by Arlene Hunt
The music stopped as the last song ended. The din and roar of voices did not lessen. Somewhere to Caleb’s left, one of the hyenas shrieked a laugh with an undercurrent of anger. A glass was broken.
‘Boys are rowdy tonight, huh?’ Sonja said, catching his gaze upon her.
Caleb nodded. He was always careful not to speak too much around Sonja in case she recognised his voice. In a way, his silence seemed to appeal to the barwoman, and as he reached for his wallet to pay for his drink Sonja put her hand on his. Her skin was cool and dry.
‘This one is on the house.’
Caleb looked into her brilliant blue eyes.
‘I wouldn’t hang about too late, Art; there’s blood in the air, you dig?’
Caleb said, ‘I dig.’
Sonja removed her hand. ‘Hey, Bluey!’ she yelled at a large man in a leather waistcoat and biker boots. ‘Play a fucking song, man.’
‘What you want, baby?’
‘You want me to come hold your balls too? Pull your skirt down and pick one!’
The man grinned and walked to the jukebox amidst howls of laughter. Caleb drank the last of his beer, wiped his mouth and left as the opening bars of ‘Highway to Hell’ filled the air.
11
Jessie stood before the mirror and stared at her refection. It hardly seemed possible that ten days has passed since the shooting, but here she was, about to be released.
Why was she so terrified? What was scaring her so badly?
Fact: she was going home.
Fact: she should have been happy.
She pulled a smile but it was ghastly and only emphasised her hollow cheeks.
Fact: she looked thin and washed out, a shadow of her former self.
She turned her head to the side and peeled back the gauze. She looked at the damage to her face. The surgeon said she had been lucky; a few inches to the right and she could have lost an eye, or worse. But to her it looked an ugly mess. The site was sore and swollen and the stitches were encrusted with dried blood.
Fact: she had been lucky.
Fact: she was alive. Alive when others were not; alive and relatively unharmed.
Fact: she was unravelling.
Jessie pressed the gauze back into place, furious with her self-pity. She dabbed at her eyes with her thumbs. When that didn’t work she ran cold water onto her hands and splashed her face with it.
The sensation of the water hitting her skin shocked her and made her gasp. Instantly, she remembered the spray of blood, the stinging pain. She closed her eyes but the room spun and she struggled to remain upright. She could smell cordite.
She tried to fight it; a disconnected twist in her brain made her light-headed and nauseous. She gripped the basin with both hands to steady herself and tried to use the wall to slide her way back into the bedroom. She made it, and stood quaking, soaked in sweat. She gauged the distance between the wall and her bed. Ten feet, that’s all it was, probably even less.
Fact: it might as well have been one hundred feet.
Her breath shortened. She thought she was going to vomit. She clung to the wall with her legs braced against the floor as though it was pitching like a ship in a storm. Move, she told herself, step out. But she could not. Jessie Conway slid to the floor in a sobbing mess, defeated by ten feet of tiled floor.
She was still there when Mike arrived.
‘Hey, what happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jessie shook her head. ‘I felt faint. I couldn’t walk.’
Mike got his hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet. Jessie swayed for a second, took a deep breath and straightened.
‘Want me to get a nurse?’
‘No, I’m okay. I need a moment.’
‘I’ll call a nurse.’
‘No, Mike, I want to get out of here. Would you please pass me the scarf from the locker?’
Mike fetched the pale lemon chiffon scarf and handed it to her. Jessie folded it into a triangle, wrapped it around her head and tied it at the nape of her neck.
‘How do I look?’
‘Like one of them old-school film actresses.’
‘Oh sure.’ She smiled at him, grateful for the lie.
‘You ready to go? Do you need to see anyone or sign anything?’
‘No, all taken care of.’
‘Okay, I got to warn you though, there are reporters outside.’
‘What? How did they know I was being discharged today?’
‘Someone must have tipped them off.’
