Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  "Is he good to you?" I ask her.

  Why is she hesitating? I need to see her response. I look downward at her. Her chin turned up makes her look like she did at fourteen.

  "He pays the bills. Gets drunk some. Yeah, he's... good, for what's around here."

  "Do you love him?"

  "No."

  That wasn't delayed.

  "Why? He's good to you, you have two kids together," I ask her.

  "He's not you. It's not... us."

  I have to end this for her good. My life could hurt her and I see hope building in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry for what, Caleb?"

  "Sorry I left you alone. Sorry I'm not him."

  "You didn't leave me. You had no choice."

  I wipe tears from my eyes.

  "Rosey, I have to go."

  I turn away from her.

  "Don't you dare walk out of my life again."

  From the corner of my eye, I think I see a person stick their head out from behind a tree. It pulls me back into reality.

  "I just have to take care of some things right now. Rosey, you have to trust me."

  She pauses. She sees something in my eyes that no one else would. It's like we can read each other’s thoughts.

  "Fine. But, meet me at our spot...please. Please, Caleb, promise me you will be there in five minutes."

  "Promise. That's my name."

  I watch her rush inside and pull her pony tail holder out, letting her hair drop to her shoulders. I have to get focused.

  The dirt road is empty. Here it is. It's dilapidated. Sad. I remember every Saturday morning my mother digging in that garden, planting flowers while I cut the grass. Now look at it. Overgrown shrubs and trees. All that work for nothing. The roof barely visible and most of the windows are boarded up or broken out. The walking paths covered.

  Funny, the front door is locked. Around back, the door is open. It's frozen in time. Fortunately, people don't see personal belongings like photos and books as being valuable. So they are left, abandoned, like me at that orphanage.

  The carpet disintegrated to musty dust. The family room littered with broken furniture and the walls ripped open in many places. I can hear us laughing during family movie nights.

  I can smell the home-made pizza, hear my mother humming 'Baby Mine' as she sprinkles the cheese with one hand and rubs her belly with the other. She was four months pregnant. Until that car accident. No one knew but me and my father. My baby brother was taken from me in that 'car accident'. No autopsy ordered. No need when you drown in a frozen lake trapped in your car.

  Even in a common ponytail mom was stunningly beautiful. Dad and I raced to the sofa. The winner got first slice. This place was haunted. Not by ghosts, no, by memories. It was bursting with them.

  The bookcases. Once filled with volumes of classics and hand selections from places all over the world. They had beautiful leather bindings. Above it, two brackets that held dad’s two edged sword. He brought it home from a tour he did over seas.

  It was

  Now, standing in front of this broken down bookshelf my father built for her, I wish I could see those books. Dad smiled, seeing her curled up in his seat every night looking eagerly at the pages with a cup of hot mint and honey tea steaming beside her. He often stood in the doorway, holding his coffee and watching her read and smile at the pages sometimes. He watched her like a good movie.

  Her favorite book was the one she read over and over again. When it was finished, she put it in a specially made wooden book box with a latch and used it as a book end for her other books. It was fragile from use and cherished so dearly but now, it was gone. Probably pilfered, broken or sold for a pittance.

  Here, I can't escape the rush of memories. I want to. Thunder. A good old country storm is rolling in. For a long time I hated the rain. Sounds stupid now but I blamed the rain for their accident. Dad was a good, no great, driver. His reflexes, faster than most. If it wasn't raining, maybe he could have missed the bridge despite the hit from the drunk driver. This is the kind of thunder that scares children in the night.

  I wish I didn't remember it but that night is coming back to me. Standing here looking at the front door, I can see Officer Tom-Tom at the door, rain pouring over his plastic covered Sheriff's cap. He looked more like Santa Claus than a cop. He was the one that took me to the orphanage.

  He was torn between taking me to the orphanage and scooping me up and raising me as his own. Tom-Tom was a sloppy widower that drove a police car day and night and wasn't a suitable father for anyone. He knew it. He visited me every few months, bringing chocolate and little knick-knacks. Looking back, him being a cop was the only reason they let him in.

  Now, I realize one kindness Tom-Tom afforded me. Instead of bringing social services with him that night, he broke procedure, he brought the preacher and his wife. They prayed with me and talked to me, while I sat silently in shock on the sofa.

  The first lady is etched in my mind. She made tea, lit a fire, helped pack my bags with pictures she knew someday I would appreciate. My last night in the house, knew when to let me cry in private and when to step in and hold me. Because of her, I woke the next day to the smell of bacon and eggs.

  For a brief moment, I thought it was all a bad dream and when I got to the kitchen, I'd see mom standing there turning the bacon and dad in his office waiting for her 'breakfast' call.

  I got the opportunity to thank Tom-Tom during one of his visits for doing that. He was sick but he still came. His shirts always had coffee and crumbs stuck to it. Shortly after that visit the preacher visited me and told me that Tom-Tom passed away peacefully in his sleep. He deserved that. Peace.

  The memories are smothering in here. I feel like I can't breathe. The scab is pulled back but for the first time remembering doesn't sting. Finally, it's real. Standing in this house seems to close the gaps and fill the cracks in my memory. It somehow gave me the past that I lost. I feel full. Now, I want to get the man that took them from me.

