Grist Mill Road

by Christopher J. Yates

  It means he’s already taken, lover boy. Cheerio.

  I really think you must be mixing me up with someone else. My name’s Patrick McConnell, I knew Matthew twenty-odd years ago, from school, Roseborn Middle School.

  Roseborn? says the man. Wait, I think he just bought a house there. Nice of him to tell me why. Bloody typical, actually.

  Patrick shades his eyes. Is there any chance I could wait up there for him? he asks.

  How well did you know him at school? Do you have any stories?

  We were best friends.

  Even from three floors below, Patrick notices a sense of curiosity slipping into the man’s eyes. Oh fine, he says. But I have literally no idea when he’ll be home.

  * * *

  PATRICK STANDS IN THE LOBBY, waiting for the elevator, which is slowly descending with a series of loud dings as it passes each floor.

  He wishes he could have told her last night. But what if Hannah had tried to stop him coming here today to challenge Matthew? And he has to do something. For just one day in his life he has to do something.

  He takes off the backpack and checks the front pocket, as if the knife might not still be there. But the knife is there and also, inside the bag, a change of clothes.

  Finally the elevator arrives and opens. He gets inside and it starts to rise, stopping at the third floor, bouncing and settling like old-fashioned kitchen scales. The doors open up straight onto the apartment. But when Patrick steps out there is no sign of the man who spoke to him from the window.

  It is a huge, high-ceilinged loft, one whole floor of the building, seven cast-iron pillars running down the center of the space.

  And then Patrick hears a voice coming from the far corner, from behind the only walls in the place—Out in a second, just putting on some clothes, make yourself comfortable.

  He sits down on a long, cream sofa and looks around, the space scattered with furniture, colorful Persian rugs, African masks, abstract artwork on the walls and rocks everywhere, on almost every surface—crystalline, smooth, sparkling, colorful.

  Then something peculiar catches his eye, nearby on a bookshelf, a framed photograph of a man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, and something clicks in Patrick’s memory, the photo reminding him of the old guy in the Conservancy, no fishing in the lake, boys, having to carry around a sketch of Jakobskill Falls.

  He is about to go and take a closer look at the photograph when the man from the window emerges, pulling down on the hem of his sweater as he begins the long trek up the apartment toward Patrick. Do you drink tea? he calls out.

  You have coffee? Patrick calls back, almost having to shout.

  Oh, bollocks to coffee, I don’t know how to work his stupid machine, the man says.

  Patrick looks across at the kitchen area and sees the bright hulk of metal being indicated.

  The man turns into the open kitchen and pours water from the faucet into a kettle. The only people who know how to use that monstrosity are Matthew and the ten most pretentious baristas in the world. Mind you, I’m not really sure you could narrow it down to ten, could you?

  Tea’s fine, says Patrick.

  Good, says the man, leaning against a kitchen counter. I’m Andrew by the way.

  Patrick, says Patrick.

  OK, Patrick. Well, let me get these teas going and then I want to hear all about his majesty’s schoolboy years. Andrew gives him a wink.

  * * *

  THE BACKPACK IS NEXT TO his feet. Patrick could reach down to its pocket in less than a second. But what will he do if Matthew walks in through the elevator doors right now?

  The way he had pictured it, Matthew would have been alone when he pulled the knife on him, Stay away from my wife or I’ll kill you. Although now something seems wrong with that picture—something much more than the presence of a witness.

  How do you scare Matthew? He could never have scared him in the past. Has Matthew changed? How do you threaten him? It is possible that it cannot be done.

  And what if he says no, he won’t stay away?

  Andrew moves around the kitchen humming something poppy. Patrick wonders how old he is. Early twenties? Twenty-five at most, dark eyes with long lashes and a face that tapers sharply down from its cheekbones.

  On the coffee table in front of Patrick there sits another rock, faintly red, glossy and smooth. He reaches out to pick it up but Andrew sees him and calls out, Wait, don’t touch his precious gastrolift or whatever it’s called.

  What is it? says Patrick.

