Her Last Words

by Jo Barney

  Always. She remembers the way their eyes had widened when she first confessed to her crush on Xavier, and she knows they had talked and laughed about it after she’d gone to bed or gotten wine-stricken and fallen asleep on the couch. And when she married Fred. Same looks, same poor Jackie, there-she-goes-again smirks exchanged like she is blind or unconscious or stupid.

  And now even Madge, who’s always listened as if she is intrigued with Jackie’s life. “I wish I had the guts to jump out a window and run away for a while,” she’d said forty-whatever years ago as she put ice on Jackie’s cast and brought her coffee. “So what did you do?” she asked, pulling her feet up on the cot, eager to hear the details of Jackie’s escapade. Now, even from her, a dismissing You’ve had your share of death and dying. Like everybody has a portion of grief ladled out by some equal-opportunity hand of fate and that Jackie’d used hers all up with Fred and Xavier, and she won’t be getting any more, in fact, can leave right now since she is running on empty. Can’t one of them even say she wishes Jackie will change her mind?

  She tosses Madge’s folder back onto the table and goes into the bedroom to pack. When loop of wool from her gray sweater catches on her wedding ring, she stops throwing her clothes into her bag and tries to untangle it before the snag tears a hole. She twists the ring, uses a thumb to ease its hold on the yarn. The thread has slipped under a prong, won’t move, and she is tempted to bite it in two, hurry the damage, get on with packing. She tugs once more, realizes she cannot see what she is doing because her eyes are filled with tears. She stills her fingers, sits down, the sweater piled in her lap, and considered her situation.

  Fred used to pull at her like this, not meaning to, not understanding the damage his needs could cause, the connection between them created by the hand of fate or a goddess, maybe, and she, while trying to protect herself from his tugs on her being, could not let go of him. Then his son Ron cut them loose of each other, and now both she and Fred were less than whole.

  She takes off the ring, lets it rest against the soft web of wool, sets the sweater aside and lies back, tries to think what the new Jackie she’d discovered at the retreat would do to untangle the threads.

  No, she is not the same person she once was, even if her friends cannot see it yet. She has let go of the fantasizer, and the risk taker in her has been temporarily quelled also. She stirs, asks herself, What if Madge were Fred? What if he had asked her, in a moment of clarity, to help him die, had looked at her with sad eyes, had called her Mother one more time, what then? She knew what she would have done, risky as it was, scared as she felt.

  They look up in surprise when she comes through the doorway without her suitcase. She leans over the arm of Madge’s chair, kisses the top of her friend’s head, smells strawberries. “If Fred could have asked, I would have said yes. So how can I say no to someone who has never judged me no matter what kind of trouble I’m in, who trusts me now to help her.” Jackie covers Madge’s quiet hand with her own gnarly one, small still bones pressing against her palm, the secret handshake. “So tell me what we’re going to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Friday Evening: The Chart

  Madge

  Late into the night, the wine flows and the fire burns steadily as Madge holds her notes and explains her plan to them.

  “The low tide is the key,” she says. “I wrote a description of this part of the coast a few years ago for magazine article. I’ll read part of it so you’ll understand.

  ‘The beach meanders for three or more miles to the south, ending finally in a small harbor dedicated to crab and oyster seekers and a rustic hut of an inn for those who prefer their crustaceans on a plate. To the north, a triangular jut of rock interrupts the ocean’s rhythm and creates slanted anxious waves that peel away shards of granite from its cliffs. The stone falls with thuds that sometimes awaken people in the nearby beach houses.’”

  Madge looks up at them, offers them a promise. “You’ve never been here when it’s possible to see what’s on the other side of the head. You will be overwhelmed with the beauty you’ll find.”

  She returns to her manuscript, describing the cove as if she were waiting at its entrance. “‘Beyond the head lies a pristine curve of sand, guarded by five huge monoliths rising from the ocean, approachable only at the lowest of tides. When the tide table forecasts a minus 2.5 tide, the locals carry burlap bags and baskets and slip past the pointed rocky head to raise iron crowbars and screwdrivers against the beards of the wild mussels massed below the water line.

