by H. D. Gordon
She had been only twelve years old. The backs of her ears should have stayed wet for a while yet, like most twelve year olds do. But her greenness had been swept away nonetheless, and there was nothing she could do about it.
And it wasn’t fair.
But that’s life, baby, and that shit ain’t always fair.
Chapter Thirty-One
Claire
It just wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Her head was filled with pitying thoughts that basically consisted of why me? The issue was that she was just a sheltered young lady, and the worst tragedy that God had ever dealt her was the day her dog, Princess, died. Not a bad run for twenty-two years of life. The bigger issue was that she thought she knew more about the world than she actually did. The truth of the matter was, she had too little experience in hard times to know anything. In fact, in comparison to most others who had lived an equal length of time, some even less, Claire didn’t know shit.
That didn’t mean that things weren’t complicated. They were now.
Her sister, Nikki, had been gone all day and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Nikki was in St. Louis attending some writer’s conference where she planned to pitch her book to agents. This left Claire alone in their apartment. As much as she loved her sister, she was kind of grateful for the peace.
Claire hadn’t been able to stop herself—though now that she was lying in her bed and trying to find sleep she wished she had been—so she had searched on the internet for stages of development for a fetus after Nikki left the apartment this morning. It had only been a five minute search, but the information she gained from it weighed on her mind for the rest of the day, and now it apparently had plans to inhibit her sleep tonight. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she had conducted that stupid search. She’d had everything figured out, hadn’t she? Now things were…complicated.
The biggest question was one that has been argued over by countless people and in multitude. Claire knew the question, because while she may be green, she wasn’t a stupid girl. The question was: would it be murder to take her own life while the fetus was living inside her? No, she thought, it would be murder AND suicide. She could just hear her Sunday school teacher, Ms. Nancy—an ugly older woman with a small mind and long white hairs growing out of her neck and chin—saying, You’ll go straight to hell for that kind of sin, young lady. Straight to hell, you betcha, and praise the Lord Almighty.
Claire had never much cared for Ms. Nancy.
Or maybe it was something else that was bothering her. This morning, when she had seen on the internet the depiction of a fetus at six weeks, looking so incredibly human and real, despite it being obviously underdeveloped—could it have been that a tiny bit of mother’s instinct took hold of her? It had lasted only a breath of a moment, until she clicked the exit button at the top of the screen, unable to look at the thing that was residing inside of her at this very moment. It had been just a tiny bit, but it had been there. For just that small time, it had been real.
Claire, of course, had no idea what it was or what it meant.
So what, then? Was she really even considering having a child and raising it as a single mother? Just going right up to her mother and saying, Hey, Ma, guess what? I’m having a baby! The father? Well, here’s the thing…
Was that even a possibility? No, she told herself, it was not. On the other hand, Claire honestly had no desire to continue living. The pain inside of her, caused by things and circumstances that would make more weathered people laugh, was so deep and sharp and constant that she saw no other way out. And well, cry me a river, but everything is relative. Everything.
Suddenly she wished very badly that her sister were home. Suddenly Claire felt bursting at the seams to tell someone, to spew out the poison of her secret, like turned and rejected food, and let Nikki tell her what to do. Nikki wouldn’t disown Claire or make her feel like shit about herself. She wouldn’t bring her to tears with harsh words (What the hell were you thinking? You’ve ruined your whole life, shamed our family. I expected better out of you, Claire-Bear. I expected so much better. If you think we’re going to support you while you raise some bastard child…) and long lectures about how bad she had fucked up. Nikki would be shocked, surely, but she would think things through and find a solution. Most of all, she would make Claire feel better, at least marginally. She would take care of her as Nikki had always done. She would hug her and cry with her and tell her everything was going to be all right. And maybe, just maybe, Claire would believe her.
But Nikki wasn’t here right now.
No one was here right now. Except Claire and the unwanted–person?–growing inside of her belly.
Well, nothing had to be decided just yet. She had planned for Monday, had planned to end it all on Monday, and that was still—if only—a hop, skip and a jump away. Nikki would be back on Sunday night, and if Claire so decided, she might just unburden herself then. Maybe find some less…permanent solution to the problem. Maybe not, but either way, it could wait. At least until Monday, it could wait.
She grabbed her iPod off of her nightstand and put it on shuffle to help her fall asleep. By the end of Bob Marley telling her that every little thing, was gonna be all right she had nearly found the quiet peace of the dream world. However, when the track switched, and Jimmy Buffet told her basically the same thing, only when referring to the coming Monday, she found herself wide awake once more, staring into the cold darkness of her room and doubting very seriously the truth to what the two singers were preaching.
She looked over at the clock. Eleven fifty-two, it read. Well, it was still Saturday for another eight minutes, and Sunday offered twenty-four hours of time to decide. That was plenty. Yes, plenty. So, baby, don’t worry, about a thing…
So she didn’t. At least, not after she finally found sleep. Poor little Claire-Bear didn’t know that tomorrow she would gain some information, some information that would make her decision final and push both of her feet off the edge of the wobbling plank on which she was currently standing. It was a good thing she didn’t know this, for such knowledge would be a terrible curse. A raven-haired girl named Joe knew this, and could testify to its truth.