  God knows, I can’t remember exactly, something disgusting I seem to recall. He calls it his dinosaur rock. The way he treats it you’d think it was the skull of his dead father.

  Patrick notices a small gesture, a motion of Andrew’s head toward the photo on the bookshelf. I doubt that, says Patrick. Matthew hated his father.

  Great, that’s all I need, says Andrew. Another one with daddy issues. You can see where Matthew gets his looks from though, can’t you.

  Patrick looks across at the photo again, the old guy from the Conservancy does possess a certain rugged presence, he supposes.

  Andrew brings the drinks from the kitchen, handing Patrick a mug painted with the Union Jack. Sorry, he says, last of the clean ones. That’s the sort of crap people send you when you move abroad, like you want constant reminders of the place. And then he pulls a chair from beneath a long farmhouse table, dragging it over and sitting down a few feet from Patrick. Right then, he says, now comes the price of admission. I get to ask you all sorts of questions about Matthew back in … Wait, how long ago did you say it was?

  The last time I saw him was 1982?

  1982? Oh Christ! And you were how old?

  Twelve. Nearly thirteen.

  Bloody hell, says Andrew, then that makes him … He starts to move his fingers.

  Actually Matthew was a year older than me.

  So he’s …

  I suppose he turned forty this year, says Patrick.

  Forty? squeals Andrew. Well, that explains everything. That’s why the bastard hasn’t once celebrated his birthday with me. He takes a sip from his mug and then makes a face as if the tea tastes bitter. God, now I feel like a victim of child abuse.

  So what did you want to ask me about him? says Patrick.

  There’s not much point now, says Andrew. I can’t get over the fact that he’s forty.

  Then can I ask you something? says Patrick.

  Go on then, says Andrew, feigning a bored look.

  So is Matthew … (Patrick can’t think how to phrase it) … Is he…?

  Go ahead, says Andrew, spit it out. You got yourself into this pickle, I’m not bailing you out.

  Is Matthew … Patrick half whispers the word … gay?

  Andrew laughs so hard he has to put his mug down on the floor. No, Patrick, he says, Matthew is not gay. And even if he was gay, gay is a label and Matthew doesn’t do labels. Labels are for soup cans, apparently. Why don’t you ask him all about it next time you see him. That’ll be two hours of your life you’ll never get back.

  But, sorry, I got the impression that you’re…?

  That I’m what? His boyfriend? His loverrr?

  Right.

  Well of course I am. Bit slow on the uptake, are we? Look, it’s simple enough, our mutual friend Matthew is … OK, I’m trying to think of a way to say it that he’d find almost palatable. Let’s just say that Matthew … Yes, he’s kind of a surf-and-turf guy, if you catch my drift.

  Bisexual?

  God, no! Severe label alert! Don’t say that to him either. You’ll get the bonus feature, another ninety-minute monologue. Here’s a word to the wise—don’t try to define Matthew. Matthew does whatever the bloody hell Matthew likes and whoever the hell he likes. Although I told him right from the start, you can have all the boys you want, as long as it’s nothing serious. But you go anywhere near a bloody woman while you’re with me, I’m straight out that fucking door.

  And he hasn’t…?

&nb
sp; No! He was with some female before I showed up. Actress. Pretty, I suppose. Bit haggy, mind you. But wait, it’s my turn now. So you said you were best friends, right?

  We were.

  Oh God and I bet you were impossibly drawn to him.

  Not in the sense of …

  Don’t worry, I can tell men aren’t your flavor, Patrick. But how did you and Matthew become friends?

  I suppose it happened after … I was twelve, I was being bullied by an older boy called Ryan.

  Oh shit, says Andrew, I know where this story is headed. He bloody well jumped in and saved you, didn’t he. God, that’s classic Matthew. OK, so you were twelve, something juicy must’ve happened between then and the time you left school. Come on, spill.

  Matthew didn’t make it to the end of school, he didn’t tell you?

