by J. J. Sorel
I puffed in a bid to keep up with Bronson, who seemed like he was on a mission to get somewhere fast.
He took me by the hand when we reached the street. “Let’s grab a cab. I need to get home.”
That remote, intense expression had returned.
Thinking he’d want to be alone, I asked, “Do you want me to leave you to it?”
His eyebrows indented sharply. “Are you kidding? I need you there with me. Please, Ava…”
Bronson’s chocolatey eyes gazed down at me, making me melt into his arms. “I just thought you would need some space.”
“I’ve had space all my fucking life,” he said.
He grabbed my hand, and while that comment stormed through my emotions, I followed along.
When we arrived back at his apartment, I fell onto the couch and started to breathe properly again. All the earlier oppression had slowly started to thaw away. I felt safe there, even with Bronson and his edgy vibe, as he continually ran his fingers through his hair and paced about.
On our way home, Bronson hadn’t spoken a word. He’d just kissed my hand and then spent the entire trip staring out the window. I thought he would have at least read the letter he’d taken from the box.
That was to come. The delay was justified after we discovered its content.
Bronson flicked his laptop lid up.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to see how big the human heart is.”
“Do you think it’s Monty’s?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He puffed out a breath. “That’s the logical conclusion.”
“She must have murdered him.”
Lost in thought as he studied the screen, Bronson nodded slowly. “Yeah. I agree. What’s Monty’s last name?” He asked.
“Are you going to check for any unsolved murders?”
He nodded.
“Aggie’s surname is Johnson. Her maiden name, which I can’t recall, would be the same as Monty’s.”
Bronson’s head pushed back sharply. “Huh?”
“They were siblings.” I grimaced. “Not by blood, though.”
“Fuck. How twisted,” said Bronson to himself.
“Hey… I think Aggie’s name’s written on the inside cover of the books I’ve been reading for her,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Good. That’s a start.”
“When I visit tomorrow, I’ll look for it.”
Bronson continued to type on his laptop.
“So why would she have murdered him?” I asked.
“My grandfather, you mean,” said Bronson, staring at the letter that he’d taken from his pocket.
“You’re convinced that he was that?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
“You saw Aggie’s reaction to me.” He removed the photo from his pocket and studied it closely before handing it to me.
As I took the worn crumpled photo I said, “I hope Aggie doesn’t notice it missing.”
That same penetrating, intense stare reflecting off the black-and-white photo dispelled all doubt that I had Bronson’s relative before me.
I looked up at Bronson. “The likeness is incredible.”
Lost in deep contemplation, he bit his lip. A few moments later, he rose and headed to the fridge. “Wine?”
“Yes. Please.”
After pouring a glass of chardonnay, Bronson twisted off the top of a beer and came back to join me, handing me the glass.
He continued to pace about.
I patted the sofa. “Sit here, and relax for a moment, Bronson. You’ve had a big shock.”
Clutching onto the envelope he sat down and placed his bottle onto the elliptical-shaped table that he’d made from gnarly wood that as a child had reminded me of eyes.
Bronson studied the handwritten page that sat flat on his hands. Every now and then, I glanced at his face, noting that the furrows on his brow had not smoothed.
When he finished reading it, he placed the letter on his knees, and it wafted to the ground. As a result, I bent down and picked it up.
Bronson had entered his own little world, which I recognized well enough, for his eyes had gone black and remote— a look I’d never seen on anyone else before.
He went over to the balcony and looked out.
Staring down at the letter, I murmured, “Do you mind if I read it?”
He shook his head while continuing to sip his beer pensively.
I took the letter into my hands and read:
Agatha,
I can’t bring myself to call you dear, because you are anything but that to me. By the time you read this, many years would have passed, and I will be dust. That said, my ghost will continue to haunt you. Especially if you fail to do what I ask.
As no doubt you will have noticed, this letter is postdated. I have given strict instruction to my attorney to have it delivered to you when my son turns twenty-one, or in the event that you fall ill before he turns that age.
Sadly, you were the only living relative. Not that I thought of you as that, given that you were not my father’s real sister, a small blessing, I suppose. Otherwise, the incestuous nature of your affair would have been too difficult to stomach, even for someone like me, who’s seen it all.
Being myself an orphan, I toyed with the idea of leaving my child with you to raise. But knowing how twisted, conceited, and shallow you are, I couldn’t bear the idea of entrusting the soul of an innocent little boy with you.
No. That child can never be yours to care for because I don’t think you have a caring bone in that skinny body. I’ve decided to leave him at the hospital.
Not long after, I expect, I’ll be on my way to hell.
In the hope that he manages to survive the jungle that’s life, given his lonely entrance into the world, I have written to make you aware of his existence.
Because I have no knowledge of the child’s real father, I ask that you find it in your conscience to make him your sole heir. The boy is, after all, my father’s grandchild.
You have no heirs, due to being childless. And the fact that the boy shares my father’s blood should, I dearly hope, appeal to any semblance of regard you may still hold for my late father.
