by Noah Bly
His voice was wistful, and warm, and I hesitated.
“Of course I do,” I answered. “How could I forget? You made me play it for you nearly every day.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” All of a sudden, he was crying. His shoulders were shaking and his breath was coming in hitches. “Well, that’s the way I thought life was supposed to be. Like in the music, I mean. Full of longing and pain, too, of course, but in the end, more about glory than anything else.” He fought to control his voice. “Not the other way around. Do you see, Hester? Tell me you see that.”
I could barely understand him through his sobs.
I took another step forward, and held my arms out to him. “Come inside, Jeremy. Come back where it’s safe.”
He didn’t seem to notice me getting closer. He just wept, and let his head fall forward on his chest.
“Oh, Mother,” he said. “You always made it seem so beautiful.”
I was weeping, too. I wanted nothing more than to hold him next to me, and he was almost in reach. I opened my arms to gather him in, and I took the final step.
And so did he.
CHAPTER 18
“Alex? Are you awake yet?”
I hear light footsteps in the hall above my head and he leans over the banister, dressed in nothing but a pair of dark green boxer shorts. “Yeah. Sort of.”
I smile up at him from the landing by Arthur’s old studio. “Did someone steal your clothes, child?”
In spite of the anxiety he must be feeling about the day ahead of him, he manages to grin back at me. He seems even more vulnerable than usual in his bare skin.
“Nah,” he answers. “In fact, I was thinking of starting a nudist colony up here.” He yawns and smooths his tangled red hair with his fingers. “Can I put an ad in the newspaper?”
He’s begun teasing me a great deal lately.
“I’d rather you didn’t. Anybody who answers such an advertisement in this town is likely to be somewhat alarming.” I yawn, too; I’ve only been up for a few minutes. “You’re still planning on going to school today, aren’t you?”
He hasn’t attended his classes at Pritchard for well over a week, ever since his fight with Eric. He’s terrified of seeing him again.
Near-panic crosses his features, but he controls it with an effort. “Yeah. I’m gonna take a shower in a minute and then head out.”
We had another long talk last night, and I believe I finally convinced him of the necessity of returning to his normal routine, in spite of his skittishness. But it was a hard sell. He wasn’t just worried about facing Eric; he was also concerned Eric may have blabbed to other people, and the news would be “all over campus.”
“It’s exactly what happened at Buckland last semester, with Wei-shan,” he said. “Everybody started looking at me like I was a rapist or something, after Thanksgiving.” He stared at his hands on the kitchen table. “What if that shit happens here, too?”
I tried to calm him. “I’m sure you’re just imagining what people were thinking of you.” I managed to sound far more certain than I felt. “Besides, Eric isn’t Wei-shan, and a university like Pritchard is far less prone to rumor-mongering than a tiny school like Buckland. You’re worrying over nothing.”
He blinked back tears. “It wasn’t my imagination, Hester. Everybody knew.” He stared over at the stove. “But then again, I guess it wasn’t Wei-shan who said something back home, so maybe you’re right. Maybe Eric won’t tell, either.”
That surprised me. “What do you mean, it wasn’t Wei-shan who said something?”
“It was my mom.” He shrugged. “At least I’m pretty sure it was. I suppose it could have been one of my sisters, instead, but I don’t think so.”
I gaped at him, indignant. “Surely you’re mistaken. Surely your own mother wouldn’t have broadcasted something like that about you?”
He tried to smile. “Families sure get fucked up fast, don’t they?” He ran a finger through the water ring his glass had left on the table. “Did I tell you I spent Christmas in a Motel 8 outside of Chicago? I tried to go to a cousin’s house, first, and my grandma’s, too, but Mom had called around and warned all the relatives to not let me stay with them.” The smile faltered. “It wasn’t so bad, though. I watched It’s a Wonderful Life on the tube, and got majorly stoned.”
When he saw the look in my eyes, he leaned forward as if it were me who needed consolation. “It’s okay, Hester. Seriously. I’m over it.” He hesitated. “But I don’t want to put myself through something like that again if I don’t have to. Know what I mean? Especially not so soon after last time.”
My heart went out to him, but I couldn’t stay silent. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to, my dear. And it needs to be sooner rather than later. I wish you could hide here with me forever, but you can’t. You’ve already got a great deal of catching up to do in your classes, and each day you stay away from school is just making things worse for you. Surely you see that?”
He’d looked as if I were force-feeding him a dead rat, but he eventually nodded, and agreed to return to Pritchard.
What I didn’t tell him is he’ll likely be so far behind in Caitlin’s courses already—she piles on a stupefying amount of homework, each and every class period—that I fear she may indeed carry out her threat to revoke his scholarship.
Which would leave him with no other choice than to drop out of school immediately.
“Good for you,” I say now, pushing aside my worries for his future. I study him. “You’re not intending to smoke marijuana before you go, are you?”
He blinks. “Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact. Want some?”
I cringe. “Good God, no.”
He grimaces at my expression. “You’re getting ready to tell me I’m an idiot, aren’t you?”
