Leaping

by Diane Munier

  He'd done his part…all he could…limited…pathetic. He'd had to let go. Or appear to. He had to appear to let go…like he could.

  He'd pulled out of everything, quit everything, his work, his life. Laura. Just quit. And months in his apartment…then at Alisha's. Counseling in another town. Two weeks trying to sell the latest technology at a superstore. Then not coming out of the house again. Drinking. Counseling. Waiting tables. Drinking. Anger. Seclusion.

  Now here, to the house, his grandfather's dream, that's when he'd moved in and he found…he couldn't move at all, not really, but he was great at pretending to move. That he could do…on occasion…for brief spells of time.

  For a few weeks, they had loved him, held him up, and he had hidden while they created their idol that was him…without him, the young pastor who had tried to stand before the sixteen year old giant wielding an assault rifle…like the Chinese student in Tiananmen square, before the oppressor's tank he'd stood. Like David of old standing before Goliath with just a sling. Like Gandalf with the Balroc slamming his staff in the path of its onslaught, "You shall not pass."

  They had said all of those in various articles, not that he read them, but Alisha did, and that was nearly the same.

  They were tired now, those writers and wielders of laurel wreaths, the cheerers and worshippers of the courage they'd ascribed him, the superman suit, but there were more tragedies lining up all the time, and he was pushed to the back of the line then off the hero's cliff altogether, and those who knew him best were left with the truth…he was human and distant and no more brave than the next person working his ideals in a church where boys came to practice walking the aisle…for Boy Scout week.

  Henry Tulley was shot first, the proud grandfather watching his grandson practice from the back row, straight from work. Henry wasn't a leader, he had too much work to do, , but he came whenever he could, always on the sidelines of his grandson's life, filling in for a father that never was, and he'd watched his grand boy carry the flag and march in step, and all the aisles a boy walked in his life, all-important, and this no different, but Henry was first, nearest the door when the shooter came in, the first to go, and that's when they knew, when their heads snapped up, when they looked to the source of a noise these hallowed halls had yet to hear, for all the sins confessed, for all the tears cried, it had never heard the pop of an assault rifle, for all the talk of the blood of Christ and how it cleansed and forgave, it had never seen that shocking red explosion, that far-flung spill that quelled the few splatters of communion wine it had witnessed, brighter, bolder was this spray this spill, warmer, no less life altering, no less precious…sacred.

  Jordan had met him in the center aisle, but not before James shot two more, the flag-bearers at the end of the group, Seth Tulley and Aiden Barnes. He paused and boys screamed and yelled and moved behind him, but Jordan, hands out, kept approaching the shooter, and he recognized him, knew him, "James," he said, "no…no…don't do this, no, no…."

  There was no remorse, no repentance, but a set look, and James raised the rifle and Jordan dropped and moved forward on his hands and feet, and more shots over his head and screaming and like a crazed perversion of himself Jordan made a sound and closed the gap, and this was the moment, where he reached James and took him down, and the struggle, God the struggle and finally the rifle pressed on James neck and Jordan…all his weight pushing that weapon into James' neck, pushing, pushing against James' wild struggle, pushing down, crushing breath…until he wasn't moving, until sometime later a voice, an agonized voice, and a hand on his shoulder pulling him, pulling, telling him to stop, to stop. And he looked up and it was one of the boys, tears tracking his soft face. "Stop Jordan."

  He had strangled James Carson. He was dead. But he didn't stop. "Go on and wait for the ambulance," he told the boy. He stayed on top of James. He held the rifle where it was. Minutes later, the sheriff had to pry Jordan's hands from James' gun.

  He didn't want to let it go…he couldn't on his own.

  Back at his grandfather's house he stood, looking out the door, at the sea. He wanted to walk into it again, to let it slam against him…but the pot from her soup…and the lid. He walked out there and gathered these, put the lid on the pot and holding it by the green handles, he walked some and gathered her discarded clothes, her bra, and he kept glancing at the sand encrusted cloth that seemed to make her so intimately real, and he thought of her, he didn't want to…but he did…and how broken she was…had to be…was…and he neared the cabin, and went to the porch, and not knowing if she still lived inside, he set these things on the porch, and he turned away and walked home in the path they had carved beyond the ocean's reach, and he knew regret to not have those things in his hands anymore.

  He knew real regret.

  Chapter 7

  He put the books back on the shelves in Ken's library. It was Ken who had built on what his grandfather had already started. When Jordan had pulled the books the first two weeks he'd been there, his intent had been to read them. He was looking for other lives to be involved in. He was looking for answers.

  But he'd soon tired of the processes of story, the manipulations to pull him in when he was already in. He didn't have time. He just wanted the truth.

  That's when he'd began leaping to the endings…to read the conclusions…the heroes returning home with the elixir, the prize…and what had they learned?

  At first he'd kept a notebook. The themes were profoundly simple, the value of noticing a person's worth, a man's conscience against society and culture, making peace with the father you hated, realizing you were a lot like him. The themes were human and uplifting and life affirming, and for Jordan, they could be traced to a further source of those same themes…Scripture.

