Montgomery started to walk away. He thought he was pretty convincing and was prepared to leave it at that.
From behind him the girl called out, “How did you know what kind of car she drove?”
Damn. He stopped and prepared to dig himself free.
Okay, this was a minor detail. Montgomery figured he could come up with an excuse just like that, but of course his brain hiccupped and what was worse it began to pulse with paranoia. Not so much about Heather, but over his other asinine ideas about regrets returning to destroy him. The girl behind the counter wasn’t the girl behind the counter. She was thrashing beneath him, turning blue, her Mistfits shirt straining against her heaving chest, her frayed jean skirt creeping up her flailing legs. Montgomery closed his eyes and tried to shake off the images.
Her black, silky panties sliding down over her bruised knee caps.
Everything inside was going haywire. Paranoia drifted into eroticism. He had to get it together.
Outwardly he looked perfectly composed. There may have been a few tiny dabs of sweat along his hairline, but nothing noticeably amiss. Inside it was another story, but he had to roll with the punches. He turned around and derailed the question while his brain fought through the sexy death shit fucking with his mind. “What’s your name?”
The question threw her. “Huh?”
“What’s your name? Heather told me, but I can’t remember.”
“Don’t fucking worry about it. When did she tell you my name?” Her eyes narrowed yet again.
The flames building within grew. Montgomery couldn’t stop picturing the girl naked, her death throes passing for ecstasy, her final spasming shudders for orgasms.
“Why are you sweating?” Another relentless question. She had him up against the ropes.
This was a bad idea.
The situation was salvageable, but Montgomery felt a thick sense of doom clotting the back of his throat. He would recover, of this he was sure. He would walk out of here. He would either let it alone, or he would pursue and kill the girl. He would put it all out of his mind. But this was definitely the beginning of the end. The portents haunted him for years upon years and now they were finally solidifying and gelling. This was the closest he had ever been to getting caught. This was the closest he had ever been to a loved one of one of his victims.
He wiped at his forehead. “I’m not sweating. Should I be? This is bullshit, you know? I just wanted to date your friend. I thought she was pretty and when I got up the nerve to approach she was awfully nice to me. When I talked to her on the phone she was nice. And that’s it. She didn’t show. You’ve got some drama going on, but it’s got nothing to do with me. I know she drives a Honda and she knows I drive a Maserati because we talked about cars on the phone. I know that she works here because we talked about that on the phone too. I knew your name for a minute before I forgot it because she talked a little about you also. How did I happen upon the car at the mall? Serendipity? Fate? I don’t know, but I did and–”
He was beginning to get worked up. The girl either bought his argument or she just wanted him to cool out. She cut him off, “I get it. Okay.”
Silence entombed them.
More visions churned behind Montgomery’s eyes. He pictured them kissing, deeply. He pictured her eyes crumbling away. He pictured that death’s head grin completing the scene from his nightmare.
“Ashley.” She said it so quietly he could barely hear.
“Ashley?” He repeated back.
“My name.” She extended her petite hand demurely.
Montgomery took it and gave it a soft shake.
“I’m sorry. I just haven’t heard from her and we used to talk everyday.”
The girl, Ashley, had the saddest look in her eyes he had ever seen. It made Montgomery’s heart plummet.
And this is why he had to quit.
He couldn’t take shit like this.
It was an impossible thing to fathom, but there were hundreds, if not thousands of people feeling like this, emitting this sorrowful look of bewildered ache, because of him and his selfish cravings. Already Ashley was beginning to return from the land of loss, the sadness giving way to resolve, as did those hundreds (or thousands), but just the idea of them hurting in this way on a daily basis killed him inside. The worse thing about loss was it never went away. These people would wonder why and suffer and lament for the rest of their lives. It was far too much to handle. He couldn’t wrap himself in a mantle of blissful ignorance forever.
II
Inevitable Woe
Dirge
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there!
-William Shakespeare
Four Months Later…
VI
Everyone You Love Will Die
Fuck it all. She was free. Well almost.
Her and Henry finally stuck to their decrees and kicked. It was an uphill battle for the past four months, a false stop here, a false stop there, only to be compromised by weakness or unexpected obligation, but demon be damned they began the process six days ago and had yet to give in.
Not that all was right with the world.
They were both extremely shaky and entering what she termed a ‘Critical Phase.’ They couldn’t cave or it was back to square one.
Ashley had no choice but to call in sick for an extra three days beyond her allotted two days off. Errol was audibly pissed, but there was nothing she could do. Even though she felt like continuing the streak and calling in ill for the fourth day in a row, she couldn’t; bad off or not, another sick day would surely get her fired.
