“Does that happen often? Your neighbors slamming their doors?” Lorena asked.
“No,” Maggie said. Lorena turned and looked at the shaking woman. A look of concern came into her eyes as she realized Maggie had turned deathly pale.
“What’s wrong?” Lorena asked, raising her hands and cupping Maggie’s face.
“I don’t know,” Maggie offered.
“Are you frightened?” Lorena asked in a purr, gently stroking Maggie’s cheek with her thumb. Maggie tried to shake her head, but it barely moved under Lorena’s firm hold. “I could stay tonight, if you want,” Lorena offered. Maggie tried to shake her head again, but Lorena’s hold was not easing up.
“That’s not really necessary,” Maggie whispered. Lorena lowered her head and brushed her lips across Maggie’s softly. Maggie felt her knees begin to gel, but she was sure it was more from the incident that had just happened and the knowing that it was supernatural than it was from Lorena’s kiss.
“But I want to stay,” Lorena whispered before pressing her lips against Maggie’s again. When they finally parted, Maggie could only nod her head even though every instinct within her was yelling for her to do otherwise. As Lorena led her down the hall by the hand, Maggie couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder and wonder…
Brigit found John at the Bleecker Street Café. He was sitting at the counter conversing with Giuseppe quietly and seemed somewhat surprised when Brigit slid onto the stool beside him. The angry expression on her face told him the answer to the question before he had even opened his mouth to ask it. Maggie had found someone new. Brigit was feeling betrayed. Instead of broaching that particular topic for immediate conversation, John feigned ignorance and expressed his joy that she had shown up.
“I was just telling Giuseppe about a potential new recruit. I found his file today. I think he would do well with the ‘Potential Problems’ department,” John explained as Giuseppe slid a cup of coffee in front of Brigit. She accepted it with a silent nod. The fact that she had never heard Giuseppe utter a word made her briefly wonder how John could carry on anything more than a one-sided conversation. That thought, however, was quickly burned by the bonfire of her anger.
“That’s great,” she mumbled in response to John’s revelation.
“I think we’ll go together to interview him,” John decided before picking up his tea cup and sipping noisily. He was being obnoxious, Brigit thought.
“I can’t wait,” she said.
Her mind was going elsewhere. She was wondering if she should have stayed and watched what she assumed would happen. She wondered if Maggie would allow the other woman to touch her like Brigit used to touch her. The thought of it caused Brigit’s fury to burn hotter. John had fallen silent beside her, staring at the opposite wall waiting for her speak again. Knowing he was baiting her with his silence, she conceded by asking: “How long does it take?”
“How long does what take, darling?”
John turned and leveled his ice blue eyes on her. He could see the emotions running wildly through her mind. Her face was as smooth as stone, but the energy flowing through her body was screaming it all. He knew exactly what she was asking, but, he wanted her to voice it out loud.
“To forget – how long does it take to forget what Life felt like?” she asked. She turned and met his icy gaze with a level one of her own. John felt himself stiffen at the sight of the emotions churning in the depths of her soul. He forced a gentle smile to his face and relaxed.
“Oh – that,” he sighed. “Well, love, it depends on you. If you truly want to forget it, you will with time. However, you run the risk of forgetting everything,” he warned gently. He hoped she would catch the subtlety he was trying to invoke empathetically.
He had been there once himself, asking the same question of his own now-retired-mentor. He could still hear the ice filled answer that had pierced him to the core and helped him make the decision to try to remember how Life had felt. He would remember the good times and the bad simply because he didn’t want to be as cold blooded as Araxius Herodotus. John had walked away from that discussion and consciously decided to remember everything. He could not fathom forgetting the feel of his lover’s touch or the warmth of breath against his skin in the darkness. He never wanted to forget the long warm kiss in the middle of a cold September rainstorm that had etched itself into his mind as the absolute happiest moment of his life.
He had the instinct now that Brigit, despite her anger, would not want to forget such sensations from her own life either. Not really. He had not met Maggie yet, but, John could feel the love Brigit still carried for her. It was Brigit’s cloak, her protection and courage. He had the sense that it had been that way during their mortal existence together. If she were to discard all of that just to sidestep the pain she would feel upon bearing witness to Maggie’s continuation of life, Brigit Malone would be left vulnerable. The soul she would become would be an empty shell of the soul she was now. How could he make her understand that pain was part of the new existence she had chosen to honor her promise to Maggie? How could he teach her to be tolerant of Maggie’s progression through life?
Brigit remained silent as John continued to look at her. She knew he was reading her as easily as he read one of their portfolios. She didn’t care. At least someone could see her.
“Don’t make the decision lightly, love,” he suggested. “Take your time on this one, trust me.” Brigit nodded in acknowledgement of his advice before asking:
“How do you know?”
Her voice was soft and John realized that she was deep within her confusion at everything as a whole.
“Because I’ve been where you are,” he answered.
“You weren’t always a Reaper?” Brigit asked. She slowly picked up her coffee and blew across the surface.
“I was mortal once. I didn’t choose this particular occupation when I was alive, if that’s what you mean. No one grows up saying they want to be The Grim Reaper,” John laughed.
