by Bryan Way
After ascending the stairs, I attempt to get a drink at the water fountain but quickly realize I feel too ill to imbibe any liquids. Taking a few more steps clarifies this illness as a feeling that suggests part of my brain has vacated my body. I return my weapons to their rightful place, retaining the services of my pistol. I then gather a change of clothes and avail myself with a hot shower. When I’m finally clean, I stop and stare at the clothes I just removed: wet, cold, muddy, ripped, and soaked in blood, they serve as a perfect pastiche for my day. I’m not going to enjoy cleaning them.
Before I can settle in to bed, Karen seeks me out, having learned that I’ve been shot. As usual, her bedside manner is perfect: she doesn’t say a word about what just happened, merely suggesting I’m damn lucky that the bullet struck below my ribcage and to the right of my spine, limiting the potential for fractures to practically nothing. She insists her diagnosis is premature, but assuredly guesses I have no internal bleeding while explaining the symptoms and announcing her intention to keep an eye on the wound. She tells me to ice the bruise on and off in twenty minute intervals.
When I return to my room, I play solitaire on my computer while using an icepack until I realize that the sky has begun to lighten. Once I peek through the window shades, I realize that I feel both exhausted and intoxicated with a minor headache joining the pain in my back and joints. I slide my pistol under my pillow, then immediately pull it back out, and pull out the magazine; when I check the chamber, a round pops out.
I drop my hands in disgust, thinking of the potential accident this could’ve caused. I then return the errant bullet to the magazine, slip it back in, turn the safety on, and put the Colt back under my pillow. Once I’ve settled down, I wrap myself in my sheets and try to concentrate on how warm, safe, and comfortable my bed feels while ignoring my paranoid ruminations that someone else is in the room.
My throat is being cut. I sit up and gasp for air, clawing at my neck to find my skin intact while involving my emotions in the depths of my confusion. Someone’s knocking at my door, which I now realize was left unlocked. “…yes?” I reach for my pistol. The door opens and Melody pokes her head through before the rest of her body follows. She’s clutching a pillow against her chest. “Room for one more?”
In my early teens, this would no doubt have been a precursor to some wild sexual fantasy. Instead, my eyes burn as I hear the terror and vulnerability in her voice. “Uh… yeah… lock it behind you.” I paw at the countertop behind my bed until I find a single key on a ring and toss it to her. She misses the throw, scrabbles around for it on the floor, and finally locks the door.
I move over to my right, allowing her take the spot by the window. She settles herself in, facing away from me, and I’m unsure of what I should be doing, which then forces me to examine my line of thinking. Who cares? I’m exhausted, and though I initially thought that losing Julia would forever be the worst day of my life, I never imagined I’d encounter this particular level of spiritual desolation. Upon reflection, I don’t feel much better now that I’ve showered, and I’ve likely had a half an hour’s sleep, so I doubt I’ll feel much better by the time the morning comes.
I take in a huge gasp as I feel my body slam into the bed, as if someone tried to yank my soul free only to have it snap back. As I wait for my pulse to slow down, I struggle to understand how the feeling I just experienced was possible. It’s as though the space between sleeping and dreaming becomes more dangerous with each passing week. When I’m finally able to take a deep breath, I pull myself out of bed to check the door handle, pushing my shoulder into the wood to see if it’ll give. I grab my computer chair and rest it wheels-first against the door before returning to bed.
A mild floral scent wheezes out of the covers as I settle in, alerting me to the fact that this’ll be only the second time I’ve slept alone with a girl, though it will hardly be the first thing on my mind. The silence suspends with each breath she takes, and any instincts her presence may have alerted disappear when the men I killed snuff them out, their manifestations starkly awakening the vulnerability of my neck. If someone were to pierce it in my sleep, I’d not only bleed, I’d be unable to breathe without drowning in my own blood.
When I realize this fear cannot be jostled loose, I finally decide the only way I can deign to sleep is by pulling the covers tight around my head and covering my throat with my forearm, an illusion of safety, to be sure, but an effective one. My dozing is breached for a moment when Melody reaches behind her, grabs my hand, and wraps it around her waist, pulling the two of us closer together.
12-25-04, SATURDAY
Consciousness drifts in like waves carrying a bottle to shore; the surf breaks on the beach, and then slowly withdraws to sea until the waters of sleep retreat behind me. True to the form of my college days, my night’s recuperation has left my eyes aching in a sure sign that I’ve exceeded my necessary sleep interval, but my lower back feels like a stone was grinded into my muscles and left to fester while my stomach screams that I’ve never been hungrier in my life.
It takes me a moment to realize that I might have been drawn from unconsciousness by the smell of bacon. It has been literally months since it graced my nostrils, and it’s being accompanied by the scent of sweet baked goods. Led by my nose, I groggily transit the upstairs hallway to find the stairwell doors propped open, assuring that the aroma leads to the cafeteria. By the sound outside the open doors, everyone else must already be inside. I spot a fully lit Menorah at the center of the main table, surrounded by nearly the entire group.
