Where One Goes

by B. N. Toler

“I know,” I answer quietly. I would give anything if he could. I’ve only known him a few days, but he’s the first person I’ve had a real connection with in years. As I stare up at him, I can’t help but wonder what Axel would think of him. It’s a silly thought, and I don’t know where it came from, but I believe Axel would have liked Ike very much. Maybe George, too, despite his issues.

  Taking a deep breath, I stand and pull my hair from the knot I tied it in. “I have to get ready. I have dinner plans with the Mercers, ya know.”

  “Yeah,” he replies and nods. “Do you want to go alone or do you want me there?”

  I’m surprised he’s asked. Every other time I’ve wanted to be alone I’ve had to demand it from him. But last night, worrying about where he was and what was going through his mind, I hated it. I need him to stay with me. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  “Not at all,” he answers and grins, his pleasure with my asking him evident.

  “So, tell us about your family, Char. Do you see them often?” Mr. Mercer asks as he sets a glass of iced tea on the table where she’s seated. Mrs. Mercer went all out and prepared a meal that could feed twenty people. The food is spread out over a clean, white tablecloth and she’s using her best china. My mouth waters as I stare at the fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

  “I’m sure not as often as they’d like,” Charlotte answers before taking a sip from her tea. She’s wearing a loose, blue top with her jeans, her black hair half pulled up. She looks . . . beautiful.

  “Do you have any siblings?” Mrs. Mercer asks as she takes her seat and picks up the dish of mashed potatoes. Charlotte’s eyes dart to mine very briefly before returning to the Mercer’s.

  Smiling somewhat stiffly, she says, “I had a brother. He passed away about six years ago.”

  Mr. Mercer’s brows furrow as if pained by this news. “I’m sorry to hear that. As you know, we know what it is to lose someone you love dearly.”

  Charlotte sits up and takes the dish of potatoes from Mrs. Mercer. “This all looks amazing, Mrs. Mercer.”

  “Best fried chicken in Bath County,” Mr. Mercer adds, causing his wife to grin as she gives Charlotte a bashful look.

  “Like you’d say otherwise, Bill,” Mrs. Mercer quips and Charlotte smiles. “Maggie loved fried chicken. We had it every Sunday.”

  “It was her favorite,” Mr. Mercer adds sadly.

  Mrs. Mercer smiles softly. “She’s been gone ten years, and it still feels as though it was yesterday she was here.”

  “She fought. Lived a hell of a lot longer than they said she would when she was diagnosed.”

  “May I ask what it is she passed away from?” Charlotte asks delicately.

  “Dyskeratosis Congenita . It’s a rare disease that can lead to bone marrow failure. Eventually . . . her body gave out,” Mr. Mercer answers as he spoons a helping of green beans onto his plate.

  They chitchat back and forth, mostly speaking of Maggie, and Charlotte listens intently as they describe Maggie from the way she smiled to what an ornery toddler she was. When they’re done eating, Mrs. Mercer shoos her husband and Charlotte into the living room while she clears the table. Their house is modest; not huge, but not exactly small either. Antiques and numerous clocks hang on the wall, ticking mercifully.

  “Say, could you tell me the time?” I jest, and she rolls her eyes. “Do you think they like clocks?”

  But she doesn’t seem to hear the last part of what I said; when Charlotte enters the living room, her entire focus is on the mahogany grand piano against the back wall. Like a moth to a flame, she goes to it, running her fingers along the wooden lid that covers the keys.

  “Do you play?” Mr. Mercer asks as he watches her.

  “I did,” Charlotte answers, staring at her hand where it rests on the lid.

  “Will you play for us?”

  Charlotte turns and smiles sadly. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all. It hasn’t been played in years.”

  Lifting the lid, she pulls the small bench from under it, taking a seat.

  “A woman of many talents, I see,” I say, and she smiles but doesn’t look at me.

  “Any requests?” she asks Mr. Mercer.

  “Play me your favorite,” he answers, taking a seat in his worn-out recliner.

