by P. J. Post
They’re as dead as my mom, forgotten memories from a better time. The last one before Forest Glen even has a tire swing hanging from a whitewashed tree, gently twisting in the wind.
It reminds me of me.
I’m trying to get my head straight for my visit. I usually work up to it, steel myself, but with everything that has happened over the last few days, not to mention today — I’m not ready. But it’s not something I can put off.
I come out here the same day every year since they buried Annie.
The edge of the cemetery is marked by a barbed wire fence, mowed grass against tall, wild weeds and sunflowers. The willow trees of Forest Glen sway in the summer breeze beyond a reflecting pool, in stark contrast to the surrounding countryside. Tonya drives us into the main entrance, past mourners and other visitors, stopping near the first side road.
“Thanks,” I say without looking at her, and hop out with my beers.
The grass is scorched and yellow, defenseless under the cloudless blue sky. No amount of rain is going to protect the lawn against the oppressive Oklahoma sun this summer. Everything is dying.
The markers stick out of the ground in neat rows, like gray pop-rocks in some elementary school craft project — names and dates cataloging the lines of bodies, bodies waiting for nothing. Old folks and not so old folks, kids and even infants all planted, like perennials that refuse to bloom — reluctantly remembered for one day each year.
I sit down cross-legged on the edge of the road, open one of the beers and light a smoke.
I can see her from here, across the way. She’s like the others, refusing to bloom. But I never forget her because some part of her lives within me. I believe that because I have to.
But the other marker, the simple one in front of me, the first in the row, reads: Catherine Clay, and the date she first cried her way into this world and the date some ambulance driver pronounced her dead along that country road.
That’s it.
Simple. Honest.
No beloved mother or any of that shit. But then most of those little remembrances are bullshit anyway. None of them have Fucked by God chiseled into the stone.
None of them read: Murdered.
Not my mom’s.
It’s hard to remember what she looked like.
“Hi,” I say. “Life kind of sucks right now, but I did kick dad’s ass the other day, so yeah, I’m homeless.” I laugh softly.
I didn’t get my head straight before coming out here today, not by a long shot, and I was hoping to share this with Tonya. I take a long drink of beer and concentrate on my cigarette.
“I found a picture of us the other day. It was from that one vacation. Remember the time we went up to Colorado Springs, Pike’s Peak and then back through the desert? I wanted to stop at every lizard shack and freak show along the way.
“It was hot that year too, like it is now.
“I remember that motel we stayed at, the one with the pool. Everyone was so excited, like they’d never seen a swimming pool before — it was so crowded. But we all stayed in, shriveling up and burning in the sun. It was like we wanted to capture the day and keep it one of those little snow globes so we’d never forget — and it could never really end.
“But it did end, huh? Everything ends and nothing ever lasts.
“I have some good friends though, for now anyway. I have a new band since last year and things are going okay. The kids like what we’re doing. I don’t know if you’d like our songs, but I wish you could see us on stage. I think you’d be proud, even if it was just for how hard we work at it.”
I take a drag off my cigarette as my jaw clenches.
“I miss you Mom,” I cry softly and hold my face in my hands.
I look up and stare out across the cemetery. The sun feels good on my back and shoulders. I feel the tears in my eyes. I never cried out here before, but the last few days have destroyed that wall. I feel naked and exposed now. Shit, I cry at the drop of a hat.
I’m such a wuss.
“You can’t be drinking out here, young man,” a shocked voice says.
I look up to see a middle age man dressed in a dark suit. He’s silhouetted against the sun, like the harbinger of death.
How poetic.
“Show some respect,” he says.
“How’s about you fuck off so I don’t have to get up and kick your ass,” I say under my breath and take another long drink of beer.
He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to, which is just as well. He stands here for a moment and then wanders off, probably to find someone in authority to report me to.
Whatever.
This is my ritual.
One beer for Mom.
I stand up, finishing the first beer and set the empty bottle on top of her stone. I drop the cigarette butt inside. And then I start walking across the cemetery.
The second beer is for Annie.
Her marker is small too and just as sparse — name and dates.
I open the beer and take a long drink as the tears fall. I ignore them and light another smoke.
“Hi, Annie,” I say, addressing her like she’s sitting here with me — just like I did with my mom.
The breeze shifts for a moment and I smell honeysuckle. I sense Tonya near me.
“She was my friend,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Tonya says softly.
“Yeah, me too. She deserved better. She’d be your age now, probably working down at that used record store. She loved that place.”
“She liked music?” Tonya asks tentatively.
“Yeah. She turned me on to punk, changed my life. She saved me. I can’t ever repay her for that and I couldn’t save her back then.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They put her mom next to her less than a year later,” I say, pointing with my beer. “The cancer got her. I wonder how much she cursed God for giving it to her, not because it killed her, but because of what happened to Annie. She couldn’t save her anymore than I could.”
