by ML Gardner
“That's why I brought you here, Miss Claire. So you could feel him. But yes, to an extent, that feeling does fade,” she said.
“It's not just here. I feel him everywhere.” Her face twisted again with a fresh round of tears.
“It will fade,” Maura repeated. Claire didn't know if she wanted it to, although it was most painful, the feeling that he was still close.
∞∞∞
They walked several feet out into the sand and sat next to each other. Maura stayed quiet as Claire went through several emotions, starting the process of settling her grief. The sun had just begun to dip into the horizon, and Maura's stomach growled loudly. She laughed, slightly embarrassed. It reminded her, however, of the next thing she wanted to address with Claire.
She turned and took her hand again when she spoke. Ian had done that when he was talking her through her grief. He was easy to tune out and she would retreat to the safety of the small deadened place inside her mind. When he touched her, she was forced to come, and stay, in the moment. And to hear him.
“I'm going to prepare a schedule for ye, Miss Claire,” she announced. “I know a lot of folks will be around, to check on ye, do for ye and spend time, but there will be times when ye will need to look to a piece of paper to tell ye what to do, and when.”
“Did Ian do that for you?”
“Yes, love. And it helped. And when yer done here, we’re going to go to yer house,” Maura said firmly against Claire’s look of apprehension. “It'll be alright, love,” she reassured.
∞∞∞
Maura waited patiently for Claire to get the courage to walk into her home, where surely Aryl's ghost would be the strongest. She did eventually pull at the car door handle and walk slowly to the front door. She hesitated and looked at Maura, puzzled.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what, love?”
“That sound. It sounds like…” She looked all around her feet and scanned the porch. Her eyes went to the bushes that lined the front of the house when she heard it again. She stepped off the porch and began digging through the bushes, getting closer to the soft, desperate noise.
“Oh! Look!” she cried as she reached deep into the bushes and pulled out a very new tabby kitten, soaked to the bone and so thin you could see its skeleton. Maura instinctively shrunk back, having a lifelong, deep aversion to cats. She opened her mouth to tell Claire to throw the foul beast back where she found it, when Claire looked up with wide eyes, hugging the tiny kitten to her chest.
“He must be hungry.” She cuddled the kitten closer, balancing it carefully while opening her door. Walking through her front room, she didn’t take her eyes off the kitten as she wrapped it in a towel.
Maura set aside her hatred of the evil fiend for the moment, noting that this wretched creature and its pathetic appearance had gotten Claire over the threshold of her door without incident.
“Perhaps some warm milk?” Maura suggested. Or some boiling oil, she thought to herself. Claire set the bundled kitten on the table and looked through her icebox for milk. What little was there was curdled, and she dumped it down the sink, holding her nose. The kitten watched her intently from the table and let out several soft mews, to each Claire would turn and look at it. She opened a can of tuna, dumped it on a saucer and found a shallow bowl for water.
“This is about all I have little fella,” she said as she sat down at the table and unwrapped the kitten, leading him to the food. He ate ferociously, hardly pausing to chew.
“I wonder where he came from?” she asked aloud as she stroked its tiny head with one finger.
Maura held back her preferred response of from hell, and tried to see the creature as something for Claire to care for. Something to provide distraction and companionship in the difficult days that lay ahead.
Claire stopped petting the kitten, her eyes fixed across the table on Aryl's coffee mug, still sitting on the table where he’d left it.
Maura watched and almost saw it, too. The faintest image of Aryl in one of the last places Claire had seen him. Sitting there with one hand on his mug, the other folded in front of him, smiling at Claire. In her vision, she saw him push his long brown curls off his forehead, as he had done a thousand times, his brown eyes crinkling with his laugh. His smile faded and his image dissolved, taking the light and warmth of the room with it.
A few moments later, Maura held her hand out to Claire and walked her through the house, room by room. She carried a small basket and Claire pointed to certain items she wanted Maura to remove. His razor and comb from the bathroom, a few pieces of clothing that lay about the bedroom, but not the ones hanging in the closet. She added a few random items that seem to hurt more than comfort and Maura carried the basket to the small shed in the backyard. Back in the kitchen, she glanced at the mug on the table with eyebrows raised in question.
“Leave it,” Claire whispered. Maura nodded and turned to the icebox, cleaning it of food that had gone bad. Claire sat down and the kitten wobbled over to her, mewing. She scooped it up with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
Maura made a simple dinner of meat and cheese and made Claire promise that every time she went to feed the kitten, she would eat herself. She promised she would and excused herself to change for bed.
∞∞∞
Once inside the bathroom, it hit her again. A massive wave of overwhelming grief. It crushed her to the floor, where she rocked herself, sobbing.
Maura had made up a bed for her on the couch when she finally emerged. Her face was swollen and reddened. She looked at the couch gratefully. Maura had known she couldn’t sleep in her own bed alone. Not yet. Tucking her in childlike, Maura turned on the radio to drown out the deafening silence, and leaned over on the loveseat across from Claire, for some much needed rest.
July 3rd 1930
Patrick saw Maura safely to the train station for the evening train. He had eagerly volunteered seeing that even Jonathan was too upset at her departure to make the drive. They talked of Ireland on the way to the train station, discovering a few acquaintances they had in common.