  He'd already studied the source of those stories. The struggle of God with man and man with God in the original text. Everything else was a working out of the same struggle. If he were to write his own story…he could add it to the pile and someone…somewhere would be able to relate. He was not unique. They…were not unique.

  When Cori had stood among the books…it was resurrection…. She was sound and dimension and beauty, warmth, feeling…and more…and he was pulled out of his head for once. She had no idea the picture she'd made, standing boldly…with fascination, alive and…present, having the courage to come for him. Not at him…but for him…to deliver him from his own company…from his own endless musings.

  There was a difference. She…made a difference…standing there. And everything he might believe would be challenged…by another human being…and this one…had barged right through the usual foyer experience most people had with him, if, if they made it through his door. This one…Cori…had come to save him.

  On the other hand, it was simple. Men had been projecting the wrong motives, the wrong personas, the wrong values onto the women they wanted to bed…did bed…since the fall in the garden. He was no different there. He had thought she was one thing…learned she was another. It happened all the time. That's why…he'd never done something like this before. Not since college…before he'd surrendered to a different life where he tried to judge a person's worth with no thought at all about how to exploit them for his own desperate need, but he'd tried to see their value…he'd tried to serve. So he got what all men got when they leaped to the end.

  He got what he deserved.

  But maybe that was bullshit. Maybe his desperate need had been to be good.

  Maybe that's why he couldn't forgive himself now.

  Oh, no, it wasn't that. It wasn't the old "I can't forgive myself," bullshit men spouted as if they didn't forgive themselves constantly for their many sins against women, children, God, earth, animals, mankind. Men had no power to forgive themselves of anything, yet they did it all the time, rationalizing away….. This was more than that…please God.

  This was more like…I gave all I could. I had no more. So I walked away. And they couldn't demand, they could only ask, for they knew…I ha
d given them everything, and I turned my pockets inside out…so they could see…my poverty.

  That's what this was. Poverty.

  And Cori…Weston knew she had no right to ask more of him. She had no right at all.

  He had reacted. He had dissected it over and again. He was there…it happened…he reacted. The kid was there to kill. He shot Henry Tulley. He shot the flag-bearers. He shot two others over Jordan's head when he'd leaped…reacted…and knocked James off his military boots.

  Jordan had not restrained. He had killed. He…trained to save…to value…not to exploit…but to serve…he who had been trained that way…to see…to listen…to care…had not restrained James, but had killed him, had brought the weapon over James’ throat and had crushed…in the place of sacred ritual and joy…in a place he so revered he would stop and stoop to pick up a scrap of paper….

  They had to pry his hands….

  That's always where the chapter ended in Jordan's mind. With the prying.

  It had to be. He wasn't a baby, he knew that. It wasn't a question of why. There was no satisfying answer, nothing uncovered that made them slap their foreheads in revelation. James left them nothing. He wasn't out to serve their need to understand so they could work on it, get on it and ferret it out, the motive, the reason that would return some feeling of control…for the future. So they speculated, willing to blame themselves, willing to take a stand on one issue or another as if one thing could explain such a dark, crucifying choice.

  We sin. There was that. There was always that.

  It's just that some of our sins…oh….

  The community had wanted Jordan…demanded Jordan…were angry when he didn't come out of the arena's door in his gladiator suit, brandishing a sword to their roar and wow. We'll show 'em!

  It was quickly becoming about him. They wanted the focus there…on him…the illusion of control. The idea that wherever the punks of the world raised their assault weapons, the Jordans would be there to tackle them to the ground and kill them, stamp them out like the plague they were, to enforce…freedom.

  He quickly became the only thing in the story that made sense. And they wanted him to come out of his hidey-hole and rally them. A hero doesn't hide. A hero doesn't withdraw.

  He'd had no choice in what James put in motion. His choice was taken away, and that's what James was there to do, take. Take. Take.

  But Jordan had choice in many things after…the prying.

  What did he want to do next?

  That's what he realized during the inquest. He answered the questions, painstakingly answered, again and again. They were with him. They were for him.

  They wanted to honor him…did so absentia.

  Jordan didn't show up, told them he wouldn't. He disappointed them. They quit trying. It was better this way. Now they could talk about him without having to deal with him. He was much more heroic as a fictional character…bringing the elixir home.

  "They were with you." That's what she'd said. What an odd way to say it. It touched him and repelled him all at once. He didn't want to interpret her choice of words. But she'd lumped them together, in her mind. They'd been with him. Why would she say it like that? It was odd. She was odd.

  He had nothing more to give to the boys who survived. He had killed in front of them. He had nothing more to give than the 'everything' he had given. It would have to suffice. It would have to be enough.

  When she'd stood among the books…he thought she was there to save him. And for a few nights…it felt that way…it felt…like heaven.

  But he was wrong. She was there…like all the rest…to take.

  And all he had was choice…choice was precious, in the context of care for another, in the paradigm of valuing life…outside of that context, outside of that model, choice…was a staggering possibility, choice…was a horror.

  So…what would he do next?

  Cori solved that for him. He heard her calling him from below, and he was still abed. He got up and dressed, but he was slow about it, his body feeling sore, stiff.

