by ML Gardner
“Is that my Bo-bo,” her old voice squeaked.
“Yes, Mama. It’s me.”
She opened the door enough to let him in and quickly closed it, flipping the many locks. She turned to hug him and he had to bend far over to embrace her shrinking frame.
“I brought you groceries,” he said, setting the bag on the small table. She pet his face briefly and set the cloth sack on the kitchen counter, motioning for him to sit at the small table.
“I’ll make some tea.”
The chair creaked loudly as he settled his large frame into it and he prayed it wouldn’t break. He stared intently at the small bunch of dying flowers that sat in a chipped vase. He didn’t notice when she sat across from him and silently poured two cups of tea. Reaching out, he plucked a few of the brittle petals and leaves, crumbling them between his fingers in a neat pile. I’ll bring her fresh ones, next time. Fixated on the flowers, he jumped when she spoke.
“What’s wrong, Bomani?” she asked, suddenly very lucid and perceptive. He looked from her to the cup of steaming tea, and sugared it heavily.
“I’m just tired, Mama.” He sighed as he thought of all the things that had begun to tax his soul. He was tired of this lifestyle. Of murder and theft. Of fire and destruction. He had grown weary of sitting across expensive mahogany desks from men like Victor Drayton. Men no less evil than himself, they only had the means to pay someone else to dirty their hands. He remembered clearly the night that Victor asked him to kill his wife, Ruth. He never said kill however. Get rid of my problem, were the words he used, but the meaning was clear. Of all the horrendous, evil and despicable tasks he had been paid to do, never had someone asked him to murder their spouse.
In Victor’s parlor behind tightly locked doors, Bomani gave the last lesson in the handling and placement of explosives. Victor looked up, black eyes shining, drunk with anticipation as he fondled the explosives.
He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t blow himself up before he ever gets to where he’s going. Bomani had thought to himself, half-hoping.
“I’ll be out of town next week,” Victor spoke in a low voice and nodded to the parlor doors. “Why don’t you get rid of my little problem for me?” Bomani stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and slap his knee with the joke. But Victor wasn’t joking.
“You can tell her that I have sent for her and you’ll take her to the train station. Don’t let the staff see you leave, though. You can use whatever method you prefer. I don’t care. I just don’t want her found. Maybe leave a shoe or something so I can collect the insurance money within a reasonable time.”
Bomani had kept a clean face throughout the conversation. Necessarily unreadable. His mind was reeling and a dozen thoughts raced about and collided with one another. And quite suddenly, he formed a plan. He nodded his head to Victor in agreement and held up five fingers. Victor’s eyebrows shot up and he gawked. “Five hundred?” he squealed. Victor shook his head, walked over to his safe and paused. “Highway robbery,” he mumbled. “I could do it myself for free.”
“You’d get caught,” Bomani said, hoping Victor knew the truth in this and didn’t change his mind to save money. It was two nights later that Bomani led Ruth away from her house, never to return.
The third time she called his name, his mother fairly shouted.
“Bomani!”
He snapped his head up and grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry, Mama,” he said, resuming his tea stirring.
“You need rest,” she said, laying an aged hand on his. “You talk to your boss. He’ll give you time off. You get some rest, alright?” Her smile revealed a few missing teeth and her small eyes all but disappeared under the layers of wrinkles when her cheeks puffed up.
“Alright, Mama. I’ll talk to him.” The way he made his living had always remained hidden from his mother. He led her to believe he was a shipbuilder.
He forced a smile as he listened for almost an hour as she recounted the last two days in detail only fascinating to the elderly. She seemed well enough and Bomani began to forget, as he often did during these visits that she was, in fact, growing more demented with every passing week. He only heard every other sentence as his mind weighed his limited options heavily. He jerked back into the now quickly when she looked at him, her eyes shining in an absent way.
“Your father stopped by today. He was so sad he missed you.”
He stiffened in his chair and his smile faded.
