Until the Devil Weeps

by W E DeVore

  She twisted her mouth, mimicking the pose, tempted to let out a howl, just to see how loud her painting would be shrieking, if only it had the ability to do so. Her phone rang and she saw Derek’s smiling face on the screen.

  It had been a week since she’d seen him. After the party, they’d recorded three more tracks before Derek had been called to Los Angeles for the People’s Choice Awards. He’d been nominated for Favorite Music Icon and he’d wanted her to go with him as his date. She’d dismissed the idea out of hand because she’d wanted to be close to memories of Ben on their wedding anniversary. Now, she wished she was anywhere but alone in her dusty house.

  She picked up the phone. “Cincinnati, did you win?”

  “The awards were six days ago, angel.”

  “So, that’s a no?” she guessed, picking up her glass of vodka from the coffee table and taking a drink that made the ice rattle.

  “No, that’s a yes,” he corrected. “Are you drinking?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Quite a bit, actually.”

  The line was quiet and Q waited for some recrimination or another to come. It didn’t.

  Derek finally said, “Then, this is a bad idea. I’ll be home tomorrow. I just thought you’d…”

  His voice trailed off and Q asked, “You thought you’d… what?”

  “I did something. While I was here. I wanted you to hear it. But if you’re drunk and alone on your wedding anniversary, it’s probably a bad idea. Why are you alone?”

  “How do you know I’m alone?” she asked, slurring more than she’d intended. Derek was silent and she admitted, “Yes, I’m alone. I told everybody to stay away and for once they actually listened to me. Congratulations. You’re the only person in my life that remembered my anniversary.”

  Her voice caught and her eyes flooded. Pushing the tears back into her skull, she sighed loudly and continued, “What do you want me to hear?”

  “’I’ve Lost You,’” he said. “I finished it, out here. Had a friend of mine do a string arrangement for it. We recorded it yesterday in this great studio. You would have loved it. Frank Sinatra recorded there with Antonio Carlos Jobim.”

  “I love that record. Send me the track.” She wiped off her face and dried her hand on her jeans. “I just need to get good and drunk and probably cry. I haven’t, you know. Five months and I still haven’t cried about it.”

  He hesitated. “You sure you want to be alone for that?”

  “I definitely don’t want an audience, if that’s what you’re asking. Send the track. I promise I won’t slit my wrists.”

  “They are lovely wrists. I’m going to hold you to that, angel.”

  Derek hung up and Q’s phone dinged with an incoming message. She downloaded the MP3 to her phone and walked to the stereo, stumbling on a discarded pair of Converse on the way. She picked up one of the shoes and threw it across the room. It landed squarely in the middle of the scream over the mantel, tilting the canvas at a precarious angle.

  Leering at the painting, she growled, “I’m coming for you, motherfucker. Ben’s not here to protect you no more.”

  She turned on the stereo and waited for the Bluetooth connection to ding through the speakers. Pressing ‘Play’ on her phone, she laid down in the middle of the floor and closed her eyes.

  Delicate chords floated out from the stereo and into the house. The string section Derek had added filled out the spaces in between with new harmonies. Q heard her own voice sing from a great distance:

  How can I say that I’m not breaking

  How can I say that I’m not making this worse

  How can I say the words that are breaking my soul

  How can I say the words that have been stolen

  from my tongue

  I love you oh how I love you

  I loved you oh how I loved you

  Now I’ve lost you

  And I’ve lost me, too

  Her eyes flooded and tears finally overtopped her will. She tightened her fist, gripping at the empty air, for something, anything to hold onto.

  Dreams tear at my mind

  Ripping me apart from what was kind

  My heart fits like a key

  Into the lock on your soul

  I love you oh how I love you

  I loved you oh how I loved you

  Now I’ve lost you

  And I’ve lost me, too

  Q put the song on a loop and stood back up as it started again. She drained her drink and stumbled to the framed photograph on the bookcase in the foyer. Picking it up, she stared at the photograph in her hand. Ben’s smiling face looked back at her, a vibrant sunset stood like a halo around his head, his hair blowing as wild as the Caribbean Sea behind them. She closed her eyes and felt his hand on her hip, the warm island wind tickling the skin on her back. The diamond on her left hand sparkled in the dim light and she imagined the words inscribed inside of it branding her skin with their letters.

  Bashert. Destined. Meant to be.

  “Motherfucker!!!!” she screamed and threw the picture across the room. It smashed into the fireplace and shattered. “You fucking left me!!!”

  She stalked to the kitchen and pulled out a butcher knife, returning to the living room to stab the leather furniture, digging deep holes into every cushion. “You bastard. You left me. I fucking hate you!”