  Charlotte turns back and tests a few keys tentatively; I assume checking the tuning. “It’s been a while so I might be a little rusty,” she warns, and Mr. Mercer chuckles.

  “No worries, my dear. Go ahead.”

  As her fingers dance across the keys, a beautiful melody fills the room and I’m stunned. She’s playing some kind of classical music; maybe it’s a piece by Mozart. I don’t know shit about pianos, but this is my best guess. The melody is deep and raw, like all her emotion is lingering in it. Her body is erect, her eyes fixed on her hands, and it almost seems like she’s connected to the piano. As if it’s an extension of her, a place where emotion and feeling can run free. Music can be angry and deep and people call it beautiful. But for people in the real world, those emotions are considered weakness.

  She plays for a while and when she finishes, she nods to her hands as if to tell herself she still has it.

  “That was . . . amazing,” I manage.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mercer break out in applause and Charlotte stands, smiling sheepishly. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

  “My mother. She’s a teacher. Besides her special education classes, she teaches piano, too.”

  The remainder of the evening they sit outside on the porch and sip tea. And when it’s time to go, the Mercers hug her tightly. Charlotte pulls some money from her back pocket and hands it to Mr. Mercer. “I owe you sixty more and I should have it by the end of the week.”

  “No. You owe us nothing.”

  “Please, Mr. Mercer,” Charlotte pleads. “A deal’s a deal. I get my necklace back when you get the rest of your money.”

  His thick, gray brows furrow and his lips form a smooth line as if he’s fighting the urge to argue, but instead, he nods his head once in compliance.

  “Would you like to come for dinner next week?” Mrs. Mercer asks with a hopeful tone.

  “Yes. Sure. I have to see what days I’ll be off, but yes. I would like that very much.”

  “And you’ll play for us again,” Mr. Mercer says, not really asking.

  “If you’d like me to,” Charlotte laughs. They watch her as she climbs in her truck and pulls out of their driveway.

  “They’re very lonely. People like them should be covered in grandchildren,” Charlotte notes as she turns down Emerson Ave.

  I shrug and say, “I think you’re right.”

  “Are employees allowed to sit at the bar and drink, or no?”

  “Yeah. If it’s your day off you can go in and drink,” I reply.

  “Good, because I think I’d like to have one or two,” she answers. She looks pensive for a moment before she puckers her lips in a thoughtful way and says, “Hmm.”

  “Everything all right?” I ask.

  She smiles faintly. “Just been one of those days where I’ve been reminiscing.”

  “Was Maggie there the entire time?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t say a word to me until we left.”

  “I guess that was helpful,” I chuckle. “What did she say?”

  Charlotte frowns and answers, “She told me not to forget about her.” We ride for a few minutes in silence when Charlotte asks, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  Licking her lips, she inhales deeply and releases. “Are you scared?” Her question surprises me. “Of crossing over,” she clarifies.

  Now it’s my turn to inhale deeply and release slowly. I can’t deny I’m concerned, but I wouldn’t say scared. “Not scared so much, maybe just sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “It’s hard to leave the people you love. My family and friends. And I know we haven’t known each other long, Charlotte, but it’l
l be really hard to leave you, too.”

  Her lip trembles and I close my eyes wishing to God I could touch her. “I’m going to miss you, Ike,” she whispers.

  I smile sadly and face forward. I don’t like seeing her cry. It fucking shreds me. “And when I go, remembering that will make me smile,” I tell her, and she wipes a tear from her cheek.

  “If you were alive, Ike McDermott . . .”

  “You’d strip me naked and ravish my body?” I tease, and she laughs even though she’s still wiping at her face.

  “You know, I think I would.” I’m getting excited, and I can’t help but join her in this game of what-if. How could I not?

  “If I were alive, I’d ask you out on a date. What would you say?” This is a terrible road for us to go down, but we’re finally admitting there’s an attraction between us, and even though nothing could ever happen for obvious reasons, I want to know. I need to know, as sick as it is. My blood is pumping and I flatten my palms to my thighs as I await her answer.