“You shouldn’t have stayed out with your friends so long, Bo. But don’t worry, he’ll be back a few days. He said to tell you to be a good boy and study hard.” She looked up at him suddenly as if she had forgotten something. “Did you have a good day at school, Son?” She rose without waiting for an answer. “Here. Let me get you some bread and jam,” she said as she shuffled to the kitchen.
Bomani closed his eyes and sighed deeply. She had slipped twenty years in the past and he knew from experience she would stay there for a while. It was her favorite time. His father would visit regularly and it was like Christmas when he did. He would bring presents and tell stories. His mother would light up in a way that only unconditional love can illuminate a soul and, for those few hours, they were happy. The small, sparse apartment felt complete. But the visits always ended too soon and his mother would cry while his father apologized with a gentle tone. He could remember the torment in his father’s eyes and Bomani knew he loved them, but he had to go. His mother told him that he must go away on business often. However when he was twelve, the neighbor told him his father had another family.
∞∞∞
Jean slowly extended a finger and pushed Jonathan’s plate an inch closer to him. Jonathan looked up from his deep thought.
“You should eat, Dadee,” he said softly. A faint smile touched Jonathan’s lips and he nodded as he glanced at Ava across the table from him.
“He’s right, you know. You’ve hardly eaten anything today.” Ava had begun to worry. He ate little and slept poorly. She didn’t expect him to have bounced back to his old self barely two weeks after losing his best friend, but hoped for faint signs that the worst of the grieving was over. He seemed preoccupied much of the time, distant in his sorrow, and only seemed to come to life when he saw worry on Ava’s face. He knew that she feared he would sink back into the dark depression that almost claimed his life after the stock market crash the previous year.
He picked at his food, taking microscopic bites so it would appear that he was eating more than he really was. He had no appetite for reasons beyond the heartache. The heat hung in the kitchen like a damp wool cloak and there was little relief from it. The house seemed to bake in the early July sun and by evening, it was nearly unbearable. Jean and Jon, having identical thick black hair, seemed to suffer worse than Ava did with her shorter, dirty blond hair, pinned loosely off her neck.
Ava watched the two, noticing damp hair at the temples and a matching ring of sweat around the collars of their thin cotton shirts.
“When’s this heat wave going to let up?” Jonathan grumbled, using his napkin to dab his forehead.
“Christmas,” Ava said sarcastically. “Why don’t we go outside after the sun dips down and dump water on each other?” Jean threw her an excited look and began wiggling in his seat.
“Please, Dadee? Please?”
“Alright,” Jon said, managing a smile.
∞∞∞
Jean stood in his underpants, wriggling in anticipation as Jonathan walked up to him with a bucket full of water. He raised it over Jeans head and waited a few seconds, causing Jean to squeal while dancing on tiptoes. Finally, he dumped it, drenching Jean, who started giggling.
“Again! Again!” he yelled.
After dousing each other repeatedly with the cold well water as the sun set, they lay on the grass, the earth still warm from the July sun, and watched the stars as they appeared in the night sky, one by one.
“There’s the North Star.” Jonathan pointed out to Jean. “And ther
e’s the Little Dipper…and the Big Dipper.”
“Like you and me,” Jean said with a grin.
“Oh, I’m a big dip, am I?” he growled and tickled Jean halfheartedly, still too overheated to exert much energy.
They all lay quiet for several moments as night fell around them. Ava had lost the cheerful feeling of the giggling water fight as she remembered what Jonathan had told her the day before.
“Are you still going out tomorrow?” she asked quietly. Jean’s head craned up and over, turning his attention from the songs of the crickets, to Ava's nervous voice.
“Yes. We have to get back to work. And we have to get Patrick trained.” He snorted and huffed his breath. “Well, we have to find out if Patrick can be trained. He gets mighty queasy just working on the boat when it’s moored.”
“What will you do if he can’t?”