That tickles me, for some reason. “It would seem I no longer need to.” I cock my head at him. “Alex, dear. Think for a moment, please. You’ll need all your wits about you today, don’t you agree?”
He doesn’t like being mothered, and I can tell he’s annoyed at me for saying this. But in the end he sighs and nods his head.
“Okay, okay,” he mumbles. “I won’t smoke.”
I reward him with another smile. “Don’t mumble, please.”
He sighs again, and repeats—in a louder, more exasperated voice—his pledge not to smoke.
I nod, satisfied. “Good. Hurry up and shower, then come down and have a quick breakfast with me. I’m warming up some frozen cinnamon rolls from the bakery.”
He cranes his neck toward his living room, presumably looking at the clock on the wall in there. “I don’t have time for breakfast, Hester. Not if I’m going to walk.”
I start down the stairs. “You have time. I’ll drive you.”
He steps into the kitchen a few minutes later with wet hair and clean clothes. As he pulls out his chair, I set a plate with a cinnamon roll the size of a grapefruit on the table in front of him, next to a glass of orange juice and a steaming mug of hot tea. The roll is fresh from the oven, and the smell of cinnamon and sugar is filling the room. Ordinarily he’d wolf down a treat like this, but today he just stares at his plate as if he’s contemplating throwing up on it.
“That’s huge,” he grunts. “I can’t eat it.” He sinks heavily in his chair.
I sit across from him and butter my own roll, which is quite a bit smaller. “Have a bite or two, then,” I tell him. “The rest will keep.”
He’s miserable. His lower lip is trembling, and he’s pale and withdrawn. I observe him from the corner of my eye, knowing there’s not much I can do for him at the moment, no matter how much I’d like to help. Guilt and worry and fear are circling around him like large, hungry buzzards, and nothing I can say will change the truth of that. I know these predatory birds all too well, and they are impervious to reason, deaf to supplication, and fully armored against all conventional weapons.
But you have to try to beat them back, anyway.
>
“It will be all right, Alex.” My voice is quiet. “You’ll get through this day.”
He raises his head and stares into my eyes. “Are you sure about that?” He looks away and bites his lip. “I keep going over and over in my mind what I can say to Eric to get him to forgive me, but everything I think of sounds stupid.”
He pushes back from the table and gets up, unable to sit still.
I glance at my watch. “Where are you going?” I ask. “We have plenty of time before we need to leave.”
He steps over to the entryway and comes back to the table a moment later, carrying his shoes. “I’m just gonna finished getting dressed.” He sits in the chair again and tries to fit his right foot into a sneaker, but his hands are trembling so badly he can’t seem to do it. He gives up and lets the shoe drop to the floor, and he sits there with his bare foot on the chair and his chin on his knee.
He looks up at me again in despair. “Do you know how pathetic gI am?” He’s on the verge of tears. “I was just thinking that maybe if I wore socks, Eric would like me again.”
I smile at him, as gently as I can. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, dear. Socks are the solution to all your problems.”
There’s a long pause, and his throat works as he swallows.
“I don’t know what to do, Hester,” he chokes out. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t really know.” I try to find words to comfort him, even though I know there are none. “You put on your shoes. You have a bite to eat, and you go on with your day. It’s all any of us can do, really.” I take a sip of tea. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t say a word to Eric. He’s … well, right now he’s poisonous to you.”
He lowers his head. “That’s not his fault.”
My silverware pings against my plate as I cut into my roll. “I know it’s not. But that doesn’t make him any less … toxic for you at the moment.” I take a bite and swallow. “Sometimes you can’t fix things, Alex. No matter how much it hurts, you just have to let them be, and do nothing but sit around with an ache in your chest, and an ocean of acid in your stomach.”
That ache, and that acid, are as familiar to me as the keys on my piano. I’d do anything to spare him from having to experience them, but I can’t.
He shakes his head. “But if I don’t do something, I’m going to die,” he whispers.
He isn’t being intentionally theatrical. He’s young, and he’s suffering, and he can’t see his way past the feelings he’s having right at this moment. And probably the worst thing I can do is to tell him the truth: that he will indeed survive this, and go on, and then one or two years from now, he’ll do something else that will cause him at least as much pain, which he will also survive. And then (assuming he maintains a firm grip on his lovely, restless old soul, which I think he will) there will be a next time, and a next, and a next, for the remainder of his life.
Because desire is a nearly unbreakable habit, as is the impulse to act on it. The only thing that sometimes changes—and this is only if you’re very fortunate—is the object of your desire. You can call it karma, I suppose, or recurring bad luck, if you prefer a less fate-oriented explanation. But the truth of being human is that what we want defines us, and dictates all our actions, and leads us into temptation. Again, and again, and again, world without end.
But as I said, he probably doesn’t need to hear that indigestible piece of news right at this moment.
I nod. “I know it feels that way. Believe me, I really do. But I’m hoping you’ll be smarter than me, and not waste your time as I have, attempting to win back someone who doesn’t want to be around you anymore.”
His eyes well up, and I bite my lip.
“Forgive me, son,” I murmur. “I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but there it is. Pining after somebody you can’t have only leads to anger, and anger leads to serious consequences down the road.” I try to smile. “And believe me, you’re much better off doing nothing—and feeling the way you feel now—than acting out and making things ten times worse.”