I ask that you leave everything to my son.
It’s no secret that I hated you. My mother’s disgust and loathing toward you affected me while I was growing in her stomach, and then there was the heavy drinking that she drowned me in, before and after. She would stare alone at the walls crying, while my father, your lover, spent all his time with you.
He didn’t even hide it. That’s how blatant his obsession for you was. I recall as a young girl smelling the same scent that wafted in with you on my father.
When he disappeared without a trace, my mother became so bitter and broken, she took her own life. I hated my father for what he did to my beloved mother, who couldn’t find enough love in her heart for me to keep living, thereby turning me into an orphan at thirteen.
Call it weakness of spirit, but my heart broke that day she died. Never to heal.
I had little choice but to walk on the wild side, being my only escape from the pain that you’d wreaked on my family.
I don’t know what became of my father. If I had been a doting, loving daughter I would have moved mountains to find him. For all I know, he may still be hidden somewhere away with you in that mansion of yours.
I can’t forgive him for what he did. Why he married my beautiful mother, I’ll never understand.
Discovering that I was pregnant crushed my already broken spirit. I’d planned to end my life, but couldn’t, not with a life inside of me.
I’m not sure which of the brutes I’d bedded was the father. All of them were like me, creatures of the night—zombies who’d lost their way.
That dark cloud has consumed me at last. It followed me through this sad journey, and has, at last, extinguished that fire that raged within me. As a child, I hated with such passionate force I couldn’t even be aroun
d other children. I hated so much that I spent my hours coming up with ways to murder you. But, sadly, courage was never a strong point.
So now in my last hour, I write this in hope that when you read it, you will understand you have an obligation to my son. For it was you that tore the very fabric of this family apart. My broken spirit and mangled soul will travel with me to the other side, where I will watch your every move.
Marion Black
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BRONSON
Rotating around and around like a film with no beginning and end was the story of my mother drowning me, her son, in drink and sadness. I stood on the balcony, regretting my decision to give up cigarettes. But that was when the tide had turned. Now all I saw was a gray, bleak sky threatening to do its stormy worst.
I went back inside and pulled out drawers, the contents of which spilled all over the place while I searched desperately for a pack of cigarettes.
Ava looked up at me. The sadness written on her face chilled me.
The last thing I wanted from her, or from anyone else, was pity.
I felt naked. My ugly past had burst into my life. Being blissfully ignorant made perfect sense because I would have preferred to have remained just that.
There were so many questions running through my head, like the voices of mad people, lots of whispering underneath one loud and clear voice repeating that same tragic lament—I was not important enough to justify my mother’s existence.
I grabbed my jacket.
Ava flinched when she saw the keys jangling in my hands.
“Where are you going?” Alarm rang in her voice.
“I need cigarettes,” I mumbled.
I stood at the door and hesitated, then turned. A shivery sensation flushed through me, as I uttered, “Why are you still here?”
The voice didn’t even sound like me.
Her face crumpled in dismay. “Because I want to be.”
“You should go, Ava. I’m no good. I come from shit.”
She rushed over and grabbed my hand.
I couldn’t look at her. Burning shame overtook my whole being. I needed to do something— scream or punch a wall even, something destructive.
I removed my hand.
“Bronson, please, let me be here for you.” Her eyes pooled with tears.
Pity.
Always fucking pity.
I’d seen it all my life.
I recalled that same expression on my mother when she thought I wasn’t looking.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Ava.”
“I don’t!” she cried.
I stared at her for a long while, my mouth open, but no words formed. “I have to go and get this rage out of me. It will eat me alive otherwise.”
“I’ll get smashed with you.”
I nearly laughed. Ava the angel. What I should have said was that I wanted to go somewhere rough and dangerous and get my head smashed in.
Even though I wanted to hold her, I knew that tangle of raw, hardwired emotion would unravel and a bomb would go off within, destroying everything closest to me in its wake.
My eyes started to blur.
I was a man. A tough man. Not a pussy. I needed to run.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Bourbon,” I said.
He studied me for a moment. Compared to the lowlifes around me, I looked a picture of cleanliness, even though I hadn’t showered or changed my sweaty T-shirt. I’d gone for a long run, and it was stuck to me. Instead of going home, I’d jumped in a cab and headed to the grimiest place I could find, somewhere I could rub shoulders with other abandoned souls.
Considering how sorry I felt for myself, the last thing I wanted was to be around bright and happy people living happy lives.
I craved darkness.
I needed to see how those who had walked on the wild side of life were doing. Having come from that same source of struggle, I was one of them. They were more comparable to me than any well-adjusted person.
Evident by the row of lonely men with heads down, staring solemnly at their drinks, the bar had seen its share of sorrow.
The barman returned with a bottle and poured some into a glass.
“Leave the bottle,” I said.
The older man studied me for a moment. I tossed a card at him and after he swiped it through the machine, his mood lifted. I’d made his night big, it seemed.
What a week. What a year. What a life.