As the boarding call was made, Patrick turned to Maura. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped forward and hugged her.
“Yer husband may clobber me for being so forward, Maura, but that's alright. You've been a God-send, ye have, and I don’t see how any of 'em would have made it through this without ye.”
“Well, they would have,” she said, shrugging off her usefulness as she usually did. “Keep an eye on them, Patrick, aye? And let me know right away if things aren’t going as they should.”
He nodded. “I promise. Safe journey, Maura,” he said and helped her up three steps, onto the train. She didn't look back.
Sitting by the window, she turned her body out of view from the older gentleman who sat wheezing beside her and cried silently as the train jerked to a start and carried her, every moment further and further away from her second family.
She had wanted to make it home, safe behind closed doors to cry in Ian's understanding arms, but it bubbled up and over, and there was no stopping it. Dabbing at her eyes, cursing her weakness under her breath, she only grew more upset as the scenery began to change dramatically the further the train steamed from Rockport. Her shoulders shook with each silent sob she tried to hide.
After a good amount of time, she turned forward, wiping red eyes and took a deep breath, determined to stave off any further crying jags until she reached home. Reaching into her bag with a heavy sigh, she pulled out her flask and shot the old wheezer next to her a formidable stare, silencing him, before tilting it up. She drained it in three gulps and stared at the empty flask, disappointed that she hadn’t had the forethought to fill it before she left. Replacing it in her bag, she sat back and folded her hands over her stomach, trying to think of anything but the sadness of the last few days.
Sometime later, she was pulled from her safe daydreaming by a very faint clinking noise coming from somewhere beh
ind her. She stood, smoothing her skirts and squeezed by her seat companion, who sat with his head back, snoring unattractively. She walked down the narrow aisle slowly, looking for the source of the noise. The distinct clinking grew louder toward the back, and her eyes rested on a small girl, roughly nine or ten. She stared out the window absentmindedly; with a thick carpetbag tucked half under the seat between her swinging feet. From the carpetbag came the clink.
“Excuse me,” Maura said softly as she slipped into the seat next to the girl. “My name is Maura, what's yours?”
The little girl looked hesitant, but then glancing over Maura and thinking her accent quite funny, she grinned as she pushed her long, brown hair from her face.
“Luella,” she said shyly.
“Nice to meet you, Luella.” Maura smiled and looked around. “Are you traveling alone child?”
Luella shook her head. “My mother is in the next car back.”
“Ah,” Maura said. “Well, Luella, I have a bit of a problem you might be able to help me with.”
Luella stared up at her, confused. Maura slipped her flask out of her pocket long enough for the girl to get a peek, and slipped it back in.
“I'm in need of a refill, dear,” she said quietly, glancing at the bag at the girl's feet. Luella stared at her with well-trained blankness.
“Look,” Maura said, adjusting in her seat. “I know what's in yer bag. And I fairly know what ye intend to do with it, once ye get to where yer goin'. I know it’s illegal and I don’t care any about that. What I'd like to do is buy one of those clinking bottles from ye. Name yer price,” she said with her hand on her change purse. The little girl looked nervously at the bag and back at Maura. She leaned over and Maura met her half way.
“How'd you know?” she whispered. Maura came up laughing.
“I'm Irish, love. And there are two things I know well. How to swear in three different languages, and the clink of a bottle from a mile away.” The little girl giggled and nodded, agreeing to the sale. “Let me grab my bag,” Maura said.
She returned a moment later and set her bag close to Luella's. The girl swiftly pulled one bottle from her bag and slipped it into Maura's. Maura silently handed her payment. Luella's eyes bulged.
“Thanks lady!” she whispered loudly. Maura couldn’t spare the money, but feeling the sadness would have hurt worse.
Maura smiled. “No, thank you, dear.” She pet the girl on the head and stood, bag in hand looking down on the child with a smile.
“Safe journey, Luella.”
Maura made her way to an empty seat at the front and not bothering to refill the flask, took her whiskey straight from the bottle.
∞∞∞
Ian was at the train station waiting over an hour for Maura to return. He smiled in relief when the deafening train whistle blew, signaling his love was home. He knew he must share her, being the kind of woman that she was to folks, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He spotted her auburn hair as she slowly and unsteadily held onto the rail with both hands, navigating her way down the stairs, and stood swaying numbly; staring ahead, knowing Ian would find her and take her home.
She felt him before she saw him, warm strong arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. She sighed and all the tension began to drain from her weary body. He stood back after a moment and grinned down at her.
“Ye smell like a brewery,” he chuckled, looking over her splotchy complexion and bloodshot eyes. “I know it was hard on ye,” he said quietly. She looked up at him, knowing he knew the extent of her pain and it was enough. With an arm around her waist, half-walking, half-holding her up, he turned her away from the train. “Let's get ye home, and you'll tell me all about it.”
July 7th 1930
“Mr. Drayton, someone is here to see you.”
Victor looked up from his desk to his receptionist and past her shoulder to the tall, dark figure behind her.