  “‘When low tide of this measure comes in the early morning, however, even the most avid devotees of mussels stay in bed, for access to the cove will last only one dark hour before the watery gates flow shut again.’”

  Madge lays the papers on the end table. “That article never did get published. Ironic, isn’t it, that you three will be its only audience? I knew I wrote it for a reason.” She picks up the tide table on her lap, one line highlighted. “I will go for a walk,” she says, no need for a written page to guide her words now, “because I can’t sleep. I will wander past the entrance to the hidden cove, be welcomed by the spires and monoliths looming in the pale sky. I’ll not return.”

  “We wait, look, call for help. When?” Joan asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. You’ll guess that perhaps a sneaker wave got me as I walked the waterline. You’ll find my walking stick.”

  “That’s too soon, Madge. We have to get used to the idea.” Lou moans, does not continue.

  Madge must be firm now, despite the pain she hears in Lou’s voice. She shakes her head. “I can’t wait. The next -2.5 tide is a month away. A month is a long time for me.”

  “It may be days before you are found. Are you sure?”

  Madge gives her friend a long look. “You’ll be here to find me.” Then she smiles. “Are you sure? That is the same question I asked you a few years ago, Lou. ‘Are you sure you want to begin your life all over?’ When you said yes, do you remember what I said?”

  Lou meets Madge’s gaze. “I’ll never forget it. You said, ‘Well, then, you must do it.’” Lou’s voice quavers with her next words. “But the question then was about a beginning, not an ending. I felt strong, free, as I chose to live a new life.”

  One more time, each time the words are easier to say. “And I feel the same, making this choice to die.”

  “Then you must do it.”

  Jackie stands up. “The pact has been made, no turning back, right? Like jumping out a window. You can’t turn back after you’ve let go of the ledge. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past hour or so. A little wine will help, won’t it?” She fills their glasses, spilling a little and not bothering to wipe it up.

  “To us,” they toast and they sip without saying more until Jackie’s “Hah!” makes them look at her. “Remember the time the pervert was jerking off in front of our basement window during chapter meeting, and Madge screamed and everyone told her to be quiet so they could watch?”

  Lou chokes on an almost-laugh. “It was my first and only penis for five years, a precious moment.”

  “Then there was the time Joan came in from a date and her cashmere was on backwards.”

  “I said that’s how we wore them in San Mateo.”

  “‘And inside out?’ someone asked you. ‘Of course,’ you answered.” Jackie is on a roll now, small chuckles encouraging her. “And you took it off, stepped into its arms and pulled it up and cinched it around your waist with your wide belt.” Jackie stands up, pretends to hitch up a sweater, buckle a belt. “‘Upside-down, too,’ you said. ‘The neck is for easy access to one’s netherparts.’” She demonstrates. “You were so cool, Joan.”

  Jackie collapses onto her chair, reaches for her wine. “And Madge, what did you do with all the notes you took during Joan’s evening classes in how to fuck?”

  “Our girl jester,” Madge hears Lou whisper to Joan.

  Madge squints her eyes in thought.
“I can truly say I don’t remember.” Then they laugh again.

  Madge had hoped for this laughter, this resurrection of memories on this night. It seems strangely right that they will spend their last hours together meandering through the years, as if they have limitless time to poke into crevices, discover almost forgotten moments, share them like glowing agates held in palms. Ex-husbands are exhumed, wild and ungrateful children shaken again in exasperation, the solarium air swirling in the smoke of old memories.

  Then they are quiet. They can no longer avoid the approach of dawn. Lou blows out the candles, and one by one they take Madge in their arms, hold her, leave her shoulders damp with their tears.

  “I’ll always love you.”

  “You are magnificent, the bravest person I’ll ever know.”

  “I am honored to be your friend.”

  And Madge kisses each of them. “Thank you.” She can think of nothing more she needs to say.