“I guess that would be kind of on the morbid side. Can you imagine how many mothers would put their child through a life time of therapy if the kid’s first words were ‘Grim Reaper’?” Brigit smiled at her own joke. She was beginning to relax. John was glad.
“Or worse, exorcism… the church’s business would be at an all time historical high,” John continued with the joke.
“So why did you take the job?” Brigit asked.
“For love.”
“Oh,”
“You sound disappointed,” John chuckled as he turned and reached for his tea again.
“Oh, no, I’m not. I just thought maybe you had a slight morbid streak. That’s all – what was her name?” Brigit asked, reaching for her own cup.
“His name was Dillon.”
14: For the Love of Dillon
John shifted in his seat and nodded to Giuseppe in indication that he would need another cup of tea. The time to answer Brigit’s question on her first day regarding John Blackwick’s hardest assignment had finally arrived – as he had known it eventually would. At this point, John considered it best to tell the tale if only to show his protégé a new lesson about the existence she was now passing through.
Brigit waited patiently for him to begin the story. She could sense the discomfort emanating from her mentor as he wrestled with where to begin. Giuseppe took John’s teacup away and returned it promptly without a word. When the waiter stepped away, John took a deep breath.
“I was born in Dublin. My father was a delivery truck driver and my mother stayed at home with us. There were four of us children. I was the only son in the bunch, so expectations were somewhat high. My father hoped I would grow up to be a banker or a solicitor, but I had other dreams. I wanted to be a poet. All day, I would daydream and write the words as they flowed from my mind through my hand to the small notebook my eldest sister had given me. I was very introspective. I listened to everything – the wind, the noise in the street, conversations that I had n
o business overhearing. It was all an inspiration to me. I paid close attention to the emotions that came to life within me because some little aspect of drawing a breath and being there to witness some second in the continuous flow of life all around me as it ignited a string of words that had to be recorded.
“Dillon was the neighborhood hero. He was the one all the mothers loved and all the fathers wished their sons would be like. He was athletic, smart and extremely handsome. We had grown up on the same street all our lives, but, we had never crossed paths until I decided to sit on the front stoop one day to write.”
“How old were you?” Brigit interrupted as she lifted her coffee cup and prepared to take a sip.
“I was sixteen. By then, my mother had begun to encourage my writing. My father was somewhat disappointed. I think he realized I wasn’t going to be anything truly financially beneficial to the family. I wasn’t interested in sports or politics. I was doing my best to keep out of everyone’s way so I could revel in my daydreams.
“On the day that I met Dillon O’Shea, I had been sitting on the front stoop writing. By now, my poetry was evolving into short stories. My second eldest sister had found an advert for a short story contest in a London magazine she subscribed to and urged me to enter. I was working hard on it when Tommy Higgins and his cronies came around. Tommy snatched my notebook from my hands and began taunting me about being a sissy, cursing and laughing at me as he turned this way and that... I was jumping around like mad trying to take my notebook back. All my dreams were recorded there. My opportunity to be a famous writer was taking shape on those pages. Tommy Higgins had a reputation for destroying everything he touched and I was suddenly embolden to make sure my writing wasn’t going to be another one of his casualties.
“So, there I was, jumping around trying to snatch my book from Tommy Higgins when Dillon appeared. In all the dancing around and scuffling, I hadn’t seen him approaching us. Tommy was a head taller than I was, so I was having quite a time in reaching my book. His buddies, Billie and Collin, they were pushing me around like a punching bag. I had just hit the sidewalk when I saw Dillon finally. He reached up and easily snatched my book out of Tommy’s hand.
“What’s going on here?” I remember Dillon asking. Everything seemed to come to a screeching halt. Tommy Higgins puffed out his chest and tried his best to look intimidating. Dillon was unfazed. He was too busy scanning the pages Tommy had been making fun of to notice the challenge Tommy Higgins was issuing. I was somewhat embarrassed, naturally. The neighborhood hero was reading my words. I was just waiting for him to turn and join in the melee of persecution.
“Mind yer own fookin’ business,” Tommy Higgins had told him.
“What did you just say?” Dillon had demanded. I was just laying there on the sidewalk.
“Are ye deef? I tol’ you ‘to mind yer own fookin’ business’.” Tommy repeated.
I was shocked – no amazed – at how quickly Dillon responded to being cursed at. He swung his arm so fast that none of us realized what had happened until Tommy hit the sidewalk beside me. His nose was gushing with bright red blood. The other two, Billie and Collin, they just stood there with their mouths hanging open like two gaping holes. Their leader had been laid out in one punch.
Finally, Dillon turned to me and I was struck with all these new emotions at once. I had never had an interest in anyone romantically until that point. There he was, standing over me with that angelic smile on his face. His hand was outstretched to me. When I took it and he helped me up, I was suddenly aware of the energy that could pass through and bind two people together. He felt it too. As Billie and Collin finally dragged Tommy Higgins away from us, Dillon handed me my notebook. He had such a strange look on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked me. I could only nod. I was still trying to identify the energy that had coursed through my body. I was trying to put words to what I was suddenly experiencing for the first time in my life. I was especially trying to control the sudden stirring of life in my trousers. I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s a part of the story…” John apologized. Brigit shrugged.
