October Snow

by Jenna Brooks

  “You sound like it’s not worth doing.”

  “It’s not that.” She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head, considering it. “But wouldn’t it suck to be starfish number one-hundred-one?”

  With that, it all came together for her: she knew she had just learned the essence of Jo’s despair. “Yeah. It would. But that’s not a reason to not be a hero to the others.”

  “Heroes.” She laughed bitterly. “I could count on one hand the heroes I’ve known, and still light a cigarette.” She glanced at Max. “I’m sitting with one of them right now, and you don’t even see it.”

  Max could feel her own anxiety spinning out of control. She was breathing fast; she put her hand to her forehead.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you?” Max shot back.

  Jo was confused, surprised at her sudden edginess. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Max got up abruptly and walked to the water’s edge, her hands in her pockets.

  Jo followed her a moment later, taking her arm as she came beside her. “Ask me the question, Maxine.”

  Max didn’t look at her, didn’t respond.

  “Go on, ask.” She ducked her head before her, forcing Max to look at her.

  “Are you suicidal?”

  “I…Maybe. Probably.”

  Max breathed in, a whistling sound through her gritted teeth.

  “But I could never take a life, Max. That includes my own.” She held her friend’s eyes as she said, “It’s not gonna happen.”

  She looked out at the waves, picking up in intensity, rolling close to their feet. “Okay.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Not really. Not as much as I thought I would.”

  “I’m sorry.” It was the truth.

  “Really? Really, Jo? Well, that’s nice. All better now.” She picked up a rock from the sand, hurling it into the water. “And I’m real flattered that you think I’m some kind of a hero, when the truth is I can’t even reach you, let alone help.”

  “Is that what you’re so upset about?”

  Max stared at her, astonished. “That’s what you think?” She kicked at the sand in anger. “Know what? I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take you anymore.”

  Jo was struck by a sudden jumble of feelings: fear, regret, anger–and then, a relief that she hoped her friend wouldn’t see.

  But Max was taking in her expression, and began pacing in her frustration. She stopped in front of Jo. “Look at you! That’s what you want, isn’t it? For everyone to walk away? Why? So you can crawl into a cave someplace and be tragic?”

  “Max, stop…” She backed away, her hands in front of her as if to ward her off.

  “You go through this…this thing you call a life, always running to the rescue…”

  “Stop it, Maxine.”

  “…slaying the bad guys, being everybody’s champion, and then you disappear inside yourself like some kind of a phantom hero…”

  “Don’t tell me about heroes!” The wail that erupted from Jo came from a place of despair that Max knew nothing about, and she covered her mouth with both of her hands, horrified by the pain in Jo’s eyes.

  “You think there are people who come to the rescue? Who give a rat’s ass what happens? Really? Then I’ll tell you what.” She pointed her finger into Max’s face. “Go find a hero for Sammy and that baby. Or for that little girl who got her face smashed all to hell by her daddy. While you’re at it, where was the hero for your mother? For you?” Her voice faltered. “They never come.” May Walker’s bloody face floated in front of her, and she walked away quickly.

  Where was your hero, Jo?

  In a flash of desperation, Max caught up with her and grabbed her shoulder.

  Jo tried to shake her off, then threw her hand to the side when Max didn’t let go. She turned on her slowly, deliberately, deciding that she had reached the end of allowing Maxine Allen to invade her thoughts. She leaned in close to Max’s face.

  “Leave me the hell alone,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  Max didn’t move. “Not a chance.”

  No one had ever before stood their ground that way with her, and Jo didn’t know how to react or what to do next. She clasped her hands on top of her head as she walked away again.

  Max followed her. “You aren’t backing me off.”

  “I get that.”

  “Talk to me.”

  Jo kept walking.

  “Okay, I’ll just piss you off with platitudes, then.”

  Oh, please. “Go to hell, Maxine.”

  “Things get better.”

  “Good to know.”

  “They do get better. You aren’t powerless here. You can’t just give up.”

  Jo stopped, then sat on her heels on the sand as if surrendering, tucking her hair behind her ears with trembling hands. “Max, did it ever occur to you that sometimes, the only power we have is the power to quit?” She was rubbing the top of her thighs. “To just let go?”

  “Okay. Quit where you’ve been. But then you start over.” She sat beside her, watching Jo ball her hands into fists as she obsessively, seemingly unconsciously, ran them up and down the top of her legs.

  “With what? I wrapped my entire life around making sure my boys survived. After a few years, the only reason I still wanted to live anymore was because they needed me to be there. Now, they don’t anymore…” The glance she directed at Max was almost apologetic, but her voice went flat. “I know that things get better. Time will go by, and life will seem less hopeless someday.” She was searching for the words, yet babbling in a torrent of disjointed thoughts that Max couldn’t follow. “But it’s not like things become hopeful then, either. Not when you’re done. You just…You reach a point where you just don’t even want it to get better. Because it doesn’t mean anything, once you’re done, and the indifference to all the good things–that’s the worst thing of all. The indifference to the good things.”

  “Why do you do that?” Max pointed to her hands.

  She stopped abruptly. “Don’t know. Old habit.” She clasped her hands together.