‘Damn it,’ Jessie sagged. ‘Why does everything have to be public knowledge?’
Mike lifted her suitcase.
‘Ready?’
‘If I say no would it matter?’
He offered her his hand, and, after a moment, she took it.
As Mike had warned, a number of photographers were camped nearby and they swarmed the moment they caught a glimpse of her.
‘Hey Jessie, Jessie, how you doing? Jessie, look this way. Jessie!’
‘How are you feeling, Jessie?’
‘Jessie, do you have any words? What have you to say to the families?’
‘Are you going to return to work when Rockville reopens next semester?’
‘Jessie! Jessie!’
Jessie shielded her eyes from the flashes with her arm. She heard Mike growl and swear at one man who tried to block them with his thigh.
‘Just give us something.’
‘How do you feel Jessie?’
‘What do you think about gun control?’
‘Did you know Kyle Saunders?’
‘Jessie, Jessie, Jessie.’
Jessie felt panicked and hemmed in; she stumbled slightly, but Mike tightened his grip on her and kept them moving and finally they reached the truck. Mike helped her get inside, his lips drawn into a tight line. He climbed in and they drove away.
‘Pack of wolves! I’m sorry about that.’
Jessie nodded and looked out the window, shaken by their actions.
‘You okay?’
‘What do they want? I have given a press statement. What more can they want?’
‘Try not to let them get to you.’
‘Is this what it’s going to be like?’
‘They’ll get tired of it eventually.’
‘Did you see that woman back there, Darla Levine? Does she really think I’m going to talk to her after what she did?’
Mike’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He was furious about what had happened in the hospital. Darla Levine had published photos of Jessie’s injuries along with an op-ed piece created from innuendo and mindless gossip. She had then dressed the betrayal with a feel-good ending about hope and rebirth. An orderly had been suspended from the hospital, but what had hurt him most was that Pastor Williams had also appeared in the piece, pontificating and speculating, offering up his private thoughts for public consumption. Jessie had been beside herself; his mother upset and defensive. Mike had wanted to go down to the office of The Gazette and tear Darla Levine a new one. In the end, under his mother’s advisement and as a result of her pleading, he lodged a formal complaint with the newspaper.
‘Is it true?’
‘Huh?’ Mike glanced over.
‘About the school, is it true they’re holding a ceremony?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Life goes on, right?’ Jessie could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
‘Jess, there’s only a few days left until summer break. They need this; they need some kind of closure.’
‘I missed Alan’s funeral.’
‘I know.’ He drove on for a moment. ‘You thought about what you want to do about that?’
‘I am going to go and pay my respects to Irene and Francis.’
‘Okay then.’
‘Tracy is being buried tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
‘I am going, Mike.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nobody would think less o
f you if you didn’t attend.’
‘I would. I would think less of me.’
The following day Jessie and Mike drove to the church. Waiting across the road from the main cemetery gates, a number of reporters and cameramen stood, smoking and snapping pictures of the crowd.
‘They’d be here anyway,’ Mike said as they parked as far from the prying eyes as possible. Jessie adjusted her sunglasses. The day was unbearably hot and she was upset and fretful.
Mike watched her carefully. ‘You okay?’
‘No. But I am going to pay my respects to my friend.’ She got out and began to walk, keeping to the inside of the parked cars, her head bent low. But within seconds a cry went up and she was surrounded.
‘How are you, Jessie?’
‘Were you and Tracy Flowers close friends, Mrs Conway?’
Cameras flashed inches from her face.
‘My God, don’t you people have any respect?’ she said, furiously. She could see other mourners inside the grounds glance in her direction. ‘This is a funeral.’
‘Jessie—’
‘Get away from me.’
She recognised a blonde inching her way to the front of the group.
‘Jessie, how are you?’ Darla Levine shoved a micro-recorder in front of her face. Jessie tried to push past. Up ahead she saw her friend Lou-Ann Granger walking towards them and she heard Mike telling people to back off.