  “Depends,” she answers. “Tell me how you’d ask.”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “I think I’d do date by ambush. That way you couldn’t really say no. I’d just show up at your job and bring flowers and say, ‘Would you join me for dinner?’”

  Grinning, she asks, “And we’d have dinner right there where I work?”

  “Why not?” I scoff. “It’s the best restaurant in town, is it not?”

  “Sure it is. So you’d put me on the spot, eh?” she chuckles.

  “Oh, yeah,” I agree. “So, what would you do?”

  “I would join you for dinner.” She smiles sadly.

  “I’d tell you about my time in the army and my family.”

  “I’d hide from you that I see dead people,” she adds.

  “Would you?” I ask, surprised. Hearing that makes me sad. There is absolutely nothing about her I wouldn’t want to know. Does she think if I were alive I wouldn’t believe her?

  “At first, until I knew you were in love with me and wouldn’t freak out.” Her gray eyes dart to mine quickly before returning to the road.

  “That wouldn’t have taken long,” I tell her. The first time I heard her laugh, I was done. If I were alive, I’d be making a fool of myself to make her mine. Her gaze lowers for a moment and she breathes deeply. We should stop, I know we should, but I can’t. Not yet. “I’d take you home and kiss you good night.”

  “I’d let you,” she says, sadly.

  “After we’d been dating a while, I’d take you back to that spot by the river I took you to the other day, and to show my love for you, I’d carve our initials in that big tree. I & C inside a big heart.” I can see it all; her gray eyes bright with love as she watches me mark the tree, the way she smiles at me when I finish. God, I wish I could give that to her.

  “And then you’d get laid,” she jokes and chuckles through her tears.

  “Right there by the water?” I ask and laugh. “Aren’t you the exhibitionist,” I tease.

  “Why not? I’d be caught up in the awe of your romantic gesture. I wouldn’t have cared if anyone saw. We’d be all that mattered.”

  A long moment of silence plays out as we both bask in the intensity of her last words. We’d be all that mattered. I’m choking on my emotion: it’s knotted in my throat. A living man or woman could relate to wanting something you can’t have, but this is different. I literally can never have her. It’s soul crushing. I need to say something—anything—but Charlotte saves the day and says, “You would’ve brought a picnic and there’d be a blanket.”

  Clearing my throat, unable to stop myself from playing out this fantasy with her, I add, “I’d lay you down.”

  “And you’d kiss me,” she breathes, urging me on.

  I grin. “And the water would be rushing and the branches of the tree would cover us with leaves of fall colors.”

  “The air would be chilly, and we’d be covered in goose bumps, but we wouldn’t care.”

  “Because we’d be one,” I say, before swallowing hard. The vision of her beneath me, naked, and staring into my eyes is something beautiful and torturous all at once. I can almost feel her breath on my neck as she whimpers. I can imagine the way her lips part as she moans. And I’d treasure every fucking minute of it. I would’ve loved her like she was my last breath. How the hell did we get here? We’re building a fantasy that could never come to fruition. I know deep down this is wrong. We’re connecting ourselves further, and it will only make it that much more difficult to let go.

  “It would be . . .”

  “Amazing,” I finish her sentence. The image of it all is so clear it tears at my heart. I stare straight ahead, anger bursting inside me, with no one or no way to take it out on. I’m raging on the inside, clenching my teeth; hoping she can’t sense the wave of emotion that’s come over me.

  “I’m sorry, Ike,” she says, and her voice trembles. “It’s so unfair.”

  My chest tightens with her words. I’m trying to be strong and not resent my situation. It is what it is. I died. People do it every day. But I can’t fight the bitterness surging through me. I’d make her mine if I could. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I can’t have her and it occurs to me that if I continue to let our friendship or attraction grow, I’ll only hurt her more when I go. I’ve asked her to take on the gigantic task of saving my addict brother on top of the problems she’s struggling with. I can’t add to it. I can’t do that to her. I need to start distancing myself. And as much as I enjoy our teasing, what I really want is to see her happy. I don’t want to leave her the same way I found her—sad and alone. I don’t know where I’d be without her. She’s become my best friend. And I’ll always be grateful for what she’s doing for my brother. He was a better man than me before the drugs got to him. And what he’s become is not who he is. He has so much potential. I know he’ll get back on track. He’s a fighter.