Jean’s eyes followed the conversation intently.
Jonathan shrugged in the grass. “I have no idea,” he sighed.
July 11th 1930
Claire woke slowly; the antique couch caused stiffness throughout her whole body. She blinked twice before reality filled her consciousness. Sadness was heavy and suffocating and she longed for those first few seconds before anything registered. Reality, painful memories and sorrow, none of it existed in that precious time.
The kitten stirred and stretched long with a wide yawn, nearly rolling off her stomach where it preferred to sleep. Claire scooped him up and snuggled him close under her chin.
“I guess I better get you something to eat,” she said with a sigh. The last few mornings, she found less and less reason to function. Maura’s schedule helped; when she followed it.
She pulled her robe tight and placed the kitten in the pocket. He was perfectly happy to nestle there, occasionally poking his head out to mew.
Opening the icebox, she remembered suddenly that she was out of milk. And tuna. The evening before she had promised the kitten she would get dressed and go shopping, but she completely lacked the desire or will to do so now that morning came. She dug around the small cupboard for anything that might be suitable to feed a small, malnourished kitten.
The sound of an engine sputtering to a stop pulled her from her futile searching. She walked to the living room window and pulled the curtains back a peek, hoping it wasn’t anyone who wanted to stay long. She saw a long, lanky man with golden blond hair fold himself out of the front cab of a ramshackle delivery truck. 'Gordon’s Dairy' was hand painted on the side of the red box on the back, faded from years of weathering. Walking to the rear, he opened the wooden doors and pulled out a small crate. Claire noticed water dripping from under the truck and small puddles quickly accumulated around the tires. He turned toward the house and she dropped the curtain. She listened, heard the thud of the crate on the porch, and opened the door, unsure of what she would say. He had turned by then, making his way back down the walk with long strides.
“I didn't order that,” Claire blurted out awkwardly. The man turned slowly and removed his hat with a polite smile.
“I'm aware, Ma'am.” He returned his hat and turned toward his truck.
“I can't pay for this,” she called after him. He half turned this time, the polite smile returned.
“I'm aware of that, too, Ma'am,” he said and pulled out of his back pocket a folded piece of paper. “I've been instructed to send the weekly bill to a...” He scanned the paper for the name. “A Jonathan Garrett.”
“Weekly bill?”
“Yes Ma'am. I'm to deliver twice a week to this address and send the bill to him.”
Claire stared at him blankly and when the silence became awkward, he tipped his hat once more. “If you don't mind, Ma'am, I need to make all my deliveries before the ice melts.”
Claire watched him climb into the truck, coax it to life and sputter away down the road. She blinked twice, as if waking from a confused daze and looked down at the three quarts of milk in the crate. The kitten poked out of the deep pocket and mewed loudly. She pet the small head before bending to pick up the box.
“I guess breakfast is served.”
Besides the milk, Claire unloaded onto the counter, a half-pound of cheese, a pound of butter and a pint of cream. She poured into a saucer a layer of thick cream and set it on the kitchen table. Her new pet clawed and mewed to get out of the pocket and Claire almost smiled as he ran with an awkward wobble to get to the cream. Sitting down roughly, as if exhausted from the day already, she settled back in the wooden chair and watched as the kitten lapped furiously.
“You need a name.” She touched its small head with her finger. “What should I call you?” She stared at the kitten as if waiting for an answer and firmly concentrating on it, rather than the empty space across the table.
A light film of moldy scum grew on the surface of the remaining coffee in Aryl's mug. She could see it in her peripheral vision, but refused to look at it directly. Instead, she cut a few pieces of cheese and a slice of stale bread, keeping her eyes safely on the kitten. She nibbled on it not from her own hunger, but from Maura's orders. She glanced at a list tacked on the plaster wall next to the small table and sighed. Her life seemed to be defined by lists.
Next to it was a calendar on which Jonathan had inserted the names of friends designated to visit each day. Usually they came at lunch and would make dinner before they left.
