by Rio Youers
Six
The last day of August was the kind of hot that drained everything of its vitality. Ninety-three by midday, the streets were languid and blurred in the heat haze. I stood on the front steps of my apartment building, guitar in hand, and scanned the periphery for threats. Seeing nothing suspicious—although it was difficult to be certain in the glare—I crossed Franklin and walked a block to Posy’s Florist. Here I selected a modest arrangement of reds and yellows, then walked another four blocks to the bus stop.
I checked every storefront window along the way, every doorway and parked car. By the time I made it to the Columbus Avenue stop my upper body was coated in sweat and my heart was clamoring. I set my guitar down, assessed my surroundings again, then sat on the bench and waited. Seven minutes until the 270 arrived, which would take me to within a five-minute walk of Rose Hill Cemetery. This would mark the farthest I’d ventured since crawling from that cinderblock room. I was on edge, but it would take more than paranoia to keep me from visiting Mom’s grave.
August 31. The tenth anniversary of her death.
Behind me, the Barista King was doing small business on this sweltering day. I considered grabbing something full of ice and caffeine, then Swan Connor maundered over—two canes clacking—and dropped onto the bench beside me. He smacked his gummy lips together and said, “Jub.” If I moved now, it’d look like I was moving because of him. I had no idea how much thought he was capable of, but I didn’t want him to think that.
“Hello, Mr. Connor.”
“Jub.”
His hair stood in creamy tufts. There was a clump of orange goo in his right ear and a blob of dried oatmeal on his chin. My heart ached for him, this man who had once been so sharp, generous, and successful, who’d worked with some of the biggest names in the music industry, and was now—one stroke later—little more than vegetable matter. I’d lost my memories of Sally. Swan had lost everything. I couldn’t begin to imagine what that was like.
He’d watched me play a few times, and it always felt like I was auditioning. “You’re good, kid,” he once said to me. “But you need to write your own material. And cut your hair. White guys with dreadlocks don’t sell records. They look like bums.” I smiled, thanked him, and told him that I didn’t want to sell records, that I was happy playing to the birds. He laughed and said I was crazier than my dad.
The bright flowers caught his eye. He half pointed at them.
“Jub.”
“They’re for my mom,” I said. “You remember her, right? Heather Anderson. Married to Gord.”
He made a mumbling sound and maybe nodded. He’d gone to school with Dad, and they’d remained friendly until Dad’s psychological concerns became too significant a factor. Mom had known him, too, of course, but never really took to him. “He’s a peculiar duck,” I remember her saying. “I guess that’s what you get for hanging out with Frank Zappa.” And I had corrected her: “No, Mom, he’s a peculiar swan.” And we’d laughed until there were tears in our eyes.
I wondered what Mom would do if she were sitting with me now, but I didn’t have to wonder long; I knew. I plucked a flower—a brilliant red gerbera—from the bouquet and threaded it through one of Swan’s buttonholes. It stood out against his dour clothing like a stoplight. It transformed him. He looked, suddenly, lighter.
“There,” I said, managing a smile. “That color suits you.”
The 270 rumbled onto Columbus and toward the stop. I got to my feet, grabbed my guitar. Swan sniffed his flower and his eyes flooded with grateful tears.
“Jub,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Connor.”
* * *
Rose Hill is a beautiful cemetery on the outskirts of Green Ridge, thirty-eight peace-filled acres landscaped with towering evergreens, modern sculpture, and a man-made lake. I walked a winding path toward Mom’s grave, breathing the clean air and trying to focus on my reason for being there: Mom. Only Mom. Recent events had reinforced how much I missed her, and the ten years since her death seemed now a blur, perhaps because so many of the intervening memories had been erased.
There was a music of birdsong, of the summer breeze and branches waving. It accompanied me as I stepped off the path and strode between the graves until I came to the stone that bore my mother’s name. No unnecessary dates or epitaphs. Just her name and a single encompassing word: BELOVED.
