by Zara Teleg
“Yup,” I agreed.
He looked at my hand again. “My mommy can fix ya? She fixes all my booboos.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. He definitely lightened the mood. Vicious lifted my nephew off the rail and swung him in the air, getting a big laugh out of him.
“You should take a ride out there. The drive will clear your head, ‘cause next week we’re back to business.” He was quick to remind me we weren’t finished talking.
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” I shook my hand and looked at the damage. “I’m going to head in and get this fixed up. We’ll talk later.”
I spent the next few hours fighting with myself on whether or not to go. But the nagging feeling in my chest got the better of me.
This time I took my bike. Vicious had had the new mechanic tune her up. She was shiny and ready with a full tank of gas.
Not having ridden in a few years, I had forgotten how free it felt to be one with the road, the wind washing over me, the sound of the engine drowning out all the noise in my head.
The cypresses stood tall at the entrance to the road. Vicious must have never come out here. The weeds were several feet high. You’d never even know there was a cabin hiding back here. I found a branch I could use to push down the weeds and whack a path in front of me. I swung left and right, bending the grasses and weeds that were hiding the way. Eventually, the roof became visible as I moved farther down, motivating me to keep going.
When I reached what used to be the meadow, it was overgrown. The dock over the pond appeared weathered from storms. The dock—it was where I last had my hands around her tiny waist and pulled her into the water. I closed my eyes, recalling the shocked look on her face when we plunged in and the way she held onto me when we resurfaced.
I shook off the memory and walked to the tiny cabin that sat abandoned, ignored for the past few years. The stain had faded and looked gray like a stormy day. The hinges rusted on the window covering. I reached up and found the key where I had left it all those years ago.
The musty odor of wood, moisture, and dust slapped my face. I removed the window cover, inviting light to fill the room. The floor creaked as I walked to the table that had something resting on it.
I stared at the unfamiliar envelope and tee shirt with something wrapped inside. I picked it up, flipping it over.
Every hair on my arm stood up as I read the familiar handwriting. Vincent was scrolled beautifully across it. A numbness I couldn’t explain spread through me. I slid my finger under the flap, prying it open.
My eyes blurred as I read the words that ripped into me like knives slitting my soul. Everything I thought I had buried deep inside resurfaced.
My dearest Vincent,
Three days ago, we were in love. Two days ago, you shattered my heart. I gave you my all, my innocence, we bared our souls to each other, and you pushed me away without even saying goodbye. Was it easy or was it all a lie? The pain I felt when you ended things was something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But, Vincent, I would go through it all again—a thousand times over—just to have one kiss, one touch, a second of you, in my life…
Splotches hit the paper as I continued to read, the pain in her words gutting me. When I reached the end of it, I let go of the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.
I closed my eyes, reading the final words…
with all my love,
Maggie Grace
I slammed my fists on the table and roared out a howl of pain before I unrolled the shirt to reveal the Blessed Mother that I had carved for her staring back at me.
I had no choice. I did what I had to do to protect her. It was the only way. That was what I’d told myself over and over all these years. She must have known deep down that I would never have hurt her on purpose, that I would sooner have cut my own arm off before I’d hurt her.
I had to see her. I had to tell her what really happened that day. That what we had that summer was real. That I had loved her more than life itself. That I loved her still.
Was there any way she still loved me after all this time? It was wishful thinking, grasping at straws. It was more likely that I’d find her married to some hotshot, living large with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
It didn’t matter. One way or another, I had to find out.
“You’re going where? You just got home.” Vicious pleaded with me not to leave. “Brother, you need to leave the past where it belongs. It’s time to move forward. You spent all that energy in prison, making the connections that would catapult our club to where it used to be when Voodoo was president. You know, he’d be real proud. It’s what he wanted for you.”
“Vicious, you’re the president of this club. I don’t want it. I can’t move forward until I know. I didn’t think coming back here would dig up so many bones, but I can’t let it go.” I blew smoke from my lips and scanned the horizon from the porch that held so much knowledge of this club.
“In less than a week, we are patching in new members. These guys are old-school. They fucking scare me, and I can’t do this without you. I need to know you are fully committed to this club.”
“I will be back in a few days. I promise I will be ready to take my rightful spot next to you, and we will take back what is ours.”
“Fine, go, but for the record, I think you are making a mistake. This could blow up in your face. After everything this club has been put through, we are hanging on by a thread. If we lose you, I don’t think the club will survive.”
“I’ll be back. Promise.” I pounded my fist across my chest twice the way we always did when we were kids. I flung the backpack over my shoulder, placed my sunglasses on, and made my way to my bike. The eight-hour drive would be just what I needed to think.
By the sixth hour, I had stopped twice, and everything had looked like the same blur. The highway turn-off promised a diner with breakfast all day. It was early evening, and there was a motel a few miles up the road. I thought it best to stay the night and shower, and head out fresh in the morning.
“Good morning, sir. Are you checking out?” the skinny bald man behind the counter asked.
“Yes. Room 17.”