  As I explained, he tells me nuh-thing. It might be a problem if he weren’t so … you know … Anyway, what happened, was he expelled for nefarious activity with a schoolmaster?

  Andrew seems to be finding everything funny, his leg starting to jiggle, the sight of it making Patrick feel sick.

  You don’t know? he says, the sick feeling rising from stomach to head, the loft floating around him as if being swirled with the past. He shot someone, says Patrick. Matthew shot a thirteen-year-old girl.

  What? No.

  When he was fourteen, August 1982, Matthew tied a girl to a tree and shot her thirty-seven times with a BB gun. The girl’s name was Hannah. The final shot hit her in the eye, an innocent teenage girl. She lost the eye.

  Bloody hell, says Andrew quietly, his voice stripped of humor. Wait, you’re kidding me, right? he says, half whispering now.

  Her left eye, says Patrick, spearing his forefinger toward his face.

  No, you’re making this up, says Andrew, shaking his head uncertainly. Why on earth would he do something like that?

  He told the police he felt like it. Pleaded guilty. And that was it.

  Andrew looks away, all of the excitement having drained from his leg. No! he says. No, he’s not like that, you’re a nasty fucking liar.

  I’m sure you can find old newspapers online or in the library. Try the Roseborn Gazette, anything printed after August 18, 1982. The coverage went on for some time, you can’t miss it.

  She must have done something horrible to him, says Andrew.

  She didn’t do anything, says Patrick. And then, seeing Andrew pressed back in his seat, he can feel in the back of his throat that he has been shouting, perhaps for some time. Andrew covers his face and now Patrick realizes he is on his feet, standing over him.

  I want you to leave now, says Andrew, sliding to the edge of his chair. Please, just go, right away. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police. He scoots up from the seat and moves quickly to the kitchen where he stands by the knife block.

  Patrick wipes his face, can hear the air-conditioning whirring, buzzing against the window frame, and yet still it feels as if he has been struck by a wave of heat. Ask him about it when you see him, he says, picking up his backpack, undoing a shirt button as he heads to the elevator, the doors opening up right away when he presses CALL.

  Hannah Jensen, he calls over his shoulder, that’s her name. Write it down so you won’t forget. And then Patrick steps inside, hitting the L hard with his fist, the elevator bouncing and beginning its descent.

  HANNAH

  This is as far as I go. I would have told the rest of it myself, the story of everything that led up to that day in 1982, and I would have told the truth as best I could, right up until the final shot. However, three months after the terrible events of August 2008, a letter came into my possession via one of the investigating officers, a friend of a friend of Detective Mike McCluskey, and instead of admitting to the world the rest of what happened in my own words, I will soon be handing over to the only other person intimately familiar with the story. It’s time to let Matthew explain to you what really happened in 1982.

  I wonder if I would have come out of it any better in my own words?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I don’t dispute anything Matthew has to say—what reason would he have to lie while writing such a letter? Which means that what I believed for a very long time to be the truth wasn’t quite what it seemed.

  How does the phrase go? Seeing is believing. Not true. Your eyes can deceive you.

  One thing I’d like to make clear before Matthew begins—when you read the whole truth about everything that happened in 1982, please understand that I didn’t lie back then. Seeing is believing, I was thirteen years old, a confused teenager, and I certainly didn’t act with any sort of malice. Only now it would seem that I got everything horribly wrong.

  Which is something you could also say about the events of August 2008, when what might have remained the story of a single year became something much bigger, a tale that begins with a toy gun and ends with the real thing.

  INTO THE BLUE

  An early summer burst onto New York City like a wave, the skies so clear they shone with a kind of reckless abandon, the city framed golden and blue.

  After seeing you at Grand Central and finding your byline in the newspaper, I waited a week before trying to contact you, not wanting to seem like some kind of stalker, even though I’d quickly worked out how easy it would be to get in touch, what with every one of the email addresses at your workplace being of the same format—firstinitial.surname@newyorkmail.com.

  I don’t even remember what I wrote to you that first time. Something bland.