  Half crawling, she stumbled over the coffee table to stab one of the leather chairs and then the other. When the knife broke in two, she turned the chair over in frustration and kicked it into the coffee table. She pulled down the large flat screen TV, letting it crash to the floor, carrying all its associated components with it. Digging through the wreckage, she picked up a speaker and hurled it against the mantel of the fireplace. It ricocheted off and banged into the keybed of her piano with a cacophonic clatter.

  The crash rattled the painting loose from its perilous support and it slid down the wall, tipping onto its side before coming to rest against the wall, still shrieking at her in silent horror.

  She gripped the edge of the piano and screamed at the top of her lungs before slamming the piano lid down with a thud.

  Q returned to the kitchen and opened the nearest cupboard, taking down plate after plate and throwing them against the sink, roaring with rage, blind with it.

  “It’s your fault! I told you not to fucking jinx it and you wouldn’t let it go,” she muttered, marching to the guest bedroom to retrieve the one thing that she knew could do some serious damage to the house that Ben loved.

  She yanked out the weighted mic stand from the closet and dragged it behind her, oblivious to the large gauges it was leaving in the floor. Stopping by the freezer, she snatched out the bottle of vodka and opened it, taking a long drink as she headed up the stairs. When she reached her destination, she hesitated, then flung open the door to the nursery. The baby powder smell overwhelmed her and she drank a long pull from her bottle before setting it down and swinging the base of the mic stand over her shoulder. Wrapping both hands around it, she brought it down onto the crib to cut it in half in one efficient swing. She lunged a broken half into the wall, sending the pictures hanging on it cascading down to the floor in a waterfall of broken glass and plastic.

  “Fuck!!!” she screamed again, knocking over the rocker and kicking it with her foot over and over. She finally grabbed the mic stand again and threw it into the window, shattering the panes of glass and waking half a dozen dogs in the distance. Walking back to retrieve her bottle on the floor, she leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor to sit and view the wreckage. Cold, empty longing dulled her senses, twisting the world until it no longer seemed real.

  “I can’t do this, Ben,” she said. “I don’t know how to do this. You left me. You promised you wouldn’t leave me. You fucking promised me. You’re a god damned liar.”

  Q took another drink and rested her head back against the wall, studying the shattered window. Her eyes drifted down to the picture on the floor, her own face smiling
up at her from beneath the shards of glass, warping the image. Pushing away the tears that trickled in a steady stream down her cheek, she made the decision that had been floating at the back her mind for weeks, broadcasting itself to everyone who loved her. “Fuck this. I’m done. I can be done. I’m fucking allowed to be done.”

  She stood up and walked across the hall to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet. She was sorely disappointed when she opened it. Eight Percocet, three Ambien, a long Vicodin, and two ancient blood pressure pills from her first trimester. She didn’t know if it would be enough to do the trick, but figured an entire bottle of vodka would help it along.

  Putting the pills in her pocket, she grabbed a light jacket and a pillow, and headed downstairs. She closed the vodka and put it into her satchel, throwing it over her shoulder and picking up her car keys.

  Eyeing the shattered remains of her wedding photograph, she pointed to Ben and said, “You and me are gonna have a talk, Bordelon. Right fucking now.”

  As she drove to the cemetery with care, fully conscious of how drunk she already was, a sense of calm settled over her. She was taking back control, even if that power would only exist for the last few hours her heart was going to beat. Once she was parked a half block away from the gates, she looked at herself in the rear-view mirror and fixed her disheveled hair. A bloody cut on her cheek seeped below the scab that was forming and she held her sleeve against it while debating her next move, wondering how she was going to get from her car to Ben’s grave without being seen.

  Getting out of the car, she staggered towards the entrance. The guard house was illuminated from within and she could see the night watchman through the window. His feet were up and he was watching some video on a tablet.

  She ducked low and slipped by him, using the tombs nearby as cover. As she made her way to the Bordelon family mausoleum, she mindlessly read the dates on the graves that surrounded her, internally calculating the relative age of each occupant as she walked past.

  When she arrived at the family plot, the gate made a loud creak as she opened it.

  “Shhh,” she scolded.

  Closing it behind her, she rushed to the ledger stone that covered Ben’s tomb to touch his name. She fell to her knees and kissed Jasper’s birthdate. “Hey there, sweet boy. We’re all going to be together now. Everything’s going to be ok.”

  Sitting cross-legged and resting her back against the tomb, she swallowed each pill with its own large drink of vodka. Her stomach cramped as the alcohol began to nauseate her. She slipped down onto her side, adjusting the pillow under her head, and shivering against the cold cement as she nestled back against the mausoleum.

  “Alright, husband,” she whispered. “I know you’re going to be pissed when you see me. But it’s for the best. We were all meant to die that day. Now, before you argue, I want you to see to reason, think about what a great ghost story this will be for the tour guides to use. We’ll get to be together and there will be one more creepy story to scare tourists with. Win. Win.”

  Her vision blurred and she turned her head to look up at the stars. “I’m coming to you. I’m coming...”