When I am noticed, a few excited cheers are followed by a round of applause, and this is the first point at which I assume I must be dreaming. However, once Rich offers me a seat, my sense of tactition takes precedence and forces me into the supposition that this must be real. I take a headcount and freeze when I notice that Rob has joined us at the table. Only Anderson, Karen, and Mursak are absent.
Just as I make this observation, Karen and Mursak walk toward us from the kitchen carting trolleys full of food; a king’s ransom in beautiful French toast, syrups, butter, powdered sugar, orange juice, sausage, coffee, tea, and a heaping pile of thick-cut Applewood smoked bacon are laid out along the length of the table, and my recognition of the fact that this morning banquet is taking precedence over Zombies and the guilt of murder fails to sully my ability to muster a goofy smile.
“Now…” Karen starts. “Some of you would like to say grace before we eat… and some would rather not. So we’re going to have a moment of silence to say thanks however we want.” Rob, Melody, Helen, Jimmy, and Jake all bow their heads quickly and the rest of us follow suit. I spend my minute suppressing my memory of last night and come to the realization that I might need to pretend that the whole ordeal was just a bad dream. Everyone lifts his or her head after enough time has passed, and Helen looks at Karen.
“Thank you, Karen.” She says warmly.
“For what?”
“Everything… making food… taking care of us…”
This is followed by everyone else in the group thanking Karen, who blushes.
“And…” I open. “I’d just like to give a toast to Anderson… for a speedy recovery.”
“Hear hear.” Rich offers earnestly. The group echoes him.
“Alright, don’t let it get cold, dig in!” Mursak chimes.
I quickly grab several pieces of French toast, a handful of bacon, powdered sugar, my favored syrup, and proceed to oblige the cooks by devouring my food. “This is a real feast!” Jimmy says merrily. I watch him enthusiastically shove food in his face for a moment before deciding it’s more important to concentrate on enjoying my meal.
The conversations at the table are delightfully perfunctory; the entire group seems at ease hearing each other’s stories, marveling at the food, reminiscing fondly about past holidays, and generally engaging in a variety of chatter we have hitherto avoided. Helen finishes before the rest of the group and excuses herself to check on Ande
rson, whose condition hasn’t changed, before she returns to the security office. After last night, the importance of keeping watch has increased to an all-time high.
As the meal winds down, I notice Karen talking to Rob, who seems both mentally present and even somewhat jovial. Once he’s finished his food, Karen stands up. “Everyone… Rob has something he’d like to say.” As Rob rises, I stare him down. Nothing could ruin the breakfast I just had, but I have a feeling this is going to be as close as it gets. He smiles and makes his way to the head of the table, where he waits until everyone is quiet. His eyes look clear for the first time, and he appears to have gained a little more weight. When he speaks, there’s much less strain in his voice.
“Everyone… uh…” He sighs with a big smile. “I know how hard it must’ve been the past few weeks. I’ve done some terrible things… but that’s all over. I’ve been sober for two months now…”
He glances at me as the group gives him a modest applause.
“I feel good… no… I feel great. And every day I thank God for putting me in your care. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be. And I’m grateful for that. I know… that some of you aren’t religious… but you’re all virtuous people. Every one of you. These past few months… we’ve all sinned… but we do it… we’ve done it to help each other… and it’s a virtuous path…”
I’m not sure if he knows where he’s going with this, and I’m positive that I don’t care.
“I’m certain… that God is with us. Watching over us, protecting us… it is through him that I stand here today. And though I am grateful, I also find myself at a loss. I am in God’s debt as I am in yours. Though I may never be able to repay you, I would like to try apologizing. Rich… we had a theological discussion a few months ago… and I wasn’t listening to you… or respecting your motives. I thought you resentful, and I want you to know that I’m sorry. You are one of the bravest, brightest, most intelligent souls I’ve ever encountered.”
He turns to me.
“Jeff… I owe you my life. Not because you saved mine, but because I nearly… took yours. I retaliated when you tried to help me, and I make no excuses. With your patience and tolerance, I’m now a better person. Jeff, I’m sorry, and though I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I hope I can someday earn it. If John were here… when he was restraining me, I insulted his service to our country. His selfless dedication often goes without recognition, but it is never in vain, and for that, we will forever be in his debt as well. I’m sorry to him, and I will apologize to him when it is appropriate.”
How much longer can this continue? As he rambles on, I steal a glance at Mursak to see that he may be even less interested in this raft of bullshit.
“And Karen… from the moment of my hysteria until this morning, you have been a pillar of strength. I… sought to victimize your resolution, to test it… I would have done whatever it took to get you to bend to my will, but you resisted me. Your compassion is worthy of sainthood. I’m sorry for hurting you, insulting you, and trying to take advantage of you. And I will be forever grateful for your loving care. It’s Christmas… and my gift to you… all of you… is my sobriety, fidelity, and my solemn oath that I will do everything I can to repay you. I… that’s it…”
He scoffs with another shit-eating smile as the assembly applauds him except me, and he takes his seat as everyone finishes up. Rich, Jake and I volunteer to take care of the dishes, and when we’ve finished I pour myself another cup of tea to enjoy before we unite with the group at the foot of the Christmas tree. As I approach, I hear someone mumble something about wanting to hear music. Taking this as a cue, I take a few quick steps forward.