  Minutes later, as she and Joan rustle against their pillows, she hears a quiet intake of breath, a murmur, “Oh, God, Madge, what will I do without you?” Madge touches a wet cheek, answers, “You’ll do fine, dear friend. As always. Let’s talk a little more. Perhaps you’ll sleep.”

  Chapter Forty

  Sunday Evening: Storm Surge

  Lou

  A knock. Lou reaches the door first. A tall figure, a man, stands on the porch. He steps forward. “Hello, Lou,” he says, his quiet voice husky, tired.

  Joan stands behind her, says, “Come in, Roger. We’ve been expecting you.” Lou holds the door as he comes in, takes off his stocking cap, holds it a moment as he glances around, then tucks it into his pocket. A graying ponytail curls down the back of his wool jacket. He blinks as if he has just crawled out of a dark hole.

  When Joan suggests that metaphor, he shakes his head. “Just Nebraska.” Then his mouth softens, and he asks, looking at each of them. “How are you doing?”

  “Shit,” Jackie says. “He does know.”

  Lou reaches up to take his jacket. He holds up a hand, steps back. “I’m not sure I’m staying. I shouldn’t be here. Madge made that clear.”

  “She told you?”

  “No. She hid her last notes from me. She couldn’t find them when she was packing to come here, and she had to ask me to help her. I found them, read what she was going to ask of you.” Roger, still in his jacket, has moved towards the sofa. Lou can see, in the light of the fire, the deep lines, the gray shadows of fatigue on his face.

  “You have to sit down, rest,” she says, and this time he lets her take his coat, and he sinks into the cushions. She has seen a face like that a long time ago, the face of her father as he touched the fingers of his dead wife, and tears no longer offered solace. Jackie brings in a glass of wine for him, Joan offers her chenille throw, Lou takes his hand for moment, then gives it back to him, and they wait for him to speak.

  “My car is outside. It shouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Lou reaches for his jacket, riffles pockets, finds the keys. “I’ll do it,” she says to Jackie who is about to follow her. “I’ll park it in someone’s driveway, someone not here this week. We need to stay in the cabin as much as we can. Lucius may be out looking around, could drop by.”

  Lou glances at Joan who is standing by the window, watching something moving below her.

  “Lucius, in fact, is coming this way, going house to house as we advised him to, flashlight in hand.” Joan gives Lou an uncertain glance. “Are you sure?” Lou doesn’t answer as she ties her robe closed, looks for her slippers. “Just be careful. Park it in a driveway or something. I’ll take care of Roger and Lucius, when he gets here.”

  Joan takes Roger by the arm, is standing him up, leading him out of the room. Roger follows her without a sound. She calls out as she closes the bedroom door, “Jackie, look like you’re sloshed.”

  Outside, Lou starts the car and slides it out of the driveway. Lucius will be suspicious of a rental car parked in front of a vacant house. She knows just the place, moves up the dark road in the opposite direction of Lucius and his flashlight. She tries not to let the idea of two hundred feet of sheer drop on her left take over as she turns into a sharp right and continues up towards the woods at the top of the hill. The other thing to remember is the ditch along the road. Right side or left? Doesn’t matter. She just needs to find the driveway of the old house at the edge of the stand of cedars that line the ridge.

  It is grassy, hardly a driveway at all, just an old track left when the house was abandoned by the family who had lived there until part of the roof blew off. Madge had led them on a walk up there the last time they were here, and they had picked huckleberries and turned their tongues blue as they sat on the old porch. Should be right about here, she thinks, slowing, almost stopping. Then she does stop. Nothing is familiar. The heavy green trees have disappeared. The moon is rising over scrub brush and stumps, and over a huge structure, a house perhaps.

  She edges forward, squints at what she realizes is a garage door set into a two-story wall of windows. The white stickers on the glass panes reflect the faint flare of light the moon is offering, a house so new no one has moved in yet. Lou gets out of the car. An unfinished house might not have an automatic opener on its garage door. She yanks on the handle and with a whiny groan, the door goes up. Inside, piles of lumber and debris line the walls and floor. She goes back to the car, turns into the driveway, and edges slowly into the garage. The stuff she is driving over crunches and bangs, and finally she can’t go any further. She gets out, pulls down on the half-opened door, and it closes, all but about a foot.