Alex is openly crying, now.
So much for my little pep talk.
I close my eyes briefly, and struggle, yet again, with my own grief, which is flaring up in response to his. But when I open them once more, I’m surprised to find him looking straight at me.
“Thank you,” he says roughly.
He knows I’m hurting, too, of course. I’m sure he’s just being polite to a fatuous old woman, to spare my feelings and make me feel good. But I appreciate the effort.
I clear my throat. “For what?”
He doesn’t answer. But as I search his haggard features more closely, it seems to me that something else is there, now, besides panic and despair. It takes me a moment to recognize this new thing, and when I do, it becomes difficult to swallow the bite of roll in my mouth.
I may be wrong, but I could swear that what I’m seeing on his face is love.
It changes nothing, and it helps neither of us with our separate dilemmas. But as I feel an answering affection rising up in me, I realize that at least he’s not alone any longer.
And neither am I.
“What is it, dear?” I ask him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shrugs, and gives me the faintest hint of a smile. “I don’t know.” He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re just making more sense today than you usually do, is all,” he says gruffly. “I guess it’s kind of freaking me out.”
He’s trying to pull himself together, trying to move on to something other than sorrow. And I believe he’s doing this as much for me as for himself.
My eyes are full now, too, but I do my best to play along with him. “I see,” I say after a minute, sniffling. “Well, be a good boy and eat your cinnamon roll. The ant poison I put in the frosting shouldn’t go to waste.”
His grin widens, becoming more real. I watch him slowly draw his shoulders up, attempting to be brave. He picks up his knife and reaches for the butter, but his fingers are still shaking a little.
I was the only member of my family to see Jeremy’s body in the driveway. Deaf old Edith next door called the police when she noticed me standing out there by him, and by the time Arthur and the children arrived home, most of the emergency personnel had already come and gone, including a man from Leeman’s Funeral Home, whose job it was to cart my son away in the mortuary vehicle.
What was left of my son.
He’d landed on his tailbone on the asphalt, and the back of his skull hit immediately afterwards, with enough force to split it open and fling a three-foot trail of blood and brains across the snow and ice in the driveway. His face survived more or less intact, though, and his lovely gray eyes were still open, as if he were waiting to see the first stars appear, following the sunset.
I did not kneel next to him. I did not hold his body, nor feel the warmth leave it.
I simply stood there, staring down at him for an eternity. I didn’t move, or make a scene, or rend my garments. I did not weep, nor did I begin to keen. In fact, I’m fairly certain I made no noise at all.
Until I felt Edith’s arms around me.
I remember convulsing with grief as she held me. I remember hearing the sirens approaching, and I remember thinking the sound I issued in response was nearly an octave lower than that of the sirens, but it was just as loud and jarring to my ears. I believe I kept making that racket for a long time, as more and more policemen and paramedics showed up, but everyone was very kind to me, and no one made me stop until I ran out of steam, and at last fell silent. My throat felt as if I would never speak again, but somehow my voice continued to work, and that’s when the questions started.
Half an hour later I was back inside, watching through the living room window as an investigator and the county medical examiner conferred in the driveway, standing next to St. Booger. Several fire trucks were parked nearby, providing illumination with their powerful spotlights. Our entire yard was bathed in so muc
h light it might as well have been high noon out there. I could see more of our neighbors in the street by then, watching the proceedings, but the police kept them away from the house.
The investigator was Carlos Bernal, who had been in the same class with Caitlin in high school, and had also been in our home several times as a teenager. He was the one who asked me about what had happened on the roof, and he listened without any expression on his face when I told him that Jeremy slipped and fell while watching the sunset with me.
He knew I was being dishonest, of course. He’d spoken to Edith before he spoke to me, and even though she hadn’t actually seen Jeremy fall, she’d seen how erratically he was behaving beforehand, and Carlos was more than capable of putting two and two together.
But he didn’t demand the truth from me. He knew me, and he knew my family, and he simply stood there watching me for a long time before finally asking another question.
“Mrs. Donovan,” he said. His eyes were sad and compassionate. “Are you sure this is what you want me to tell the medical examiner?” He hesitated. “He’ll believe what I tell him, I think, because the …” He searched for words. “… the physical evidence here is consistent with that of an accidental death. But are you sure your memory isn’t playing tricks on you?”
I took a long, shuddering breath. “Surely you don’t suspect me of foul play, Carlos?”
He shook his head, firmly. “No. I don’t.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “But I just want you to be absolutely positive this is the story you want people to hear about how Jeremy died.”
When he was in high school, he had been a quiet, bright boy, who for a time had chased after my daughter with no success. He was still a quiet, bright boy, and I suddenly recalled Caitlin telling me the news that he had married a woman from Oklahoma, who was pregnant with his child. He was going to be a father soon.
I stared at the floor and nodded. “I’m sure.”
I watched his feet shuffle from side to side for a while. “Okay,” he said at last, squeezing my shoulder. A moment later he left me in peace, and went outside to lie for me.