I dropped to my knees. Pushed my fingers through the grass there.
It was an ideal spot, neighbored by a tubular sculpture through which the breeze piped dreamily, and close enough to the lake to hear it lapping. Mom purchased this plot when she learned that her breast cancer had bypassed “curable,” and gone directly to stage IV. She had drawn the money from her retirement savings and remarked, with the driest, most heartbreaking smile, that this was entirely appropriate. I remember visiting the location with her in the weeks before the cancer took hold, and assessing its natural beauty as if we were going to build a house there. I had escaped to the lake to cry. Mom had remained dry-eyed throughout. So brave. So strong.
I brought my hand to my face, smelled the grass between my fingers.
“Hi,” I said.
A yellow rose had been laid at the base of the stone. Dad had been here before me. Not long before, judging by the rose’s freshness. I had actually tried calling him again to see if he wanted to meet, but—true to form—he hadn’t answered. The rose, at least, assured me he was still alive.
There was a note, too. Occasionally, Dad would scribble a little something—a random Mom memory—and leave it on her grave. In reading these notes (and they were always written in the second person, addressing himself, to emphasize memory over emotion), I had discovered things about their life together that I would otherwise never have known. Like how they used to enjoy bicycle rides at sunrise, and how each chose the other’s ice cream flavor. It was sad and sweet. And yes, I found it baffling that my father was too insecure to answer the phone, but had no problem leaving a note—however cryptic and anonymous—in a public place. People deal with their grief in different ways, I guess.
This one read:
You sit, mostly, with one hand covering your face, without her to lower it, and kiss you, and tell you not to hide. “A full moon shines brighter,” she would say. You couldn’t hold all her love, if your arms were twice the size.
I sat with my own memories for an hour or so, not speaking, lost in occasions of happiness and wonderment. Grief, too. But I found what I’d been looking for: Mom. Only Mom. And the recent pain faded. The fear, too. All thoughts of Sally, the spider, and the hunt dogs were temporarily suspended.
Mom’s favorite song was John Lennon’s “Woman.” It was written for Yoko Ono, but it works for moms, too.
I took out my guitar, started to play.
The sculpture piped in tune.
* * *
To be absent from the real world—with all its strangeness and paranoia—felt entirely wonderful. If only it could have continued.
I wasn’t alone at Rose Hill.
Snapping my guitar back into its case, I became aware of someone watching me. Not a new sensation, by any means, but this felt distinctly different. I stood up and retreated from Mom’s grave, swiveling my head, scrutinizing the shadowy spaces between the stones and trees. I’d taken no more than a dozen steps when a muscular arm appeared from behind a marble obelisk. Before I could even flinch, I was dragged backward and thrown against the monument with a jarring thud.
“Hello, Harvey,” Jackhammer said.
The sight of his grapefruit face sent cold water rushing through my stomach. I squirmed out of his grasp and wheeled toward the path, unsure of my direction, but it didn’t matter anyway; I lost balance and tumbled to the ground. Jackhammer was on me in a moment. He pressed the heel of his boot against my throat just hard enough to keep me from struggling.
“I suggest you keep your cool,” he said, his voice low and bland. “This is a social visit, but it can turn nasty i
n a hurry.”
I wheezed in reply, twisting my neck enough for him to see me nod. He lifted his boot and with his boundless strength—sickeningly familiar to me—hoisted me to my feet. I staggered, dropped my guitar case, and flopped against another grave marker. Sweat dripped from my brow and my heart galloped.
“What do you want?” I managed.
“Thought I’d check in,” he said, spreading his hands in a casual manner. “See if any memories had resurfaced, or if there’s anything you should tell us.”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just trying to get on with my life.”
He looked at me carefully, his eyes narrowed. I’d been thinking about Sally constantly—dreaming about her—and I wondered if that showed in my expression.
“Do I need to call my boss?” he asked.