“You were a kid though, right?”
“So? You do whatever it takes to protect your friends, no matter what. Doesn’t matter if you’re a kid or not,” I say.
The wind picks up and I look across the cemetery at the other people wandering between the graves, some crying and some looking at their watches.
“Did you love her?” Tonya asks.
I don’t look over. “Yes. More than I realized.”
“Would you…” Tonya begins, “would you have done anything to protect her?”
“Anything and everything. I would have killed and I would have died.”
“What if she hated you for it?” she asks.
“She’d be alive to hate me, wouldn’t she?”
I take a drink and wish Tonya would leave. I really don’t want the company anymore, especially not with how this afternoon tuned out.
“What if it destroyed your love?” she asks.
“I would have always loved her. She didn’t need to love me back,” I say.
“So you’d do whatever you could to protect the one you love, even if that meant them hating you forever?”
“In a heartbeat,” I say without thinking.
“Connor, you’re too young to be so old. Thanks for the advice,” she says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask in frustration.
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
Whatever. I’m trying to listen to Tonya, but I keep seeing Annie leaning over me as she pierces my ear and then superimposed over that is finding her leaning against that wall in the tunnel.
I feel Tonya’s hand on my shoulder. “You need a ride back? I don’t mind,” she says softly.
I reach back and hold her hand for a moment. “No, I want to stay a while. We have a whole year to catch up on, lot’s to talk about,” I say, taking another drink of my beer.
She hugs me from behind and feeling her against me drains away my anger. I thought we had something, but now I
don’t know.
She lets me go and I hear her walking, crunching over the dead grass and then I hear her voice clearly over the graves. “Goodbye, Connor.”
I hold the beer bottle up and watch the sunlight sparkle through the contents and without turning around, wave at her.
Whatever.
I turn back to Annie. “I went by the Elm Street tunnel the other day. Remember the heart you painted on the wall? It’s still there.”
§§§§§
I take my shirt off on the way back and as the sun begins to redden my skin, I start to get pissed again. And the further I walk, the more pissed I get. And both the sunburn and the anger feel good.
I don’t know how to deal with Tonya, but I prefer being pissed to an emotional wreck — it brings clarity.
I don’t understand what happened last night, but I know it was important and I feel her pulling away, especially after that call with her dad. I don’t know what that’s about either. All I know is everything was good, really good for the most part, until we woke up this morning and then everything turned to shit.
We don’t need time, at least not time apart — we need to talk. I know I should just come clean about knowing that’s she’s Bethany, but I’m afraid that having that confrontation now would be the last straw and she’ll be gone for sure.
I’m walking along a neighborhood street across from the railroad tracks and the Garage when I hear a loud truck racing up behind me, 38 Special blaring out the windows. I know what to expect and I turn just in time to see a redneck leaning out of the window, throwing something at me.
I duck, the beer can sails high, and I hear him shout, “Get a job, hippie!”
I scream after them, “Fuck you, asshole.”
The brake lights flash on and the truck screeches to a stop. I’m waiting and ready for them as the reverse lights come on and the truck speeds back toward me.
These motherfuckers picked the wrong fucking day.
The truck veers drunkenly out into the middle of the street. The passenger is a thirty-something loser with greasy, medium length hair hanging out from under a Jack Daniels cap. He’s wearing a gray mechanic’s uniform, just like my dad always wore.
This is what that PBS show called a trigger — and it’s a bad fucking trigger.
As he starts to open the door to get out and teach me a lesson, I hear him shout, “What did you call…”
I race up to the side of the truck and as he’s about to get out I grab the door jamb and slam it, pounding it against his head.
He grunts and then slumps slightly against the seat as he tries to pull himself back into the truck. I jerk the door open and then slam it again, this time catching his arm.
He shrieks in pain as the bones snap.
The driver jumps out, a dirtier version of his buddy. He seems to think he’s going to have better luck. Why do fucks like this always think I give a shit who’s going to win the fight, like I’m going to be scared, when I just want to be in it? I thought I was over this, but it’s clear from my instinctual reaction that nothing could be further from the truth.
I plant one hand on the side of the truck and pull myself up as I leap into the bed. The driver must see something in my eyes because he steps back and jumps back in the truck.
I leap out next to his door as he lays rubber and peels out down the street.
I’ve never seen these two assholes in my life. Why did they think I was someone to fuck with? I thought seeing the scars on my back might have given them a clue, but maybe they didn’t pay any mind to them.
They should have.
I walk on across the tracks and my sudden rage at the redneck assholes has done nothing to diminish my irritation with Tonya. We need to talk.
I light a cigarette and try to relax because I don’t want to act like an asshole when I get there. I need to calm down.
I open the door to hear Pat Benatar suddenly stop singing about hitting her with my best shot as Tonya shuts off the stereo. I walk in and she’s still wearing the Annie Hall outfit.