I lit a cigarette and hated the flavor of it, but as the nicotine hit my lungs, my head started to spin in a pleasant kind of way.
By my third shot, I started to unwind. My shoulders released some tension, and the voices in my head started to dull.
“You’re not from here,” I heard over my shoulder.
I turned and looked at the shabby excuse for a man by my side. I shook my head and continued to puff away.
“Can I have one of those?” he asked.
I passed the pack of cigarettes over to him.
“Take them,” I said, pushing a lighter toward him.
His eyebrows drew in slightly. Something told me he wasn’t used to receiving things for nothing. “That’s okay. We can share.”
I continued to stare into space, enjoying the emptiness of the moment, for amnesia was one thing I extracted from alcohol. And boy, did I need to forget.
“Woman problems?” he asked.
“Nope.” I stared down at my glass of amber fluid. “Mother issues.”
“Oh…” he rasped. After a few puffs, he added, “I never knew mine.”
My head turned sharply to study him. Of an indeterminable age, he could have been in his mid-thirties or in his fifties. Wearing his battles on his face, he was that guy society had forgotten about.
I grabbed the pack and took another cigarette out. As the smoke left my lips I said, “You too.”
His bloodshot blue eyes narrowed. “A woman can rip at one’s heart, but a mother rips deeper. At one’s very fucking soul.”
I shrugged, even though that was probably closer to the truth than I chose to accept.
He held out his hand. “Sam.”
“Bronson,” I said, taking his hard, calloused hand.
“You’re a builder?” he asked.
“That I am. The hands, ah?”
He flashed his yellowing teeth. “Me too. Twenty years on a site.”
“Are you still working?” I asked.
“No, man. Fucked up my back. I’m injured. I can’t work.”
I looked at his glass, which had been empty for a while. He noticed and said, “It’s all right. I just like to sit here because it’s warmer and a little safer than the park.” He chuckled.
“You’re sleeping rough?” I asked.
He opened his hands. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” I looked behind the bar to see if there was any food and noticed sandwiches in plastic wrap. “Something to eat?”
“Hey, man, I don’t expect it from you. The cigarettes are good.”
I summoned the bartender. “Get Sam what he wants. Keep them coming. And a few of those sandwiches. Are they fresh?” I asked, suddenly feeling hungry after having not eaten all day.
The bartender passed the tray over. “We have ham and roast beef.”
“I’ll take a roast beef.” I looked over at Sam. “Take whatever you want. Take a few. For breakfast too.”
His eyes shone with genuine gratitude. “That’s really kind of you. Only if you can. I don’t like to impose.”
“It’s all good. I’ve got a job. And pretty soon, when my life sorts out the shit that’s just floated in, I’ll be rich. And I’ll make it so that guys like you won’t have to live on the streets through no fault of your own.”
“Well said. Are you going into politics?” he asked.
I studied him to see if he was joking, but he had an earnest, hopeful shine in his eyes that made me wonder if indeed I needed to do more to
help the Sam’s of the world.
“Nope. I’m not smart enough for that,” I said with a tight half smile.
“It doesn’t take intelligence, just ambition, ruthlessness, and rubbing shoulders with the right guys,” he said.
I sniffed. “Yeah, well, that’s not me.” I shifted on my barstool. “How is it you didn’t know your mom?”
“I was one when she died.”
Noticing his glass was empty, I gestured to the bartender to top him up. Sam played with his fingers. “My old man killed her. I had what’s commonly known as a tragic beginning.” He took a gulp of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was on the news. I even have an article about it back with my possessions.”
“You kept that?”
“It’s the only photo I have of my mom.”
Hell. The emotion that his expression stirred. He wasn’t looking sorry for himself, not like me earlier. There was something almost noble in the way he’d grown to accept it. He’d had the time to adjust, I told myself.
How long did it take to accept the devil in one’s bloodline?
“Shit, man. I’m really sorry,” I said, draining my glass.
I lifted the bottle. “Do you want a shot?”
He nodded. “Sure, why not.” He studied me for a moment. “What’s a guy like you doing in a hole like this?”
“I’m not much different from you, Sam. Only that I was lucky to be adopted by an affectionate father and mother. My adopted brother was a different story. But that’s one for later.”
“Then life’s been a little kind, even if you’re sad about your real mom.”
“I just found a letter she wrote. Today. That’s why I’m here. It’s fucked my head up big time.” I took a deep breath. “She killed herself just after giving birth to me.” Downing a shot, I said, almost to myself. “She must have really fucking hated me.”
He studied me for a moment. There was no pity in his face, which I appreciated. “Hey, man… she gave you life. She must have been fucking sad and lost, but she put up with her suffering. She gave birth to you first. That says something to me.”
They say that during those big moments, things move in slow frames, which help you assess your life. That was exactly what happened as I navigated Sam’s unwashed, craggy features. The sincerity that shone from that reassuring flicker in his eyes made me think through what had been my life. When I landed in the present, Ava and her shining light came before me.