“Trust me,” she said, “I completely understand.”
“Dillon and I were inseparable from that day. I think my father was relieved on some level. I’m sure he thought Dillon would be a good influence on my manliness. My sisters were all giddy with the thought of Dillon O’Shea coming around to our house quite regularly. He was so handsome, but, he was always there to see me. He had no time to spend with girls who were continually gushing and flirting with him. We had a great many things in common, surprisingly. He loved poetry and begged to read mine. He became my biggest supporter. We would sometimes go for long walks and spend hours discussing the nuances of nature and how a certain string of words could evoke different emotions and interpretations. We were only sixteen and eighteen, but, we talked for hours as if we were scholars of an ancient wisdom.”
“Did you ever become a couple?” Brigit asked quietly. A look of sadness came to John’s face. It was the first time she had seen anything other than placidity or amusement in his expression. She wondered if she should have been so bold as to ask.
“At the time of our existence, you must understand, being homosexual was strictly forbidden. It meant ostracism from the community and excommunication from the church. It opened the door to hatred beyond comprehension. It was definitely something not discussed openly.” John explained. “I loved him deeply and he loved me, but for the longest time – we used our conversations about poetry to disguise what we were really trying to tell each other. The discussion went on for four years before anything happened. By then, we were grown men. He had taken work as a delivery driver, like my father, and I was tutoring children with their studies. I didn’t have the money to go away to university, but I was smart. I had entered a few writing contests, but had not won anything substantial to brag about.
“It was in September on my twenty-first birthday that everything changed. I had entered my twelfth contest and I had won! I had finally won! Dillon was so happy for me. It was then that I told him everything in plain English. The look on his face as I finally said out loud that I was in love with him made me think that I had done something terribly wrong. When I asked him as much, he only shook his head. He replied that he loved me as much, in the same way, but that our love could never be acted on. It was wrong, he had said. It was then that I suggested we move to London, away from our neighborhood and families and live together however we wished. I offered my winnings as our ticket out of Dublin. Dillon was negating my ideas as quickly as I offered them. Finally, he decided we should just drop the subject and go to the pub to celebrate my success. I was heartbroken, but I went along anyway.
“We spent a few hours there, drinking pint after pint before we decided to call it a night and crawl home. By then, it had started to rain and neither of us carried an umbrella. I think I was more drunk than Dillon, as I had never been much for the drink. When we left the pub, I followed him blindly hoping the rain would wash away every feeling in my possession at that moment. I wanted to drown in it and feel nothing. I didn’t realize where he was leading me until we were no longer surrounded by street lamps and row houses. I followed him, though, not questioning where he was taking me in the rain.
“It was then that he kissed me. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the cold rain, he was kissing me. His tongue was deep in my mouth, his hands were holding me to him tight and I could feel the reaction it was having on him in his trousers. It was having the same effect on me and I didn’t want it to end. It was absolutely the happiest moment of my life. When he finally pulled away, I remember having the sensation of being suddenly sober. He was staring deep into my eyes and I wanted to kiss him again. Instead, Dillon took my hand and pulled me toward a small shed that had been built under a massive oak tree. It was dark there, but it was shelter from the storm.
“What happened next was heavenly. I had never thought I could feel so se
cure and fulfilled. We made love for hours, exploring each other, entering places within each other that I had never thought possible. I felt our souls meeting and dancing and meeting again with each session. Dillon was my soul mate. I couldn’t imagine being apart from him.
“The next morning, we awoke to the sun shining through a tiny window. The rain had stopped and we were changed. We had held each other all night and I was pleased to still be in his arms when I opened my eyes. As we dressed, we discussed where to go from there. We agreed that we couldn’t remain in our neighborhood without causing distress for our families. Dillon made the decision to move to London and secure work. I wanted to go with him, but he told me to wait and he would send for me. He had been planning all night while I slept. He would be the one to make the decisions for our future and he would be the one to make sure we would be all right. Dillon had decided our roles in the relationship, you see?
“So, I went along with his decisions. He left for London that week. We escaped once more to have some time together, but it did not last all night like our first time. He was hurried, almost afraid that we would be caught. Then he was gone. He took the ferry without looking back and I stood on the dock until the ferry was eaten by the horizon waiting for him to do so.
“It was four months before I heard anything from him. He had secured work at a bank as a teller. It wasn’t much money, but it was enough to provide him room and board. He promised to send for me soon. There were no endearments beyond that promise, which I understood because I knew he desperately wanted to keep our love a secret.
“Another six months passed and Dillon had still not sent word that it was okay to join him. I had won another contest at this point and I decided to surprise him by paying my own way to London. It was the biggest mistake I could have made. I arrived in the evening at the return address that had been on his letters to me. It was a small place, a street level apartment. When I arrived, I stood outside his apartment looking in the window. He was already home. I could tell by the lights burning inside. It was then that I saw him with another. They were going at it madly, Dillon was on top. He looked angry, as if he meant to punish the young man he was shagging.
Reapers, Inc. - Brigit's Cross Page 11