  … so good to run into you … and then my family whisked me off to Maine and we never got to talk … would really like to sit down and catch up … coffee, perhaps?

  I didn’t think there was a chance in hell you’d get back to me. Why would you speak to someone who stood there and watched while his best friend shot out your eye? And yet, two days later, you replied.

  … sorry for my reaction in Grand Central, Patrick, when I realized who you were … a lot of baggage … I did always wonder what happened to you after your family moved away … the other day I saw your father interviewed on the television about gun control … please understand that I don’t like to talk about that day, I just DON’T talk about that day … but if you would like to meet up …

  I tried to calculate the precise amount of time I should wait before I sent a reply, one of life’s great imponderables. Three hours and I couldn’t wait any longer. I hammered out a long message about life in Maine, how I came to New York to major in economics at Columbia and never left, that I worked an incredibly boring job in the Data Acquisition department at Idos Investments, that I had a tiny apartment on St. Mark’s Place, in which I liked to home-cure my own bacon and smoke it on the roof, that I owned a blowtorch for completely nonmasculine reasons and was thinking of starting a food blog.

  You replied that East Village fume-smoked bacon sounded delicious, that you were a crime reporter for the New York Mail and lived on bodega bagels and stale coffee, had an apartment in Chelsea and that your idea of a culinary treat was to buy the slightly more expensive tub of hummus. Your office was a place called The Shack (I had to look it up) and you said you’d love to grab a cup of stale coffee sometime.

  I’d seen you for no more than a minute, we’d exchanged only two messages and yet somehow I already knew you would change my life, Hannah. Somehow I knew that with you beside me I would become a better version of myself and that therefore I would do anything to be with you.

  It was all true. How did I know?

  I suggested lunch at The Odeon, quietly proud of myself for thinking of it. Firstly, it was close to your workplace and, secondly, what with you being employed as a wordsmith, I thought I might impress you by mentioning the restaurant’s appearance in Bright Lights, Big City. Furthermore, I would bowl you over with my ability to correctly pronounce Jay McInerney’s name. No sir, I wasn’t any old run-of-the-mill Data Acquisition employee. I cooked, I read books, I could pronounce the names of famous peo
ple after having looked up how to pronounce their names on the internet.

  I waited for you outside One Police Plaza, where I thought we’d arranged to meet, but when you came out, you were speaking on your cell phone. I stepped toward you, vaguely waving my hand, but you didn’t see me.

  Sorry, Jen, I’m in a hurry, running late … No, not as usual—as sometimes, Jen, as occasionally …

  And now it felt awkward to interrupt, which means that I wouldn’t describe what happened next as following, as me tailing you. I walked in the same direction, that’s all.

  OK, OK, but listen, guess who I’m meeting for lunch … No … No … How about I just tell you, Jen?… Patrick McConnell … He sent me a sweet message, suggested coffee, but instead we’re meeting at The Odeon, I’m on my way now … Come on, Jen, it’s not like he actually did anything wrong … OK, so he was sort of there. But look, Jen, you know I’m not really going to talk about this, however the point is he wasn’t actually THERE there when Matthew was …

  What? My whole body lurched, the city seeming almost to swing halfway around me. I couldn’t believe this. Could I possibly have heard you correctly?

  Right, but how could he do anything to stop it? Matthew sent him away, clearly Patrick didn’t know anything … I’m sure he would’ve done if he’d been right there when it happened … I know, Jen, but being friends in seventh grade isn’t exactly the crime of the century … Come on, if it wasn’t for Patrick I might still be tied to that tree. He actually saved me, if you think about it … Of course I’ll be careful … It’s a lunch, that’s all … No, it’s very sweet that you’re worried about me … I promise, Jen, the second I leave …

  That’s when I stopped moving in the same direction as you, ran off to the street, hailed a cab and sped away to the restaurant, thinking about what I’d just heard, picturing it all over again, August 1982, me looking on like a spectator at courtside, the way Matthew had tied one of the ropes around your neck, your head pointlessly twisting after Matthew’s final shot.

  Of course you hadn’t seen me there.