The spider. I blanched—couldn’t help myself—and shook my head.
An elderly lady shuffled close, carrying flowers that had wilted in the heat. She gave us a curious glare before moving along. Elsewhere, I heard the breeze excite the trees and the arrhythmic tapping of a woodpecker.
Jackhammer waited for the lady to amble out of view before looming close, prodding me hard in the chest with his forefinger.
“We can get to you anytime, anywhere,” he warned. “You need to think about that if you’re trying to hide something.”
“Your boss makes it hard to hide anything,” I said.
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. He retreated a step and his impressive chest expanded as he inhaled.
“So?” he asked.
“So what?”
“Anything you need to divulge?”
“No.”
“Have you contacted anybody who knew Sally?”
“I’ve barely left my apartment,” I replied. “My landlord wanted to know if I could make rent. That’s about it.”
He searched my eyes but all he saw was fear. He then clamped my face between his concrete fingers, tilting it this way and that, examining my wounds.
“We really roughed you up, huh?”
I twisted away from him.
“Yeah, you did.”
“Two reasons for that. Firstly: We find it an effective method of procuring information.” He pushed his face close to mine. His rancid breath was as familiar as his strength. “Secondly: It serves as a precursor to what will happen should you withhold information or cross us in any way.”
I nodded, recalling the wet-meat sound of his fist against my face.
“We will fuck you up, Harvey,” he whispered. “We’ll crush everything you know and love. And when you’re bleeding from every hole in your body, begging to die, my boss will pick through your tiny little mind and find what you’ve been keeping from us. Sound like a good time to you?”
I wiped sweat from my throat and sighed. Distantly, a mockingbird called colorfully and I heard music on the breeze. Some other son, perhaps, playing his mother’s favorite song.
“How long?” I asked Jackhammer.
His face was grapefruit-bland again, except for one raised eyebrow.
“How long before I get my life back?” I drew myself to my full height. I was taller than Jackhammer by at least three inches, but he still overshadowed me. “How long before you realize that I’m no use to you?”
He shook his head, as if that were any kind of reply. I wondered if his soul was as dry as the bones beneath me.
“Just leave me alone,” I said.
He slipped away without another word, with barely an expression. Gone in a moment. Blended with the shadows.
* * *
Jackhammer’s motive was to reintroduce fear, and it worked, but there was another, unexpected effect; walking to the bus stop and then riding into town, I contemplated how Jackhammer had violated Rose Hill—the most peaceful, unblemished place I knew—when he could have more easily come to my apartment. It was an unnecessary move that underscored the hunt dogs’ callousness, and in turn reminded me what would happen to Sally if they ever tracked her down. Anger overshadowed my fear. There was something else—so subtle that it took a moment to place: a sense of triumph. Jackhammer had revealed a certain vulnerability. His threats were formidable, but they were desperate. Sally’s trail had gone cold and they were hanging on to the possibility that timid, terrified Harvey might recall some crucial detail, and point them to where the little fox was hiding.
Motherfuckers had nothing.
The anger stirred me. Riled me. It also exposed that indefinite emotion inside—the one I’d been afraid of admitting to. And it was love. Of course it was. I loved a girl I couldn’t remember, and that made total sense to me. Because love is quite apart from memory. It runs deeper, like a hole in space that exists even after the star has exploded.
I returned to my apartment, where my only company was a half-eaten protein bar and a plastic banana plant. I played furious music until my neighbors hammered. I twirled the red feather and considered my empty life.
Not quite empty; Sally was out there.
Somewhere.
Cancer destroyed my mother. She went from hale to ashes in a matter of months and all I could do was watch. The darkness that followed Sally was different but no less destructive. Despite the threats—the nightmarish associations the red feather was supposed to incite—I knew I had to do something.
I looked out my window at Franklin Street, then over the gray rooftops at a scoop of Jersey and the haystack world beyond.
“Where are you?”