  The sky overhead began to spin in a slow clockwise rotation and Q felt her body sucked down into the darkness, spinning and spinning until the world went black.

  ◆◆◆

  When she opened her eyes, Ben was leaning against the fence watching her sleep, cradling Jasper in his arms.

  She sat up and reached for her son, but Ben held him back.

  “What are you doing here, Clementine?” Ben was not pleased.

  “What am I doing here? I should be asking you the same damn thing, Bordelon. You died, you asshole.”

  A slow grin spread on his lips. “Ballbuster.”

  He glanced up at the security light. “So, you’re just giving up, is that it?”

  She looked at her hands. “I can’t do it, baby. I’ve tried every which way I know how. But I can’t.”

  “Bullshit. This isn’t you trying. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not my wife.”

  Slumping back against the marble wall, she rested her elbows on her knees. “That good, huh?”

  “You’re not supposed to be here, darlin’. What did you go and do to yourself?” Ben’s voice broke. Jasper started to cry and he cradled him closer.

  “Can I hold him?” Q asked.

  “No, you cannot. You need to wake up. Right now. Open your eyes and wake up before it’s too late,” he said, his voice resolute. “Please, darlin’. Open your eyes, right now.”

  She folded her arms around herself, shivering against the cold. “I’ve been so alone without you.”

  Ben exhaled slowly and sat next to her on the steps to his grave. She rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in his warmth. He kissed the side of her head. “If you think you’re alone, then you’re not paying attention. Q, darlin’, you have to wake up. You can’t do this to yourself. It’s not right.”

  She studied Jasper’s sleeping face. He was fully formed and more beautiful than she could ever imagine. “I was wrong. He looks like Yvie, not Nita.”

  “I know,” Ben whispered. “You were so brave. All those shots. All those bruises. You need to be brave like that now. Please, listen to me. Tomorrow morning, this is going to seem like the stupidest thing you ever thought about doing, and you’re not even going to remember why you wanted to do it in the first place.”

  She shook her head and argued, “No. Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up and I’ll reach for you and you won’t be there and I’ll want to die all over again. It gets harder and harder every day for me to breathe. I can’t breathe without you.”

  He put his arm around her and held her to him. “That’s because you’re not trying. You have to let us go, darlin’. I promise you. You just need to make it one more month and it’s all going to be fine. You have to trust me.”

  “How do you know?” she asked, turning her face to look up at him.

  “I’m dead, darlin’. How do you think I know?”

  She laughed. “God, I miss you.”

  “I know, darlin’.” He held her to him. “And I wish you could stay, but you can’t. Now, listen to me and wake up. Please. We’re running out of time. You have to open your eyes.”

  He kissed her slowly and she put her hand on Jasper’s head, caressing it. “I don’t want to leave you, Ben. I love you. Please, don’t make me go. I’m all alone.”

  Ben leaned closer and whispered, “You have to try, my love. You’re not alone. You never were. By Jasper’s second birthday, you’re going to be happy. Really happy. I promise you. You just have to make it one more month. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. You trust me?”

  She nodded.

  He screamed in her face. “Wake the fuck up!”

  Sanger

  Morning Comes Earlier Every Day

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I stare at the file, trying to see what I’ve been missing. It’s right there; right at the edge of my mind. Why can’t I see it? This case makes no sense. Why would two men drive down a quiet, Uptown street and gun down Ben and Clementine on their front porch? I close my eyes and all I can see is her face.

  Clementine.

  I have to focus, but all I can see is her. I’d have caught them by now. Caught them on the first day, but I couldn’t leave the hospital, not knowing if she was going to live or die. Not knowing if I was ever going to see her smile at me again, her rich, honey voice saying, “Hello, cowboy.” Not wanting her to hear from a stranger that her entire world had just been torn to the ground.

  So, I just sat there, hour after endless hour, listening to all the machines connected to her, begging Hashem not to take her from me, when I should have been on the streets looking for the monsters that almost did.

  I pull out the pictures and stare at them, even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s the anger and the hurt that’s keeping me from seeing what’s right in front of me. I hold the picture of Ben in my
hand. Laying on a slab in the morgue. His handsome face distorted from blood loss, his eyelids concave from where the surgeons took the organs he’d donated. He’s unrecognizable. All that life. All that generosity. Everything that made him my friend is gone.

  Somebody else is seeing the world through his kind eyes. Somebody else is loving with his lion’s heart. He’s just another victim now. Another day. Another dead body. G-d help me, I hate this fucking job.

  And Clementine. Beautiful Clementine. Lying in her hospital bed, still unconscious. Tubes running every which way. So pale. So cold. The wild terror in her eyes is burned into my mind. Knowing what had happened before I even opened my mouth. Seeing it on my face that her husband was dead. That there would be no baby in her arms.