It’s always easier to pick up the pieces as a knee-jerk reaction, as something blindsides us, when we don’t see it coming over the horizon. That is how life was supposed to work. No one wants to watch the beast as it slowly approaches, its glistening jaws snapping and its head lowered and stomach growling. Most of us know this. We know that when things happen—and things do happen—they come from nowhere. At least from nowhere our eyes can see. But we ignore this hard fact of life. Which is fine. Which is good. Which is right.
No one wants to think about the very real fact that we could die at any time, that our lives are so fragile as to be susceptible to such an ugly truth. That some regular old day, any day, say, Sunday (just for an example) could be our last day in this world. But every day is someone’s last, isn’t it? Just as every day is someone’s first. And by the grace of God, most of us don’t expect it.
The tough, salty taste that is life is made just a touch sweeter in this way. Just a touch.
Part II: Sunday
Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. –Susan Ertz
People react to fear, not love. They don’t teach you that in Sunday School, but it’s true. –Richard Nixon
The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still. Like when they say, “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. –Jean Rhys
Sunday: A day given over by Americans to wishing that they themselves were dead and in Heaven, and that their neighbors were dead and in Hell. –Henry Louis Mencken
Chapter Thirty Two
Joe
It was one of those days that began far too early and would surely end far too late. There was a lot to be done. I had come up with no solutions to my problem, so y
eah, a lot to be done.
I had slept, but not pleasantly. I hadn’t tossed and turned. I would simply find myself alert and awake as ever and staring into the nothingness of my dark room. Then I would be out like a light, no transition stage. Just there one minute, thinking very clearly and very dreadfully about the things I would be facing soon, and the next, just gone, missing pieces of the clock, who-knows-what’s, and how-much-time-has-gone-by’s. I wasn’t sure how many times I switched from state to opposing state, but that just told me it must have been a good amount.
I finally stood from my bed at four-thirty, went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee while cogitating very intensely about what actions I would take in the next few days, worrying terribly about my own sanity and safety. I clutched my steaming mug tightly as I sat at my small table, the skin on my palms burning a little at the contact of my coffee, but that was okay. That was good, even. It was a sensation that elicited a reaction out of me, and pain—while obviously not pleasant—was a preferred feeling to the floating numbness I felt now. It was kind of like a slap in the face when daydreaming. It assured me that I was in reality, and that reality seriously sucked right now.
Eventually I showered and turned the water to as hot as I could stand it. That was real, too. That was good. It let me think.
The answer to it all was painfully simple, or maybe the question was the hotter topic of interest. The question to my answer was, was I willing to go into the battle, prepare myself to attempt to take out the madman at the chance of saving so many innocent people, and probably die in doing so? The answer was simple: Yes. The reasons behind the answer were complicated. It was not because I thought I could win. I had been here before, to this place of horrible inadequacy, and I knew good and well how it would turn out, and I would not win. It’s truly a sick joke that my “gift” liked to play on me. It would show me small snatches of the future in visions. The things are inconvenient and bad, but not life-shattering and horrible, and I would be able to prevent those small things from happening, like Mr. Landry falling down the stairs. But then when the drawings came, or better yet, the urges to draw came, I knew something absolutely insidious was going to happen and there would be almost no way for me to stop it. On the one occasion I did seem to succeed, if only marginally, in thwarting the drawn future, the person I had saved had ended up hating me even more than she had before. She even blamed me. Why? I don’t know. You would have to ask my mother that question. You would think that my thumb had spun the wheel on the silver lighter and dropped it on her.
I was not completely without a plan. What had to be done was simple: I would have to arm myself and take down the attacker. Since I am neither a Kung-Fu master nor a trained marksman, this would be an easier-said-than-done sort of task. Also, I didn’t own a gun. The guy I was going up against had at least two. Big problem.
I laughed a little about this as the steaming water fell over me in the shower. Was I supposed to be the genius who brings a knife to a gun show? And what did I expect to do with said knife? Or maybe I could knock him out by throwing a large rock. Or hit him over the head with my club and drag him back to my cave. The ideas in my head were so awful and outrageous that I laughed until I cried. I had a feeling that if I wouldn’t have laughed, I would have just cried. I prefer laughing. There was no way around it. I was in over my head.
The only thing that I did have in my favor was that I was a decent shot, but this was a worthless thing without a gun. I have never owned a firearm, but my father had owned a few, and probably the only thing he ever taught me was how to shoot. This was a long time ago, so I wasn’t even sure I could still do it. I knew that I could probably obtain a registration and buy a gun at Walmart or something, but that was the problem: the weapon would have to be registered. And if I did manage to take the gunman down, the police might be able analyze the bullets or something and then they would have major questions for me. I wasn’t entirely sure that their technology went so far, but I was not willing to risk it. More than anything else in my life, I must ensure that my secret does not get out. Again, I am no hero.
No, this would only go two ways: I would stop the gunman and get away before I was identified, or I would die in this process. I would not, under any circumstances, allow myself to end up in a lab somewhere, or a padded room. I have faced many terrible things in my life and managed to keep on walking, but men in white coats with clipboards was where I drew the line.