“That will be seventy-two dollars.” He opened the register.
“For that shi—” I stopped myself and handed him the cash as I eyed the giant phonebook behind the counter.
“You mind if I use that phonebook?” I pointed to the thick book that had other paperwork piled on top.
“Fine.” He handed it to me. “Please leave it here when you’re through.”
I thumbed through the B’s until I found it. There were more Bordelons than I thought in the small town outside Atlanta. I remembered Maggie saying to the girl at the mission named Meadow that she lived on a street called Meadow Lane. It stuck in my head every time I saw that girl.
I scrolled my finger down the page, slightly smudging the black ink. And there it was. I grabbed a scrap of paper from the desk and scribbled the address before locating it on the map that hung on the wall.
I stopped for a coffee and gas fill-up before heading into Maggie’s hometown.
A man stood on the corner selling freshly picked wildflowers in wrapped bundles. “I’ll take one.” I handed him ten dollars and secured them in the bag on my bike. I hoped they wouldn’t be ruined over the few-miles ride.
Doing this sober was a bad idea. I looked at the street name again. Sprawling acres of manicured lawns surrounded by metal fences secured the plantation-style mansions. The homes on the street were nothing like where I came from. Driving down the road, I passed a BMW, a Mercedes, and lastly, a Rolls Royce that was pulling into the address I was headed. I followed behind the impressive vehicle, which stopped at the gate. A hand reached out to press numbers on a keypad when he caught me behind him in the mirror.
This was a bad idea. If this was where Maggie came from, I had no business ever being with her or even breathing the same air as her. In front of me, the brake lights stayed red as the man opened the
door.
Here we go.
Dressed in an impeccable suit with fancy shoes and a watch that probably cost more than my bike, he walked to where I sat on my idling motorcycle.
“Are you lost?” He seemed to sniff the air like he was too good to even speak to me.
“I don’t think so.” I cut the ignition, noticing a man working near the gate moving closer.
“Well, you are obviously not from around here. If I press one button on this keypad, the police will immediately be called and will arrive in seconds.” He took a step back and held his long finger over the keypad.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Bordelon?” the man behind the gate asked in a Spanish accent, looking between the man and me.
“Yes. He was just leaving.”
“No, sir, you don’t understand. I am an old friend of Magnolia. Does she still live here?”
“Magnolia?” His face paled. He took off his sunglasses, his eyes penetrating me. He scanned me from the top of my head to my booted feet.
“You,” he growled. “You’re the one from the mission all those years ago.” His voice became hateful.
“Yes, sir. Maggie and I—”
He walked to me, grabbing my shirt. “How dare you come here.”
The other man came around, inserting himself between us. “Mr. Bordelon, I will get rid of him. You should go inside, sir.”
“Are these flowers for her?” His eyes narrowed on the bouquet of wildflowers.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, she will appreciate those. The man she supposedly loved and left her family over shows up five years later with flowers. How precious.” His words were bitter.
“She told you about me?”
Steam appeared to come out his nose as he clutched his balled fists at his side.
“You know what, maybe I should tell you where you can find Maggie; it’s not far.”
“But, Mister—” the man tried to interrupt. Maggie’s father released me.
“No, he should know. He’s the one who filled Maggie’s head with all that nonsense. She’s at Pickering Glen Gardens, about three miles down this road, turn left, and then make a right when you get to the Southern Baptist church,” her father hissed. “Now get out of here,” he growled, pointing to the road.
“Thank you.” I straightened my shirt and started my bike. Maggie was right, they did not like her slumming it with the likes of me. But who could blame them?
I smiled at the idea of hiding behind the flowers, surprising her, and seeing Magnolia’s beautiful smile again. In prison, I had spent so many nights trying to recall every detail of her face. I followed the directions, excitement building as I saw the sign for Pickering Glen Gardens.
A chill came over me.
Was this her father’s idea of a joke?
I made the left into the cemetery.
All the blood began draining to my feet as I slowly crept through the rows, looking at the stones. My heart stopped when I reached the end of the third row.
A large stone statue of the Blessed Mother with flowers around her head watched over a grave. It reminded me of the necklace Maggie wore around her neck. I stopped my bike, but my eyes seemed to refuse to look down—I knew it in my heart before I even read the stone.
Magnolia Grace Bordelon
Beloved Daughter
August 15, 1973 - April 7, 1994
I collapsed on my knees; my legs could no longer hold me up. It was as if my bones dissolved from my body. All of my moments with Maggie flashed through my mind, all the way up to where I told her to leave, that she didn’t belong. When I took back my love and coldly pushed her away for what I told myself was her own safety.
I screamed at the sky. I pounded my fists on the ground. I yelled at her God.
“Why not take me? I was the sinner, the one who led her down the wrong path. Why would you take Maggie? The most faithful, beautiful soul you created.”
The Holy Mother looked down on me, her gaze saying, This was your fault.
I called out her name like she would come back. The pain was worse than any physical torture that could be endured.
“Vincent?”