She felt like an invalid.
“Maybe I won't answer the door today,” she said to the kitten. “Maybe we'll just take a nap and let them knock.” She sighed, looking back at the list. It was Ava's day. She would be persistent and if she didn't pretend to be better she would tell Jonathan, who would tell Maura. She rolled her eyes, frustration being the only other feeling she could identify. She was mostly numb, sometimes sad and now, this new emotional addition was growing frustration at the doting of those who loved her.
The kitten made a small squeak and wobbled toward her, its little belly stretched round from fullness. His little eyes drooped sleepily, and he mewed to be picked up.
“Oh, to heck with them,” she said. “Let's go take a nap.”
∞∞∞
Ava's knocking jerked Claire from a dreamless sleep and she looked around in confusion for a moment. She rose reluctantly as Ava called through the door.
“Claire! It's Ava, open the door, honey.”
She stumbled to the door clutching the kitten and not bothering with her robe. She opened the door, squinting into the bright light.
“Ava,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Maybe we could reschedule. I was just lying down.”
Ava opened her mouth to protest but Claire quickly continued. “I've been working a lot around here today and I'm just tuckered out.” She finished with a yawn.
Ava held up a small casserole. “Just let me put this in the icebox then,” she said.
Ava stepped into the crypt-like living room. The air was stale and the room in disarray. The kitchen was no better, with dishes piled in the sink and a larger pile of food dishes stacked on the counter, spoilt from the summer heat.
“Claire,” Ava turned with her hand on her hip. “You've been working around here?”
Claire dropped her eyes with a pout and snuggled the kitten close under chin.
“It's like a cave in here,” Ava grumbled as she threw open the heavy living room drapes. Claire turned her head, squinting at the brilliant rays of light that filled the room. Millions of dust particles floated through the streaks of sunshine and Ava sighed again. She threw open the windows and the front door.
“No!” Claire said with panic. “Kitten will get out!”
“He won’t get out, Claire, you never put him down,” she said as she set to work tidying the living room. She looked at Claire often, with a feeling of mingled sympathy and frustration that only the best of friends can comfortably feel.
“I miss him so much,” Claire said quietly. She stood at the threshold of the front door, peering out.
“I know you do,
Claire,” Ava said. “I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”
“Maura said it would get better. I'm just waiting for that.” She cast her eyes down at the kitten nuzzled close, sleeping against her chest. “She told me to keep busy. Follow the lists and keep busy and one day, it won't hurt so bad.” Her voice broke and Ava's eyes misted.
She walked to Claire, putting her arm around her. Claire cried quietly for Aryl, and Ava for her.
“Look at us,” Ava said a moment later, wiping her eyes. “Standing in the doorway crying. We must be quite the sight.”
In fact, an older woman out for an afternoon stroll had stopped, gawking at the two of them. Ava waved with a big smile. The woman turned quickly, whispering to her silver haired companion.
“Let her talk,” Ava said, turning Claire around.
They walked into the kitchen and Ava began chopping a few shriveled, barely usable lemons that Arianna had dropped off a few days before.
“What are you going to name yours?” Claire asked nodding to Ava's small pooch below her apron.
“I'm not sure,” she said. “Depends on what it is. We hadn’t talked about it much.”
“How's Jon?”
Ava nodded slowly while mixing sugar into the glass pitcher, planning her words carefully.
“He's alright, I guess.” She poured two glasses full. “He’s sad. He . . . he thinks there's something else to this. He tortures himself with trying to find out what.”
Claire looked at Aryl's coffee mug across the table. It blurred as tears filled her eyes. “Tell him to stop. There's nothing else. He's gone.”
July 15th 1930
Jonathan came in later than usual, having taken trip into town to send the secret telegram. He was lighter this evening, his greeting smile to Ava touching his eyes.
“How are you?” he asked as he hugged her.
“Fine,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “You?”