After my shower I dressed in some old gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. These tasks made me feel as if this were any other Sunday, and all that was ahead of me was just unloading shipments at Mr. Landry’s tobacco shop in the morning, reading in the afternoon and finishing homework in the evening. I even pretended that was the truth as I headed out the door and locked it behind me.
Mr. Landry was just stepping out of his apartment as well. As always, his silver hair was trimmed freshly, and underneath it he wore a slight grimace, along with khaki slacks and a golf shirt. He held his back rigid and managed to move strongly but slowly. His voice came out old and deep and abrupt, but I knew that he was curt by nature. “How ya doing, Joe?” he asked.
I managed a halfhearted smile. I wasn’t doing great. “Fine, sir,” I said slowly, pleased when the words came out smooth. I forced the smile to full fledge. Just fine and dandy. I’ve got a really nice knife in my kitchen that I’m planning on taking to this big gun show tomorrow or maybe the day after, but I got a feeling it’s on Monday. Fine and dandy indeed. The smile fell from my lips too quickly to be natural, but at least I was able to keep the rest of my face neutral.
“Huh-how about you?” I asked.
The old man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at me for a moment, a neutral look on his own face, and then looked down at his feet. He shuffled his loafers a little, and for just a second I thought I saw something strange take over his expression. I had never seen anything but an indifferent drill sergeant’s look on his face. This strange one was so foreign to him that there was no way I could decipher it. After what seemed like a long time, he met my eyes. I smoothed out my brow, realizing that I had been frowning in concentration.
“Just fine,” he said. “Getting old. Getting too damn old.”
I was unsure as how to respond. The old man rarely offered such commentary. “I…uh, I asked a fuh-friend to huh-huh-help with the shipment. I huh-hope you don’t mind,” I said.
Mr. Landry nodded and began heading down the concrete steps to the parking lot. “That’s fine,” he said, looking at me strangely again. I grew a little uneasy, though I am not entirely sure why. A heartbeat later, his usual not-interested-in-the-rest-of-the-world expression returned. “See you there,” he said, and started down the steps.
I arrived at the shop only seconds after Mr. Landry, and had to pick my jaw up off of the dashboard when I saw Michael leaning against the driver’s side of his black Lexus. I really hadn’t thought he was going to come, and honestly, I hadn’t thought too much about him at all. Understandably, I had a lot of other things on my mind. Seeing him now, my heartbeat kicked up a notch, and the feeling was alien to me. Michael wore a simple blue t-shirt and black basketball shorts. I saw now why I had thought the word jock when I had first noticed him. He was built rather nicely, and his face was handsome in a way that just made you want to trust him. Not that I did. I hardly trusted anyone anymore. Black work gloves were clutched in his right hand. He smiled, and waved at me with his left.
I waved back, growing more nervous now that I had taken time to acknowledge how good looking this guy was. This worried me as well. Michael had seen me save that stupid drunk woman the other night at the bar. I had not been able to restrain myself from telling him to skip school on Monday. I was getting sloppy, and he could very well only be interested in me out of curiosity. Paranoid? Uh, yeah.
Parking my El Camino alongside the Lexus, I grabbed my own work gloves out of my glove box and stepped out
of the car. Michael was already walking toward me. I swallowed hard. His straight white teeth were still showing in an open smile. Oh man, the last thing I needed was a crush. He was too cute for my own good.
“Hey,” he said, stopping when he reached me.
I stood there awkwardly, and nodded my response. Had his eyes always been such a brilliant shade of green?
“Well,” he said. “I’m here.”
I nodded again, feeling like one of those lost foreigners who don’t understand a word of English and instead just smiles and nods at everything they hear. I cleared my throat. “Cool,” I said. Oh yeah, that was much better. He must think I’m a genius.
Michael laughed, and it made his face somehow more attractive. I looked down at my feet, self-conscious at the intensely interested look in his eyes. “We gonna do some work?” he asked.
I nodded again. “Yeah.” Looking over his shoulder I saw Mr. Landry headed our way. “This is muh-Mr. Landry,” I said when the old man reached us. “We’re going to-to-to huh-help him with some shipments.”
Michael held out his hand to Mr. Landry, who seemed to be studying him closely. I hoped that Michael didn’t misinterpret the perpetual scowl that the old man wore. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Michael said.
I shifted uncomfortably. This situation was strangely like introducing a guy to one’s father for the first time. Mr. Landry took a long moment before answering. “Same,” he said. “Come on around back. Truck should be here any minute.” He headed off around to the rear of the small store without further comment.
Michael stared after him a moment, then turned to me. “I like him,” he said, sounding quite genuine.
I felt my shoulders relax a little. “Me too,” I said. Well, at least he was a good judge of character.
Little by little, as the day progressed, I began to relax more and more. Michael was a hard worker, and together we would finish the unloading and stocking in a third of the time that it usually took me and Mr. Landry. Also, he didn’t talk too much as he worked, which was just fine with me. The more I looked at Michael the more I felt self-conscious, and the less confidence I had in the fluency of my words.