She notices me, but doesn’t say anything right away.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she answers reluctantly.
I take a drag and lean against the door frame. “Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“About the weather, what do you think?”
“I’m not in the mood, Connor. I have to deal with my dad tonight. Remember, I told you Bradford was picking me up?”
“Yeah, I remember, but he can wait.”
“Not my dad.”
“I thought we were, you know, we had something and last night…”
“I don’t want to talk about last night,” she says.
“It’s kind of important, don’t you think?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says again, more firmly.
“Fine. What’s up with your dad? Everything was cool and then we woke up and it wasn’t and then he calls and it’s even worse.”
“Connor, you have to trust me. I can’t be selfish. When my dad called, something — something came up this morning and I’ve thought about it all day. I have to go home and deal with it — I have to grow up and let go of something. My dad called it childish, but it’s really important to me. But he’s right and I have to do it — do it without you. It’s the only way to deal with it. I even asked for some advice from a friend and they were really clear about what I had to do. And now I know what that it is. It’s going to hurt, but I don’t have a choice.”
“Who Carla? What can she help you with that I can’t?”
She just looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“Why? I don’t understand what the hell you are talking about. What’s going to hurt? Why do you have to let go of anything?”
“It’s personal and you’re never going to understand if I have anything to say about it, that’s why I asked you to trust me and give me space.”
“So it’s another goddamn secret?” I shout louder than I intend.
“Yes, it’s another goddamn secret. Did screaming at me make you feel better?” She looks angry and hurt.
“Yeah, no, shit, Tonya. Let me help you, you’re my best friend. That’s what friends are for.”
“Not with this, I said it’s personal. Get a clue, tough guy; you can’t fix everything with a hammer.”
“It’s worked so far,” I say.
“And look where that’s gotten you.”
“You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
“Apparently I do, because you’re not getting the goddamn message.”
“What message is that?”
“Except for the band, I don’t need you in my life right now, okay? Is that clear enough?”
“You don’t need? Or you don’t want me in your life?”
“They’re the same thing aren’t they? Pick one, just leave me alone.”
“I thought we we’re going to talk about what was going on. Where is this coming from? This isn’t you. Is it about last night, because I feel really bad…”
“For the last time, it’s not about last night!” she screams at me. “This is me. Get used to it. This is me talking. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, things we can’t imagine doing but sometimes we have to take responsibility for someone else and nothing else matters.”
“Who are you talking about? Who are you responsible for?”
“Connor, I said it before — you are high maintenance. Not everything in the world is about you and your fucked up childhood. I’m sorry, but that’s a fact.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say quietly.
“Then get over it. I told you I needed space and this is how you’re helping me — harassing me? Thanks for nothing.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“You thought that if you just talked enough, gave me that charming smile and lied to me, saying everything was going to be okay, that I’d just melt and then we’d fuck? Is that how you thought this was going to go
?”
“No, I never thought we’d have sex. Tonya, what in the hell is going on?”
“Goodbye, Connor,” she says with that same detached tone from this morning and walks to the door.
I stuff one hand in my pocket as she steps outside in the now sweltering late afternoon sun. She seems confident and I don’t know why, but I sense that her emotions are still in turmoil underneath this new found anger. And I also know that if I push her now, if I push too hard, if I haven’t already — I’ll push her away forever.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It just doesn’t make any sense.
She’s on some sort of emotional precipice, and I’m terrified of what lies on either side of that conflict because I have the sickening feeling that neither option includes me.
The sexy girl from my adolescent shower fantasy has been reduced to a fragile flower — a dandelion standing bravely against the inevitability of the coming wind. And while I can live with the fact that she may not need me to stand with her, it’s the feeling that she doesn’t want me by her side that is so suffocating.
I follow her and lean one shoulder onto the front door, holding it open. She marches across the parking lot and slips into Bradford’s red BMW. She stares back at me for a moment through the open window and then turns away. She looks like she’s going to the gallows.
Shit.
I’m fucking helpless — again. Unfortunately she’s right, not every problem in life can be solved by cracking heads.
“Hey,” I shout.
She looks up with flat, doll eyes.
“Everything is going to be cool, I…” I almost blurt out that I love her, like that is going to magically make everything okay, but it sounds to me more like an unwelcome ultimatum. Instead, I fumble out, “Remember the Palomino show this weekend.”
She nods, but it’s obvious that her thoughts are a million miles away.
“For as long as this heart beats,” I whisper after her as the BMW pulls out and races back down the wet street, away from the Garage and the industrial park we call home.
I take another drag off the cigarette and then flick it out into the parking lot.
This has been one fucked up day and for the first time in my life, I’m afraid of being alone — no, that isn’t exactly right. Over the last six months, Tonya’s filled up the gaping wound in my soul — I’m afraid of living without her.