In my grief, I thought I imagined hearing it.
“Vincent,” I heard again behind me. I turned to see a man and a woman standing together. It was the man from Maggie’s house.
“Who are you? Why do you know my name?”
“Vincent, I’m Viola, and this is my husband, Frederick. We were caretakers of Miss Magnolia.”
Maggie’s stories came back to me.
“Vincent. It was cruel for him to send you here. He wanted you to feel the pain he did when he lost Maggie. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” Viola approached me, placing her hand softly on my shoulder.
“How?” It was the only question that came to my mind.
Frederick shook his head no to his wife, whose eyes were now glassy as well.
“He deserves the truth.” She turned her gaze from her husband to me.
“Please tell me,” I begged, holding Viola’s hand.
“Vincent, I’m so sorry. But after Maggie returned to school, she felt all alone. She was depressed. I told her we would help her, but when her parents told her not to return with a baby, she…she…” Viola began to cry, leaning on her husband.
“Baby?” My voice hitched as a ringing stung my ears.
“Don’t act shocked!” Viola’s tone changed from pity to anger. “She was all alone after she went to tell you. Her depression took over, and she…”
“She took her life,” Frederick angrily finished his wife’s sentence, rubbing her back.
“She what? And the baby?”
“She left a note at the bridge, but there was a bad storm the day before, and her body was never recovered. She and your baby were lost that night.”
“She didn’t tell me.” I looked at the date on the stone. I ran my finger over it. “I was in prison. She must have found out. Maggie was all alone. This was all my fault.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve always assumed she told you.” Viola’s became sorrowful.
It felt like every part of my body was being ripped apart from the inside out.
No words could be spoken. I couldn’t open my mouth.
“Vincent. She told me all about you. She had the best summer of her life with you and your family. Maggie loved you with all her heart. She would have wanted you to let her go and for you to move on with your life.”
“Move on? How am I supposed to move on when I find out the girl I loved was pregnant with my child and took her life because I couldn’t be there for her?” I stood up abruptly. “I can’t be here. I have to go.”
No speed limit applied to me as I returned to Louisiana. I was on a mission. I would take my rightful place at my club. I hoped Maggie was right—if there really was a God, that he was forgiving. Because nothing would stop me from hunting down every member of the Devil’s Damned until my wrath of vengeance had painfully destroyed them all.
On my way back to town, I saw a tattoo studio, and I knew one thing I could do in memory of Maggie.
“This doesn’t seem like a tattoo a biker like you would want.” The man with the mohawk that had spent the past four hours driving needles through my skin commented.
“It’s symbolic,” I said, downing another shot of vodka.
“An angel?” he scoffed.
“It’s not just an angel! Don’t you know anything? This is the Archangel Michael, the strongest angel who defeated the Devil.”
I glanced in the mirror at my numb arm as he finished the detail on the sword. This would remind me every single day that I would destroy them all in the name of Maggie.
“Looks great, man,” I said when it was finally done. I pulled out the wad of cash, leaving it on the counter.
When I finally got back to the cabin, it seemed every station was playing the same song on the radio. No matter which I flipped to, they all reminded me I would give up anything to have her ag
ain, even for a single moment. It was driving me mad. I turned it off and still heard the haunting lyrics in my head even as I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of vodka sitting on the edge of the dock. Only the creatures of the land could hear my muddling.
I woke up to the sun driving stakes through my eyelids, my face plastered to the planks. The ducks quacked as they landed on the glassy surface. My neck was stiff and my knuckles sore. I didn’t want to live in a world where Magnolia didn’t exist. Just knowing she was out there somewhere, imagining she was making the world a better place, had kept me content over the years. Now it seemed there was no light left in the world.
I wanted to do something to honor her spirit. I wanted it to be just for me, a place that I could always feel close to her. Maggie thought it was pretty special here. And then it came to me.
Hours later, I returned with Vicious’s truck. Secured in the back was my tribute to Maggie.
I dug the hole and tossed the roots, saturating them the way the man in the nursery had said. I rolled the boulder under the spot that would eventually shade the area with its magnificent pink blossoms. Every season it would bloom like the summer we had. The magnolia tree was perfect.
I spent hours carving Magnolia’s name into the boulder below it. It seemed appropriate—my heart turned to stone knowing she had left this world. I never told anyone about the baby. I would never let her memory die.
As if struck with a sign from heaven, on the radio, playing again was “Iris” by The Goo-goo Dolls, the beautiful lyrics now offering me hope that our souls may find each other once again.
I stood at the foot of the boulder, a freshly dug hole in front of it. I placed inside an open box the carved Holy Mother, wrapped in the shirt Maggie left her in. I wanted to read the letter one last time before burying them together, along with all the pain. This would be my sanctuary, away from all the agony and noise of my world, a place to come and celebrate Maggie, remember the pure, beautiful, radiant person she was and the love we shared. I unfolded her letter, allowing the words to give me the strength I needed to say my final goodbye to my sweet Magnolia, the love of my life.