  “Jo…”

  “You know,” she hurriedly changed the topic, “there was this woman I knew once, she…Her husband shot her to death.”

  “She was your client.” It was a simple statement, and Max wondered if she was developing some kind of a shell-shocked immunity to the horror of Jo’s stories.

  Jo nodded. “And after her funeral, someone actually suggested to me that I celebrate her life, more than mourn her death.” She looked at Max in disbelief. “Celebrate? That life? Do you have any idea how she spent her life?”

  “No.”

  “She spent it waiting for a hero.”

  They sat quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Max recalled a discussion they’d once had, about the tree falling in the forest. They had come to the conclusion that it was the height of arrogance, to think that it made no sound; now, she wondered about the collateral damage, the things that had the misfortune of being in the path of the tree, and she berated herself for her selfishness at that moment.

  But the reality of it was, she was worn out. A month ago, she had been a waitress, making her money and paying her bills, and going to Barley’s after work. Joking around with Sammy and Jo. Nothing too trying, not all that much to think about, care about, worry about. Nothing to hurt over–pain was buried safely away, and she had finally had some peace.

  No place more peaceful than a tomb.

  She threw another rock into the surf, looking over at Jo.

  Am I ever going to get you out of my head?

  Jo broke the silence, still looking out at the ocean as she took Max’s hand. “I’m sorry, Maxine.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  She sighed as she got up. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then so do I.”

  She pulled Max to her feet and hugged her, but she was hesitant. “I wish I were stronger.
”

  Max held her tight. “You know, I understand it now–what you meant that night at The Crate, when you said calling someone ‘strong’ isn’t always a compliment.”

  Jo drew back, waiting.

  “That line usually comes from people who have no intention of being anyone’s hero.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m scared, Jo. For you, for Sammy, for all of us. It’s like…I keep getting this feeling that everything I care about could disappear without a trace.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  The truth of it struck her. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you have things to let go of, too.”

  “Maybe.” She caught it then: the focus had switched. “But this is about you.”

  She pulled away. “I’m not going to kill myself, Maxine.”

  “That’s not good enough. Not dying isn’t living, just like not being hopeless doesn’t add up to hope.” She thought about it. “That’s what being buried alive really is.”

  Jo was watching the seagulls play, and didn’t respond.

  “I’m messing up here…”

  “No you’re not. You’re fine.” She hugged her again. “You’re the best.” She pulled away, and Max saw that the curtain had come down again. “It’s going to be hard to go home. Let’s avoid it as long as we can.”

  Max nodded, wondering how she could have been so hard on Jo, so quickly, after what she had just lost.

  “You miss her as much as I do, Max.”

  She thought she might as well have said it out loud.

  “You’re going through something here with me, and I’m grateful. So don’t hurt yourself, just because you’re feeling burned out. You’re not a machine.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Point taken.” She managed a smile. “Want to get some lunch? There’s a clam shack about five minutes from here.” She cupped her cheek. “Let’s just try to forget the bad stuff for now, okay?”

  “Yeah. Plenty of issues are waiting out there for us.” Maybe, she thought, the threads of many moments in time would add up to a tapestry, a happy ending for all of them. For that one moment, it was the best thing–the only thing–she could do.

  “Hey, Max,” Jo called from the living room, “Sammy’s on the phone.”

  She came rushing from the kitchen, drying her hands as she reached for Jo’s phone.

  “Geez, wait a minute, will you?” Jo turned to block her from taking the phone. She put her hand over it. “I didn’t tell her about Daisy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sammy? Maxine’s being rude, as always…. Yeah, I know, but she’s like that.”

  Max stuck her tongue out. “Give me the phone.”

  “You’re regressing, Maxine.” Jo handed it to her.

  “Bimbo.”

  They had found some room for humor in the day that had passed since their confrontation at the ocean, and Max was enjoying it, in spite of twinges of guilt: she thought she should be much more somber; on the other hand, she wondered if solemnity was what Jo really needed.

  They chatted for a few minutes. Sam told her about their trip, and got Max laughing with a story about a moose that blocked the road to the campsite for nearly half an hour; Dave got on then, reminding Max that they’d be driving up from Boston on Saturday to collect Sam’s things. “How are you two?” he asked.

  “Fine. We slept for the first two days after you guys left.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he laughed. “Hey, can we stay over on Saturday night?”

  “You bringing Tyler?”

  “Of course.”

  “And amaretto?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, we’ll let you in.”

  “Can’t wait. See you Saturday.”

  She hung up smiling. “They’re coming up this weekend,” she said as she went back into the kitchen, where Jo was peeking in the oven, frowning at the casserole.

  “Still not done.” She clicked the light off. “They tell you they’re stopping to see Liz on the way back to Mass?”

  “No.” She looked intrigued. “I don’t know that I’d want to be there for that one, but it’s gonna be interesting.”

  Liz groaned when she saw Jack at the door. She gave a furtive glance around the room, wondering if there was any obvious indication that she was home.

  “I see you, Liz,” Jack cooed, attempting to sound playful. He struck Liz as sinister. “Your shadow just crossed the window.”

