse of the moon. He watched as it assumed the role of backlight for thin clouds that crept across it like paranormal fingers.

  Tired at last, he turned around and headed back to Eden’s house.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Ready to go?” Jesse asked as he strolled into Blake’s shop.

  He caught Blake and Eden in the midst of flirtation at the counter.

  Eden pecked Blake on the lips. “I’ll meet you there,” she said and headed out the door.

  Blake admired his girlfriend as she left, then turned to Jesse. “Almost ready. I need to wrap up a few things up before I leave.” He snatched a tiny container from the counter and tossed it to Jesse. “Here, take a bottle.”

  “What are these, pills?”

  “Vitamins. It’s a new brand. Just got a bunch of samples the other day.” He thumped Jesse on the chest. “Have you taken your vitamin today, young man?”

  Jesse rolled the container in his hand.

  Blake proceeded to lock the door—he closed up shop at six o’clock on Friday evenings—and rang out the day’s totals at the register. The shop was empty, his assistant gone.

  “I hear you’re seeing Caitlyn again,” Blake said.

  “I don’t know if ‘seeing’ is the right word, but we’ve spent time together lately.”

  “Long time since that happened, huh?”

  “That’s for sure. She’s much the same, though.”

  Blake stopped for a second. “I don’t think I’ve seen her since she watched our games in high school.”

  Guarded, Jesse wasn’t sure how much detail Blake knew, and he didn’t want to open the floodgates.

  Back at the counter, Blake noticed Jesse’s hesitation and s
hut the cash register’s tray. “Eden told me a couple of months ago, after you returned—about Caitlyn and Drew, that is. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  “No, I’m not concerned about you,” Jesse replied. But Eden had promised she would tell only Blake. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Nobody else. She swore me to secrecy,” Blake said. “But I wanted to let you know you have another person in your corner.”

  Jesse nodded. “So how serious are you and Eden? She wouldn’t confide in you if she didn’t see long-term potential. Is marriage inevitable?”

  Blake shied away. “I’m sure it is, but not for at least another year. I’m ready to expand to a second shop; I want that established beforehand so Eden would have solid support.” He ran his thumb up the palm of one hand. “I know marriage is a dream of hers.”

  “That’s an understatement. She started planning her wedding when she was eight years old.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Blake snickered. “But I think it’s deeper than that. For her, it represents more.”

  Jesse’s approval of his sister’s boyfriend continued to grow. “How so?”

  “She and I haven’t discussed the why behind the what,” Blake replied. “But I believe it’s because your mom died so young. I think Eden wants to be a wife and mom—the wife and mom she never got to have firsthand.”

  “It didn’t seem to bother her as a kid. I asked her about it, and she seems to cope fine.”

  “She’s a strong person. She manages it well. I’ll bet it didn’t surface until she was a teenager, and that’s when you headed out of town. At that point, she only had to downplay it from you on the phone, plus a week whenever she’d visit you.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Jesse mulled it over. “All this time, she’s held strong for me while she hurt inside.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t quite like that,” Blake said. “More like it’s buried inside her, and it comes to the surface now and then. She’s fine; it’s just that there’s an empty hole there.” Blake gave the countertop a decisive tap with his fingertips. “And eventually that hole will be filled.” He paused, then asked, “How did your mom die, anyway?”