The harder she tried to get up the more the bed seemed to grow softer and warmer. Its embrace taunted and grew all the more luxuriant. Which figured. Yesterday and the day before and each day since they began detoxifying she had trouble sleeping, discomfort kept her tossing and turning and aching and she couldn’t wait for the sun to usher her out of bed for another day of purging her system. Last night, or early this morning rather, around three AM, she finally broke through the insufferable insomnia and fell into a deep sleep only to be awakened by her alarm and the nagging promise she made Errol to return to work.
Henry, the lucky bastard, had the next month free and planned on sleeping off the residual withdrawals for as long as he could. It made Ashley want to punch him in his stupid, serene, sleeping face, but that was just crankiness getting the best of her. The man had done well and deserved the rest. He made it through a nearly insurmountable hell with her, puking continually for four days, seeing freaky shit, shaking with ice cold jitters all the while sweating rivers, but the worst was over and that was all that mattered. Besides, it wasn’t like he was just hanging about and freeloading. The album was done and it was phenomenal. The video was done and it looked great. Their new name, Destroyer, was worlds better than The Jerkoffs (no matter how much Meg complained). As a result, the band was offered a four month tour opening for a national act set to begin next month. And best of all the record company, impressed with the album and the video and the potential success of the tour, gave Henry a fat advance that should last them more than a year if they kept their heads together and budgeted properly.
Life was beginning to really shape up.
These past four months had been nothing but hard. The heroin problem rode them constantly. Each day went on business as usual with
no reprieve in sight. But now that they finally buckled down and were actively working at getting the heroin under control, now that Henry’s career was actually resembling a career, things were looking tons better.
The only thing that was missing was Heather.
A pang twisted her stomach.
Not now.
Though she thought about her every day, Ashley had pretty much given up any hope of ever seeing her again. It was a shit thing to think, but Heather was officially a statistic, she was officially one of the ninety-plus thousand people gone missing in America each year. It perplexed and it hurt and it didn’t seem fair and she would never forget her, but over the past four months Ashley had to toughen up and accept the unfathomable. Tears welled and heat misted a tad, but she fought off emotion. You couldn’t let the dead kill you. Empty or not, life continued.
Fortunately, work was slow. Ashley was able to just sit and chill out, but doing nothing only allowed what was left of the heroin to engage her cells and make her grit her teeth in supplication. So instead, she cleaned.
And cleaned.
And cleaned.
Perhaps Errol would give her a raise. Or perhaps he would accept it as an apology for missing the past three days. Either way, it kept Ashley busy and made her feel good to make amends.
While organizing the work area around the cash register she found an errant business card wedged between the archaic machine and the counter lip. It belonged to Montgomery the cook. It instantly brought Ashley back to that day when he came into the shop to confront her. More of those sorrow laden Heather feelings pervaded and suddenly she didn’t feel like cleaning anymore.
She still wasn’t completely sure if Montgomery was innocent. Henry had promised that they would confront him but, after the surprise visit at the store that afternoon, months passed, they procrastinated and then the band stuff started snowballing and it seemed like the brief talk she had with the cook was enough.
Or was it?
Maybe they shouldn’t have been so quick (or lazy) to just let it go – Heather was still missing, not declared dead or found, but missing and possibly alive somewhere.
Montgomery seemed okay though.
She guessed that was why she probably laid off and didn’t push Henry to help her pursue the matter – that, and the heroin, and the band, and the small hope that Heather would return. Ashley felt horrible when she thought about how easily the ones you love can just disappear from your daily life. That first month was hell. Her brain wouldn’t let up. There were dreams, waking and sleeping. She heard Heather’s voice though she wasn’t there. She even smelled whiffs of her perfume and felt her presence. But over time it all began to fade. Before long she was thinking intensely about her for half the day as opposed to every minute. Then it became a few times a day. Then it became every other day. And on and on, until her best friend in the whole wide world was simply an afterthought that took front and center for brief interludes when something triggered a memory.
The process of grief was cruel to both the living and the dead.
After their conversation, the cook had asked her to lunch. He wanted to talk. Ashley turned him down, there was nothing to talk about and Henry was a jealous guy, he wouldn’t be too pleased with her hanging out with another man for whatever reason. The cook, wait, chef- he was very touchy about the distinction- left his card in case she changed her mind or she got any news about Heather.
The situation was all kinds of weird – was he hitting on her?
That was the feeling she got, but then again she was high and fucked up on grief to boot. The cook, um chef, took her rejection in stride and left for his put together life and his put together career.
Ashley envied that he could simply wash his hands of the matter. He happened to ask out a girl, she happened to go missing, he did a little digging to see if the girl really had the audacity to stand him up, he discovered she didn’t just stand him up, but up and disappeared all together, his eyes took on a look that said, “How terrible,” while his ego rejoiced and then that was it, case closed, moving on.