  “Hold on, Jack. I’m not dressed.” She waited for a minute for effect, glancing in the mirror by the door. Her expression wasn’t right, she decided–too somber–and she practiced a welcoming smile.

  She took a deep, calming breath as she opened the door. “Well, how are you?”

  “Been better,” he said, but Liz thought that he appeared to be quite congenial that morning. He leaned into the doorway to kiss her cheek. “Have you heard from Samantha?”

  “No,” she lied. Sam had called only an hour earlier, to let her know she’d be dropping by around noon. Liz had given her word that she’d say nothing to Jack–but she found his timing to be curious, showing up so quickly after Sam’s call. “Anything on your end?”

  “Nope. Nothing. It is what it is, I guess.” He seemed almost jovial about it. “I’m on my way to work, and I was hoping you would do me a favor.”

  It struck her as more of a directive than a question, and she bristled inside, tamping it down quickly. Something about him always both annoyed and intimidated her. “Of course.”

  He pulled an envelope from the pocket of his suit. “I’m sure she’ll stop by here when she finally surfaces, probably before I get to see her.” He extended the envelope. “Would you give this to her?”

  Relieved that his request was such an uncomplicated one, her smile became genuine. “Absolutely. And I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.”

  “You’re the best.” He looked her up and down, and her annoyance returned–as did her anxiety. “You look wonderful today, Liz. Special plans?”

  He had a knowing sneer on his face, and all at once, Liz was done with him. She was weary of him, and the way he made her feel. It occurred to her that life had become way too complicated since Jack had come into their lives; and, although still too intimidated to confront him, she drew on her natural animosity toward men–most of whom, she regarded as evil–and gave him a serene, flattered smile. “You charmer. Thank you. Actually,” she lifted her head, taking on a slightly haughty air, “I have a lunch date, my dear.”

  He looked impressed, believing her. “Anyone I know?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you know a Larry Anderson?” She pulled the name out of thin air. “He knew of your dealership, so maybe you’ve met him.”

  He shook his head. “Not familiar.”

  “Well, I met him at the mechanic’s when my car was in for repairs. He mentioned he was in the market for a new car, himself–hey, have you got any cards on you?”

  He quickly produced several of his business cards. “Excellent. Thanks, Liz. Tell him I’ll treat him right.”

  “I will,” she purred, enjoying what a dupe he was. “You’ll be at the dealership all day?”

  “Nine to close, yup.”

  “I’ll try to talk him into heading over there after lunch. Look for a tall, distinguished-looking man, about seventy, driving a white sedan.”

  “I will. Thanks again.” He checked his watch. “Gotta run.” He kissed her cheek again, and Liz, disgusted, wiped it off after he turned to leave.

  She waved gaily as he sprinted down the walk, smiling as she mumbled, “You just wait there all day, you blithering idiot.” She blew him a kiss as she closed the door, then tossed his cards into the umbrella stand. She went to the kitchen to make muffins and set up coffee for Samantha.

  At exactly noon, Liz was shocked to see Dave’s car pull into the driveway, and Sam and Dave emerge from it, holding hands as they approached the house.

  She opened the door q
uickly and stood waiting on the front stoop, grasping the railing. She thought that Samantha looked radiant, more beautiful than ever. But the thing that most impressed Liz, in a tangle of emotions that she didn’t recognize, was how relieved she was–delighted, even–to see Dave.

  Sam gave her a hesitant embrace. Liz held her for an extra moment, even as Sam tried to pull away, whispering, “It’s so good to see you.”

  Dave waited at the bottom of the front steps, his hands in his pockets. “Liz,” he said with a curt nod, his eyes cold on hers. “How have you been?”

  Liz, never one for spontaneous shows of affection, surprised them all–especially herself–as she opened her arms to him.

  chapter 19

  DAVE SAT AT Liz’s kitchen table, staring into his coffee, still trying to adjust to the idea that Liz didn’t want him to disappear. He had stood in her entry after her unexpected embrace, and stated plainly, “Samantha and I are married, Liz.”

  Her jaw did drop, but Sam quickly explained the strange situation of the lie she had lived with Jack. Liz’s answer to Sam’s story caught them both off-guard:

  “I have muffins and coffee in the kitchen. You must be hungry. Come on.”

  In the kitchen, she served them with great care, even smiling at Dave several times. “You don’t have any questions, Liz?” he asked.

  “None that I want the answers to,” she said, busily setting napkins and plates on the table. She truly wanted as little information as possible: upon seeing Dave again, she had quickly decided that the fewer contrasting stories she heard, the better able she would be to avoid doing the wrong thing. More than that, she had spent a good amount of time in recent days reflecting on her daughter’s life since Jack, and how menacing he was, and how seldom she saw Samantha–or Tyler–and she had changed her position about the guy she decided to refer to in the future only as “the blithering idiot.” As for the lie about the marriage, well, that was true to Jack’s absence of character. Dave was back, Jack was out, and that was good enough for Liz.

  She finally joined them at the table, pouring cream into her coffee, deliberating whether or not to give Sam the letter. With things obviously going so well, Jack didn’t need to be heard from again; at some point, however, he could mention the note to Samantha.