I dreamed about her again that night, dancing in a rain of red feathers. She drew me into her arms and set her ticking hips close to mine. I’m going to find you, I whispered in her ear, and might have said more but she stopped me, her mouth against mine.
I closed my eyes and we swayed to soundless music.
Seven
Marzipan’s Kitchen had lost none of its character. The checkered tablecloths, Beanie Babies, and pictures of spooky nineteenth-century dudes were still in place, and Marzipan was as endearing and foul-mouthed as ever. The only visible change was her hair, which had run through every color in the rainbow before settling—at least for now—on angel white.
Two things hit me as I stepped through the door. The first was the aroma of home-cooked food, eliciting empty sounds from my stomach. The second thing was Sally. Her energy was so palpable that I almost expected to feel her hand slip into mine, or see her sway from the kitchen carrying plates of steaming food. Even if the hunt dogs hadn’t so violently repositioned her in my mind, the warmth and character of Marzipan’s Kitchen would have. I think the result would’ve been the same, too—the certainty of having lost someone precious, along with a bullheaded determination to find her again.
I hovered in the doorway, barely tethered, until Marzipan shuffled over in her slippers, her white hair gelled into an impressive rhino horn.
“Harv,” she said, flapping a hand at the dining area. “Sit anywhere, but it’s quiet today so I’ll be closing soon. Fuck you.”
“Yeah … okay.” I gave my head a little shake, blinked distantly, and grabbed a table against the spooky-dude wall. Marzipan was right; it was quiet, with only three other tables occupied—two couples and a redheaded woman sitting opposite her mannequin, engaged in lively conversation. I zoned them out and focused on the Sally vibe, absorbing every minim of sensory stimuli in the hope that some lost memory would float to the surface.
My mind drifted. My eyes glazed over. A woman appeared in the seat opposite, as if placed there by the power of will. Her head was tilted at a carefree angle and a wave of brown hair covered one side of her face.
Okay, for one second—maybe two—I thought it was Sally, but only because I was so deep in the vibe. My heart dropped a beat before I realized my mistake.
“I don’t often bring you company,” Marzipan said, adjusting the mannequin’s position so that she didn’t fall off the chair. “You’re usually here with Sally.”
“Yeah, well,” I muttered. “She left me.”
&nb
sp; “I know that. I had some men here asking about her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“IRS, they said, but I didn’t believe them.”
“You tell them anything?”
“What’s to tell?” she said. “They wanted to know where Sally was. I told them I didn’t know.”
“Right,” I said. “I told them the same thing.”
Marzipan placed one finger beneath my chin, tilting my damaged face toward the light.
“I guess they didn’t believe you?” she said.
“You guess right,” I said, touching my scar. “But it’s true. I don’t know where she is. She just took off.”
“Not for the first time, I bet.” Marzipan screwed her eyes shut and made a zipping motion across her lips. This was one of her physical tics, which helped suppress the profanities. She took a deep breath, held up one hand, and said, “Sally was a quiet one. In my experience, quiet people tend to have the most secrets. But secrets cast shadows, Harv, and sometimes the only option is to run where there’s more light.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re right.”
Marzipan nodded, satisfied, then took my order: her famous tomato soup with homemade bread (my stomach was crying out for real food; I was so fucking sick of protein bars), but when it arrived I barely touched it. A slurp of the soup. A nibble of the bread. My appetite had fizzled, unlike Sally’s energy, which swirled around me in a way it didn’t anywhere else, not even in the apartment we’d apparently shared.
I rode the vibe again, like a surfer on a wave, taking it as far as I could. I even employed the breathing technique I use during yoga, hoping to attain a heightened awareness. It helped; I blotted out the ambient noise and felt Sally more deeply, but no memories were uncovered.
Rousing myself from this near-meditative state, I noted that my soup had turned cold and that the other diners had vacated. It was just me and my mannequin, who regarded me from behind that veil of tawny hair.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said to her. “How do you help someone you can’t even find?”