Something still felt wrong, but Ashley shook her head when she thought about the ridiculous way in which she obsessed over the possibility that he had killed her.
Why would this guy harm anybody?
He had it made. He had a freaking business card (not the cheapy kind either, the little sucker was made from a super heavy card stock and had raised lettering and foil inlays and all kinds of fancy bells and whistles). He had a reputable career and a solid future. He had good taste – he hit on Heather (and then maybe even her). To think, a while back she was ready to stake out his place and have Henry beat him senseless.
Crazy.
Ashley was tempted to call him and let him know that Heather was still missing. Montgomery asked her to keep him posted, but she was sure he did so out of courtesy, not care. Besides, why bum somebody else out? Heather was nothing to him. He probably barely remembered her. There was no point in reminding him about the missing girl he almost went on a date with.
It was best just to forget the whole thing.
An idiot wave of heat rumbled within and her eyes misted up. It twisted the fuck out of her stomach to think about the thousands upon thousands of sorrowful souls out there who had lost someone close to them and conversely, the thousands upon thousands of ignorant fuckers out there who had no idea what it felt like.
Life was one giant crapshoot. One minute you’re making plans, loving, fighting, whatever, the next the phone is ringing with news of death.
There was no stopping the tears this time so Ashley rushed off to the back room and let them fall. Living wasn’t supposed to be like this. The tumult within made her feel like she was a kid all over again. Santa Claus wasn’t real. God was a lie. Her parents only cared about her because biology told them they had to. The people you loved more than yourself died away.
And worse, nobody gave a fuck. They lived on happy headed and ignorant, answering their phones with cheerful hellos rather than fearful questions.
She cared about Heather and so did Henry (kind of) and of course Heather’s family missed her, but that was it. The world at large didn’t shift or shuffle or strain over it. Ashley wanted to scream at the top of her lungs when she thought about how insignificant this one death (disappearance) (death) that meant everything to her was to the rest of the planet. Heather might as well have been an ant or road kill or a dead soldier in some far off land.
But she wasn’t.
She was the “bestest” friend a girl could ever hope for.
She was smart and funny and sensitive and blah, blah, blah. Now she was nothing but worm’s food.
An eternal stain.
A slow fading memory.
It all just seemed so unreal and wrong.
Ashley didn’t think she got much out of high school save for cunning (she ditched and lied a lot), but lately, especially with Heather’s possible (certain) death, she couldn’t stop thinking about that famous Edgar Allan Poe poem, The Raven. At the time she didn’t pay her English teacher much mind. He droned on and she doodled or wrote notes to Heather. When they began learning about Poe, she perked up a little because, unlike most of the authors they studied, she had heard of him and he was famous for writing scary stuff as opposed to stuffy stuff. Ashley quickly found that his writing was just as boring as all the other literature they were forced to read, but there was something a little more accessible and affecting about The Raven. Now that she was experiencing the very thing at the poem’s nucleus – loss and sorrow and the human inability to rationalize or understand either – those long forgotten lessons came flooding back.
A few months ago, when she was in a particularly sorrowful mood, she Googled the poem, saved it on her desktop and found herself drawn to reading through it a couple of times a week since (the same went for listening to depressing music – as of late she kept Radiohead in constant rotation). Like the pathetic narrator of the poem she was now trapped within t
he shadow of the raven forever. It fell about her like a suffocating net, a prison of unanswerable questions.
Would she ever see Heather again? Nevermore.
Was her dear friend living it up in the afterlife? Nevermore.
When would everything be made right? Nevermore.
No wonder the infamous American author died heartbroken and penniless. He understood the machinations of the world all too well and gazed upon them with a cruel, clear acceptance. Why care or try when there were no delusions of grandeur or the idiot hope that we would all be reunited with our loved ones in some perfect afterlife upon death?
There was no point in bonding or succeeding. Love was fruitless. Money was a tease. Life was only about death, of which we knew little, of which we were doomed to never understand, of which we grieved over and dashed dreams upon and failed to view as the cold, empty biological process it was.
There was no transcendence here.
These dismal thoughts made Ashley swallow hard, a lump of disgust rising from the nauseous pit of her nervous stomach. She wanted to call Errol and quit. That familiar urgency, that need to get her life together itched and prodded.
But why?
There was no point, remember?
Who cared if she worked at a record store her entire life, there was no reason to strive. Or maybe the banality, the promise of the nothing doom that awaited us all, drove her even harder to make something of the time she had alive. Or maybe not. Maybe she just wanted to quit and lay in bed with the covers over her head until the end of time.
As Fate Would Have It Page 15