“Melody… under the tree there’s a white square with your name on it…” No one in the group objects, and she quickly frees the CD from its wrapping. Her elation is palpable. Still holding the jewel case, she jogs over, wraps one arm around my shoulder for a hug, and kisses me on the cheek. She thanks me quietly, and before I can respond, she darts off to the CD player.
A choral and orchestral version of O Come All Ye Faithful trumpets from the boom box speakers as the buoyant conversation continues. I overhear Rich telling Rob that some of the toys previously collected for Elena would be given to Jimmy instead. As I watch Karen hand out the gifts, something strikes me.
“Karen… Karen?” I have her attention. “You ever heard of Boxing Day?”
“Of course…”
“You’ve done too much work today… well, every day… so tomorrow, you get the royal treatment.”
“Aw, you don’t have to do that…”
“No, I insist… and so does everyone else.”
Exultant approval surges forth from the rest of the group as Karen blushes.
“Then it’s settled… tonight we move Rich and Karen into their bridal suite, and tomorrow it’s breakfast in bed.”
“Wait, they didn’t get married…” Melody starts. “You guys aren’t married…?”
“Well… no…” Rich scoffs. “But-I… we…”
“We’re together.” Karen affirms with a smile.
“And it’s only fitting that you get your own room. We’ll help you furnish it.”
“How?” Rich asks.
“Well, you guys were the worst kept secret since Area 51… so a few weeks ago, Anderson and I got you two a king mattress and matching sheets for Christmas.”
Neither of them can restrain their smiles. Karen, with her hand perched over her mouth, walks to the tree and hands me a present. I quietly thank her, and she hugs me without provocation. “Jeff… would you do the honors?” I take this to mean that I’m supposed to open the next gift. I’ve always loved unwrapping presents, but I constantly feel I’m under pressure to emote my surprise and approval, which I find unfathomably taxing. I fleece open the paper to find a heavy, non-descript looking jewelry box. I lift the lid, and for once, I don’t have to feign approval. It’s a steel trench knife, complete with a knuckle duster grip and a spiked blade.
“Are you kidding me?! Where did you get this?”
“Made it…” Rich offers. “You were going on about how that book said they were the perfect Zombie weapon. I took some metal shop classes in high school and got the hang of it… we’ve got lots of spare steel, so I figured I’d give it a go… that’s just a prototype though.”
“How long does it take to make one?”
“I made a mold off that one, so as long as the steel holds out…”
“Jesus… Rich… thank you… I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re welcome! Just let me know how it works.”
“I will…” When I look up, I find that I am the center of attention. “So… my gift for all of you… well, it’s not something I can give you, it’s something I have to show you. And depending on the weather, I’ll show you tonight.”
“It’s good.” Melody confirms, shooting me a smile.
The ceremony continues while I have a seat and observe. The music colors my perception, and perhaps it was the breakfast, or the sea of smiles, or the convivial chatter, but it’s hard to feel anything other than warmth and contentment. In the past, I’ve been critical of the holidays, deriding them as a commercial engine and an excuse for the adult members of any given family to pool their children for collective care while they tie one on before sobering up and driving home.
For the first time in my life, I get it. Perhaps it took being removed from family obligations that fill us with dread or ennui to distill a feeling that we can be happy and love each other today. The gifts aren’t important. When I’ve felt pressure to approve of a gift, it’s because I know how exposed I’ve felt giving someone an unwanted one. It feels awful to miss the mark. And they feel awful for you. But the gift doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts.
While I entertain myself with this notion, the gift exchanges continue. I recognize the first few notes of O Holy Night as Rich approaches me with another present, this one wrapped in newspaper an
d duct tape.
“This has to be from Anderson.”
“How’d you know?” Rich asks.
“The wrapping.”
Rich smiles and hands it over. I fleece open the business section to find a picture frame containing an image of my mom, my dad, my brother and me, all arm-in-arm, from last Christmas. I look at our faces in stunned silence as I remember that dinner; roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and asparagus. Christmas crackers with paper hats and trinkets. Figgy pudding doused in brandy and set on fire with the lights dimmed. I had three White Russians. My brother gave me the Alien Quadrilogy on DVD.
I don’t know if the music pushes me over the edge, but I instantly break down into tears. I can’t even move to excuse myself to the bathroom as I fall off my seat and descend into manic sobs. The pain in my back and tingling of my limbs creates a malaise I hadn’t anticipated. I partially wish I could give up and die in this miserable, lonely moment, but then Rich wraps his arms around me. Then Karen. Then Melody. Then Mursak, Rob, Ally, Elena, Jimmy, and Jake. Not one of them utters a syllable intended to comfort me. Aside from Mursak and Elena, I’ve known these people for two months, but they knew not to say anything. This moment will be with me forever.