‘Kyle Saunders’ parents have spoken of their sorrow. Did they contact you when you were in hospital?’
Jessie glared at Darla. ‘Why don’t you head on back to the sewer you crawled out of Miss Levine?’
Darla flushed as a number of reporters tittered and gawked at her. ‘I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs Conway. I understand you must be going through a difficult time.’
‘I am trying to say goodbye to my friend and colleague. Please, let me through.’
The press group broke up enough for her to slip past and she practically fell into Lou-Ann’s arms.
‘You okay?’
‘Those people are too much.’
‘Calling them people is too much,’ Lou-Ann said, linking her arm through Jessie’s. ‘Hi Mike.’
‘Lou-Ann.’
They gave each other a kiss on the cheek. Lou-Ann leaned in to Jessie. ‘Have you spoken to Irene Edwards?’
‘I called her last night.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s pretty cut up, but she’s doing her best. She said she’d be here today.’
They passed through the gates and walked along the gravel path leading to the church. The gravesite was covered in green tarp, next to which was a fresh mound of soil covered in wreathes. A large number of people were in attendance. Jessie moved on jellied legs. She felt eyes on her at every step as she walked slowly towards Tracy’s mother, Lorena.
‘Lorena?’
‘Hello Jessie.’
Lorena Flowers wore a long black tunic, with a veil drawn over her thick glossy hair. Her eyes were dry, but her voice was raw with grief.
‘Oh Lorena.’ Jessie began to cry. Immediately she felt ashamed. She had not wished to make a spectacle of herself.
Lorena hugged her, hard. ‘I know, I know. My baby girl, I know.’
Jessie pulled herself together as best she could. After paying her respects to the rest of Tracy’s family, she and Mike drifted to the back of the crowd, where they found Irene Edwards standing with her son James by her side. Irene looked exhausted and her eyes were swollen from crying. She and Jessie embraced.
‘I am so sorry for your loss. Both of you.’ Jessie stepped back and laid her hand on James’s arm. James was twenty-one, tall and softly spoken. A gifted musician, he was studying music at college in New York. Jessie thought he looked a lot like his father and she told him so.
Mike and Lou-Ann were offering their condolences when Pastor Williams rocked up, resplendent in a light summer suit, his hair suspiciously freshly golden. He greeted them and hugged Irene, holding her tight against his chest. When he turned to do the same to Jessie, she took a step back and pretended to watch the crowds. Without missing a beat, Pastor Williams grabbed Mike’s hand and pumped it up and down.
‘May God’s grace keep you all this day. Irene, James, I want you to know my heart grieves with you. Alan was a fine man, an upright man. His death is our loss and the Lord’s great gain.’
‘Thank you,’ Irene said, her voice tight with pain. Jessie took her hand and squeezed it.
‘So much grief,’ Pastor Williams said. ‘Jessie, how are you? It is good to see you up and about. So many people called the show offering prayers for you and your family, it was truly something to behold.’
With enormous effort of will, Jessie managed to force out a ‘thank you’. She was heartily glad when someone called the Pastor and she and Mike made their escape.
Soon the funeral began. Pastor Williams spoke at great length about the mysteries of life and the suffering of man. He decried the loss of faith, of compassion, of youth and innocence. He pontificated on ‘God’s great plan’ and spoke with a passion so fiery Jessie wondered if he thought himself on stage. In any event, Jessie paid scant attention to his sermon. She found no solace in his words, no comfort in his dramatic delivery. She thought of Hector Diaz, how he had smiled through his bloodstained teeth. She thought of the look of confusion and disbelief on Alan Edwards’ face as the first of the bullets struck him. She thought of his fingers scrabbling for purchase while the life leaked from his body. She thought of all these things and she wondered about ‘God’s great plan’. She wondered what His plan had been the day a red stain spread across a bright yellow sundress.