  Thankfully, the weight I’ve been carrying has lightened some. George is getting better, little by little. Maybe the two of them could make a go of it. My heart twists at the thought. It’s selfish to be jealous, but I am. But if I can’t have her, he definitely should. And I know he really likes her. She’d be good for him, and he’d always protect her. I’ve noticed the playful way she is with him. And even when she doesn’t know I’m looking, I see the longing she has for him. Maybe if I back away a little, they can grow closer.

  “You okay?” she asks after a long moment of silence.

  “Yeah,” I say, even though I’m the furthest thing from it. “Thank you for everything you’re doing, Charlotte.”

  She nods once. “You’re welcome, Ike.

  It’s almost nine by the time we reach the bar. Just as I’m walking in, I see Anna approaching the door from the inside.

  “Hey, girl,” she chimes merrily as she opens the door for me, her lipstick bright red just like the first night when I met her.

  “Hey.” I smile. “This place is dead tonight,” I remark as I pass by her and enter.

  “Yeah, we’re closing early.”

  “Damn,” I mumble. “I came up here to get a drink.”

  “Well then,” she loops her arm through mine and leads me toward the bar. “You came to the right place. We’re having a staff party.”

  “Staff party?” I ask as we reach the bar where Peyton is wiping it down. Ike walks beside me.

  “Yeah. We stay and play cards sometimes. Dance, get wasted. So you got here just in time.” She pats my back before untying her apron.

  I want to ask if George is here, but I don’t want to be too obvious. “So, who all’s here?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

  “Sniper and Greg are closing down the kitchen, and George is in his office with Misty.”

  “What?” I say, a little too . . . well, too eagerly.

  Anna leans toward me and whispers, “I think she came here to beg for her job back. Probably trying to get George to take her back, too.” Anna shakes her h
ead. My gaze flickers to Ike and he disappears to go check on George. “I gotta finish cleaning my tables,” Anna says, as she moseys away.

  Why do my insides feel like they’re on fire? George promised no more drugs. And why is he behind closed doors with her, anyway? Okay, calm down, Charlotte. Just because she’s back there doesn’t mean anything, right? Then why are you stomping to the back like a jealous girlfriend?

  When I round the cook line on my way to George’s office, Sniper’s head snaps up and his eyes go wide. “Wait, Char,” he calls as he darts for me. Just before I reach the office, he snakes one strong arm around my waist and pulls me back, turning us away from the office.

  “Put me down,” I growl as I struggle to release myself from his hold.

  “It’s not what you think,” he whispers as he sits me down. “No need to be jealous.”

  Jealous? Is that what I am? No, he’s wrong. “I’m not jealous!” I state adamantly. “George is trying to get clean, and she is a weight set to drag him down with her.”

  “And she’s been his lover,” he points out, his mouth turning upwards.

  The look I give him is fit to annihilate. That was a low blow. My fists clench with his words. Scowling at him, I ask, “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

  He’s reiterating he thinks I’m jealous. I ignore his statement as I’m not ready to admit that just yet. After all, I barely know George and our relationship, as of yet, has been volatile. “What does she want?”

  “Her job.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

  “Is he going to let her continue to work here?” My eyes are practically bulging out of my head as I think the unfathomable. If he lets her continue to work here, he’s fucking nuts.

  “What’s it to you?” A voice comes from behind Sniper and we turn to acknowledge it. Misty is standing with her hip cocked and arms crossed over her chest.

  Sniper runs a wide palm down his face. “She was just curious, Misty,” he says, but his tone is drenched with annoyance. He doesn’t like her either.

  “If it pleases you,” Misty sneers, “I will no longer work here. I guess that leaves you plenty of opportunity to move in on him.” Leaning toward me, she whispers, “We just had our . . . well . . . we said good-bye.” The taunting smirk on her face validates what her wording was meant to imply. “He’s all yours, baby. But I doubt you could ever be as good as I’ve been to him.”