“Send him in,” he said with a wave. A broad smile spread across his face as Bomani stepped into the room and the receptionist closed the door after him.
“Sit down, please,” Victor said politely.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to meet so soon?” Bomani asked as he neatly folded one leg over the other. He did little to hide his irritation. His white teeth gleamed against his dark olive skin.
“Well, that depends on how well you hid the body,” Victor said casually as he sat back in his chair, bringing his hands together in front of him at the fingertips.
“She won’t be found,” Bomani said quietly.
“That’s good.” Victor’s black eyes were dancing as his lips curled into a smile. “I am curious, what did you do with the body?”
Bomani glared at him. “What do you take me for?”
Victor shrugged innocently. “I was just wondering.”
Bomani shook his head tightly and leaned forward for emphasis. “You honestly think I would tell you? That kind of information would give you all you needed to keep me at your call forever.”
“You’re not as stupid as you look,” Victor said flatly. “Fine. Don’t give me the gory details.” He waved his hand and reached into the side drawer of his desk. He pulled out a few bills and tossed them on the desk between them. “I have a job for you.”
“What job?” he asked with a sigh. His eyes were fixed on the cash he desperately needed. His resolve to refuse another job for Victor was beginning to weaken.
“I need you to fire some squatters.” He pushed a paper across the desk with the address written on it. “Everything is in order. Make it look like some vagrants got careless,” he said coldly.
Bomani looked hesitantly at the cash. “Why don’t you just have them thrown out and rent to someone who can pay?” Bomani asked with an innocence that startled Victor. Contributing to Victor’s silent, gaping mouth, was the fact that his hired thug, who was overpaid in his opinion, was talking back to him. Disrespecting and questioning him.
“Bomani.” He leaned forward, his temper flaring instantly. “I am a thinker. A business man. You are a doer. A street thug. You set things on fire, you kill people, you steal and you rough people up. Simple tasks really, and when I pay you to perform one of these tasks, I expect you to do them with no questions asked.”
Bomani's eyes narrowed, glaring at the man he hated more every minute he was forced to sit in his presence.
A big worm. Bomani thought to himself. He reminds me of a big white worm with cold black eyes. Not man enough to be a snake, though he tries. Just a big, slimy, scheming worm. Bomani swiped the money and the address off the desk with a nod and a huff. He bit his tongue knowing if he said anything at all, he would say too much.
“Now, don’t go and pout, Bomani,” Victor said patronizingly. “I’ll tell you why I’m doing this. I’ll give you some very credible and very damning information, if you return the favor and tell me where you disposed of Ruth’s body.”
Bomani shook his head tightly, his dark eyes mirroring every ounce of Victor’s stubbornness. “It’ll take more than your motives for killing innocent people.”
“They aren’t innocent. They owe me money,” Victor scoffed indignantly. “What else then. What do you want?” He put his hand to his desk drawer with a smile, knowing everybody has a price.
Bomani stood stock frozen for a moment as debate raged inside his mind. Finally, he held up two fingers. Victor drummed the fingers of his free hand on the desk in contemplation, then reached deep into the drawer pulling out a small stack of bills. He counted out two hundred dollars in twenties and stuffed the remaining cash deep into the drawer.
“Where,” he demanded while reluctantly handing over the money.
“Victor Drayton, you are a sick man.” Bomani shook his head as he stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his coat. “The city dump,” he said quietly, looking at the floor.
Victor shot out of his chair with owlish eyes. “Are you mad?” he screamed. “Do you know how many bodies they find at the
dump?”
“Relax,” Bomani chuckled, hardly phased by Victors threatening stance. “They find whole bodies at the dump. Not parts. Tiny parts. Birds and bugs will have taken care of her by now.”
Victor sat down slowly, struggling to regain composure. “Well, that’s good then,” he said running one hand over his white blond hair, smoothing it back down to one side. The wild patches of color began to drain from his face and he nodded. “As long as you’re sure.”
“Positive. She won’t be found,” Bomani reassured.
“How did you do it? Kill her, I mean. Strangling? Stabbing? Strangle then stab? There was a lot of blood, her shoe was caked, but I assumed you didn’t shoot her. That would draw too much attention…” He trailed off, eyebrows up, waiting expectantly.
“Even you don’t have that kind of money, Victor.” He stood and left.
∞∞∞
.
He walked several blocks at a furious pace, slowing as his anger subsided. He stopped in front of a small, unmarked church on a busy street corner. Protestant? Baptist? He decided it didn’t matter and began walking again. The setting sun beat on his back and small trickles of sweat rolled down his neck into his shirt. He took his light black coat off and folded it over his arm, discreetly transferring his money to his front pants pocket. His mind shifted to his work for the night, and he decided he would do it early. He stopped inside a small family run grocery, poorly lit with a heavy musty smell. He gathered basic foods in his arms, stacking and cradling it all until he could hold no more. He paid for the groceries and set out again.
Two blocks away, he pushed open the aging door of a small brick tenement and jogged up two flights of stairs. He rapped hard and put his lips to the seam of the door. “Mama, it’s me, open up.” He waited several moments, shifting the bag of groceries and heard her distinct shuffle, the heavy clinking of three locks and the door opened a crack.