12
Caleb read the article on Jessie Conway twice and then a third time. It had been written in a style he associated with tabloids but was no less engaging for all that. The woman intrigued him. She had single-handedly taken on not one but two shooters and won – unarmed. Such a thing was something so rare, something so Hollywood, he genuinely struggled to believe it. But no one had come forward to contradict the story and now here she was, head to toe in black, standing by the grave of one of the fallen; alive, her red hair fiery in the sunlight. ‘Hero,’ Caleb said, tracing his finger over her image.
He folded the paper and leaned back in his chair, still thinking about her. His shift on the Voice of Hope helpline was drawing to a dull close when he glanced out the window and spotted Pastor T Creedy driving his customised silver Mercedes into his parking space.
Caleb watched him walk up to the main doors, noting his wingtip cowboy boots, which probably cost more than the average worker’s take-home pay. Creedy did not bother Caleb unduly; the man was a complete huckster, of that he was certain, but then in Caleb’s opinion that might as well be part of Creedy’s job description.
‘Blessings to you, Art,’ Creedy called out when he entered the room, flashing the megawatt smile he normally reserved for the blue rinse brigade. He dropped a canvas sports bag on the floor by Caleb’s chair.
‘Pastor.’
‘How are we this fine day?’
Creedy flashed him the smile again. Caleb waited, irritated. He knew there was something coming down the line.
‘Phones busy?’
‘Nope. Not a single call.’
‘Well now, that in itself is a reason to be thankful.’
Creedy perched a butt cheek on the edge of the table. His pants stretched so tight Caleb could see the outline of his balls against the material, and it made him wonder why men like Creedy thought they were so enigmatic. Short of humping his leg, Caleb couldn’t imagine the pastor pulling a more blatant, or more laughable, attempt at dominance.
‘You’re a compassionate fellow, Art. I can tell. I know people.’
Caleb waited.
‘How would you feel about spreading The Truth to those less fortunate?’
‘Say what now?’
‘I could do with more men like you, Art; moral, upright, unafraid to be active in the c
ommunity. I tell you, the world is a very dark and lonely place and when we step forward we are the bringers of the light.’
Caleb got the smile again.
‘What we do here, Art; what we do is truly God’s work. But I have been in refection of late. Jesus did not wait for the people to come to him. He did not keep them at arm’s length. No! Jesus went to the people. He was not afraid to get his hands dirty, he was not afraid to walk among the sick and the dying to show them the light of His love.’
‘You want me to try healing sick people?’
‘You are a hoot!’ Creedy threw back his head and laughed and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I have a friend who works over at the clinic on Druid’s Hill. I was hoping you might be free to volunteer some of your services to help her out.’
‘A clinic?’
‘Yes. It would be one night a week, two at the very most.’
Caleb let his cogs whir for a moment. He tried to figure out what Creedy’s angle was in this, but came up blank.
‘What about the phone lines?’
‘Well, it’s true that we offer solace and compassion to those who reach out to us. But to be really in His light, we need to be visible and among our people. Pass me that bag there, would ya?’
Caleb did as he was asked. Creedy unzipped the bag, rummaged inside and tossed Caleb a sealed plastic bag.
‘Open it!’
Caleb opened it and withdrew a bright yellow t-shirt. Printed on the front was ‘Let the Light of the Lord Guide You’, on the back was ‘Voice of Hope’. Caleb lowered the t-shirt and stared at Creedy.
‘Aren’t they something? The colour was Helen’s idea. We need to let a little light shine in the darkness, that’s what she said. Wonderful woman. So what d’ya say, Art?’
The following night, Caleb stood resplendent in bright canary yellow, staring into the ear of the director of the clinic as she fanned a set of photos with various names and aliases before him. Her name was Dorothy. She was a short, dumpy woman in her fifties, with a smell as sour as her face.
‘See now, you really need to learn these faces, Art.’