  Mission accomplished, Lou thinks, scuttling down the road, trying to keep her slippers from sliding off. If she meets with Lucius she can say she needed to get some exercise or something. She’ll have to put off feeling bad about the desecrated trees for another day.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sunday Evening: Flood Tide

  Jackie

  Jackie isn’t pretending to be sloshed. She is. The evening of revelations, the stress of telling her own true story, the shock of Roger walking in, and of course, the glasses of wine that accompanied all this activity have affected both her vision and her ability to walk across the room, which she is working on at the moment. Someone is knocking. All she knows is that Lou and Joan have rushed out somewhere, leaving her to act as if she’s drunk, for some reason. Not a difficult assignment, she thinks, as she runs her hand along the wall for guidance and heads for the door. “Hang on, I’m coming,” she calls reaching for the knob.

  Lucius stands there, his baseball cap in hand. “Sorry it’s so late. I saw that the lights were on and decided to stop by.” He waits to be invited in, and Jackie can’t think of a reason not to.

  “I was, ah, taking a nap, Sheriff. But come in and I’ll try to get myself together.” She pats her hair and pulls her robe around her. “I’m not sure where the others are. I mean, they are somewhere here.” When Lucius steps in, she closes the door and leans on it for a moment. Where are they? She flings an arm in the direction of the couch and says she’ll be right back.

  In the bedroom, Joan is applying lipstick and is frowning at her in the mirror. “I said act like, not be, Jackie.” Joan turns. “You are needed here. When Lou gets back, you are to— Are you listening? You are to say that the tension of the day has caused you to drink a little too much and you are going to be sick. Leave the room. Make sick sounds and then call out good night. But don’t go to bed. Go out on the deck and sit in the farthest chair from the window. Stay there.”

  “I can do that. Being sick. But why?”

  “Because Roger is in your bed, pretending to be you. It’s the only place I could think of—in case Lucius wants to look around, for evidence or something.” Jackie is relieved that Joan leads her into the living room and sets her in a chair.

  “Jackie said you were here, Lucius.” She yawns. “We’re thinking we should get some sleep, if we can. Tomorro
w will be a stressful day—both of Madge’s sons are coming in. Roger, too, if the message got through to him. His mother was a little vague on the phone. Anyway, do you have some news? Is that why you’re here?”

  Lucius looks around. “Is Lou still up?” He looks at Jackie, who looks at Joan, who smiles at him.

  “She’s out for a little air.” Then she sits beside the sheriff, and Jackie knows exactly what Joan is going to do. She’ll lick her lips and put her hand on his body, arm probably, maybe knee. Then she’ll look into his confused eyes and tell him he is the most virile man she’s come across lately. Well, no, she won’t do that, but he’ll feel like that is what she’s saying. He won’t have any strength to doubt whatever she is about to say. She’s so good at this.

  Jackie has always envied this talent, and at first she felt a surge of smugness at the news of California Girl’s latest marriage fiasco. Even perfect teeth didn’t always guarantee success, but there is something special about her mouth. Jackie runs her tongue over her lips, tastes sour wine, and then a bubble churns its way up into her throat. She will have to leave the room soon, for real. She looks at Lucius, who is smiling at Joan, who is saying, “We’re so appreciative of your taking this so seriously, Lucius. So what is happening?”

  Lucius seems about to tell her when Lou, white hair in a frightening flurry, bursts through the front door, her robe open and flapping over her cat pajamas. When she sees Lucius, she stops, says, “Oh,” and wads a dangling belt into a knot at her waist. Jackie, from her fuzzy viewpoint, thinks Lou looks as if she’s just escaped from an asylum, but Lou pulls herself together and says, “It’s a perfect night for a little run, and I really needed the air.” She shuffles a bit as she comes into the living room. “It’s been a long day, this waiting, you know.” She sits down and looks at Lucius, who is staring at her running slippers.