  He went in the bathroom and did the fundamentals, pissed, brushed, ran water and hands through his hair, left the healthy stubble.

  He went downstairs and she was standing there, near the table. The beauty…it always surprised him…how perfect…and he softened some to realize he would never be able to resist her under normal conditions. There were many factors at work, and he was human.

  He wasn't mad at her anymore. Just disappointed, and even then, more about the way life was than the way she was.

  "Hey," she said softly. "I…thanks for bringing my stuff over. I…didn't hear you…but I figured…." She shrugged, looking down, looking back at him, seeking his permission to even be there.

  "Not a problem," he said. He gestured she could sit, he didn't want her to, it would be better if they walked, just to sit and stare at each other…that was worse, surely.

  They sat and then spoke at the same time and he stopped and said, "You first," and she said, "No, you."

  "Well…goes without saying this is over." He hated saying that. But it's all he had to show her how wrong it was. To let it continue was impossible. "I…I apologize if you feel like…if I was too rough…or for taking advantage…saying some rough things…I didn't need to do that…to throw your soup like that…I apologize. But…this can't…there's no trust. I don't trust you. I don't want to…want this…." He couldn't get his words right so he rubbed over his face and, somewhere in there he'd said his piece.

  "Well," she said, a sad laugh, "the good thing is, we're moving backwards."

  He looked sharply at her. "Cori…are you…I know you've been through a lot. Are you…stable?" He felt it then, well he'd seen the sadness first day, first minute, he'd said that to her, instincts, he'd said, "You're sad."

  She laughed some. "I know what I'm saying, Jordan. We agreed we'd go backwards. We'd stay in that pattern. We agreed."

  "All bets are off. Cori."

  "No, Jordan. They're not off. You can quit. There's not much I can do about it. But…we agreed."

  "Why is this so important to you?"

  "If we keep going backwards…you won't have to quit. Everything that's happened between us…in reality…hasn't happened yet…according to our agreement.

  “Therefore…everyday is a new day. All that has happened is what we haven't messed up yet…because we haven't experienced it yet. That's the beauty of moving backwards. It's all we have now…it's all we have to keep us together."

  "Oh, so you haven't betrayed me yet?"

  "Betrayed?"

  "So you haven't duped me yet? As I see it, your scheme with Alisha runs all the way through this. That's why I can't continue."

  "I'm sorry you feel betrayed, but I haven't told you about knowing Alisha yet. That's…in the future. Today…we're here. In your kitchen. Today…I want to be with you and I pray…pray you will be with me." She looked at him then.

  "It's all lies," he said.

  "I could tell you here that it isn't. I could tell you here that I was so intrigued when I met you on the beach. Of course I knew of you…of course I did. I could tell you…that…the very idea of you…I've been so grateful…with no way to express it. Cards and letters, but Alisha told me you wouldn't read them. And you didn't take calls. That's how I got to know her, of course. It makes sense, see."

  "We either ignore it all…and lie…or we dwell on it. Our relationship would become all about it now that you've brought it here," he said. "Either way it's intolerable."

  "It's not intolerable. How can it not be a part of us? A part of whom we are?"

  "You gave me no choice," he said. "That's the thing. You took my choice away."

  "I didn't. I chose you, that first day. I said I'd come…and I did. You seemed to choose me."

  "A lack of information," he said.

  "It's always that way."

  "Vital information," he said.

  "That I intended to give you at the right time," she said.<
br />
  "Who are you to decide that?'

  "If I could speak about the past few days…in real time…what we've shared…do you regret it?'

  "Knowing this? We would have known. That's the lie. We would have known if it was normal…and not this sick game."

  "I did know," she said. "I knew. And it made it more…not less. That made it everything."

  "You used me. This is all about you."

  "I didn't," she whispered. "I couldn't. You're…I'm in love with you."

  He was speechless. He could see the sincerity in her eyes, her voice, her very posture, hands splayed on the table, one of them moving and resting on his arm. "I love you," she said again. "How could I not? From the first?"

  He worked to find his voice. "Have you had…help…since…."

  "Yes," she said quickly. "All kinds. Bombarded…actually."

  "This is some…unhealthy…."

  "No," she shook her head, eyes closing briefly. "It's real. It's more than you saving Seth, though that was the beginning, but now…it's more."

  "You need to go," he said standing up. He'd jarred the table, he felt clumsy.

  "Don't send me away," she said. "I want to be with you."

  "I don't trust…this," he said, unnerved. "I blame myself…we've been intense…and physically I know…for women…and you're grieving. This is grief." He had no idea what he was saying, why he was going on.

  "It's just one day," she said standing, her fingertips white against the table where she leaned her weight.

  "Don't…."

  "It ends in two weeks. It's over then," she asserted.

  "I have no commitment to this," he said, angry…that he wanted her to convince him…that he didn't know how he'd stay in this house….

  "But you are involved," she said. "Just…be involved a little longer."

  "What do you want from me? I can't encourage this. I'm not irresponsible, or a complete bastard."

  "Oh…I know that."

  "You know Alisha now. I…suppose you'll tell her all about this…and who else? I don't know you."