  The lake is beautiful but not as big as I remember. The boat dock and small wooden boat house now decrepit and mostly broken off into the river, but it's still there.

  We kept a tackle box submerged beside a stump next to the water’s edge. A fishing line tied to the stump keeps it in place. My job was to fill it with live bait the day before. Where's that line? There. I pull it but, it can't raise the box.

  One more tug on the line and... 'ouch'. Cut by dirty fishing line. Suck it up and keep it moving. Dad's favorite saying other than don't trust anyone. It's full of water and debris.

  What is that? Something, something slippery. I rub my fingers over it and dip it in the water to wash it off. It's a tiny zip lock bag with a folded piece of paper inside. I have been in this box hundreds of times and never saw this before. I dry my fingers on my jeans and part the small plastic opening.

  "Caleb."

  Rosie. I'll look at it later. Nope, she didn't see me push the box back into the water with my foot or slip the plastic baggie into my jean pocket.

  She immediately embraces me. I feel her exhale in my arms. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She knows me. She's one of the few people that wasn't intimidated by my stand-off character.

  "Rosie-"

  "No one else calls me Rosie. Not a soul. I won't let them. It's yours."

  She’s looking so deeply into my eyes I'm afraid she is going to see more than I want her to. I release the hug.

  "I have so many questions for you. We can talk later," she says.

  Bags. She has a small suitcase on the small hill. My mouth falls open and I shut my eyes because I know what I have to do.

  "It's okay. Momma said she'll keep the kids for a while at least till we get situated," she says quickly.

  I step backward.

  "You did come back to get me, didn't you?" I say nothing. "Didn't you? You promised." I look at the ground. "What is this? I kept my promise! I said, I'll be here when you go
t out."

  I glance at her finger. The fresh indentation of a wedding ring she must have just taken off.

  "Say something," she says angrily.

  I have to. She's expecting it. I forgot how hard it is to talk to someone who can read your every move. You can't surprise them. I wish I could let her know I would take her hand and pull her into my world for the rest of our lives if my world wasn't filled with murdering maniacs trying to kill me.

  I need her alive even if she isn't in my world and I'm not in hers. Knowing she's out there makes me feel whole. I have to get rid of her now. I saw the bushes move. They're here.

  "I'm engaged," I blurt.

  Explains me not having a ring.

  "Then, why are you here?" She puts her hand on her hip and tilts her head in disbelief. "Why?"

  Saying these words will even hurt me though they are not true.

  "I needed to know I was over you."

  I can't read her. Does she believe? That’s the one thing that will get her to let go. Not out of bitterness or anger. She didn't exactly hibernate, waiting for me. If she knows I'm happy and truly found love, she would let go. That's how we are.

  At the State Fair, I would walk away with the small bear instead of risking going for the big bear. She would push me to try. She's going to push me now. She looks at my hands in my pockets. Dead give-away.

  "Name," she says.

  "You don't need to know. I needed to look you in the eyes."

  I have to make her believe this. I can see her heart pounding. Mine is too. I step closer to her. She can smell the leather of my jacket.

  "And hold you, smell your hair again and see if it still turned my head. I knew that if I could walk away and not feel what I used to, that she's the one. Sorry, Rosie, I can. I'm over you. It was a childhood thing."

  Tears are forming in her eyes and she swallows hard. If I flinch, just a little, she won't believe me, and she'll push for the truth, a truth I can't give her. I have to seal this up. There is movement in the bushes in two places now. I lower my voice to a whisper.

  "I moved on and so have you. Wait for me? You didn't wait for me and it's not my fault you don't love him. Sorry I gave you the wrong impression but, there is no 'us' anymore. Go home to your kids. What kind of mother would leave her kids anyway?"

  I turn my back to her. She pulls my shoulder and turns me facing her. I expected it. She hits hard too. A slap across the face.

  "You're a real bastard, Caleb Promise. A real bastard. This childhood 'thing' was real to me. At least have the guts to face me."

  Through her tears, she sees it. I see her light exhale. She plays. That-a-girl Rosie. Her eyes skip to the right. She caught the movement across the lake too. Funny, she's okay with knowing someone’s after me, as long as I still love her. Come on, Rosie. Keep it going.

  "I never want to see you again!" she screams.

  That one hurt. A right hook. Average girl would have just slapped me. Rosie is no average girl.

  "Here! I kept this stupid Cracker Jack ring all these years."

  She shoves it in my hand but it's not a ring. It's a piece of paper folded with her number in it. I watch her grab her suitcase.

  "I HATE YOU, CALEB PROMISE! I WILL ALWAYS HATE YOU!"

  That's my girl. I can picture those big brown eyes smiling now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Caleb Promise

  I pick up a small rock, an excuse to make sure the tackle box sunk, and skip it across the lake in the direction of Rosie’s hint. I cast my glance across the lake as if watching the rock. There is someone there, behind the brush. They haven't made a move yet which means they are watching. Waiting. Waiting to see if I get the drives or not. I don't know what is in this small plastic bag, it may be valuable, maybe not. I'll find out soon.

  They had me running. The tables have turned. I set the pace. Right now, they know I'm looking. Why else would I be here after two years? They are on my grounds now. Besides, the faster I get it, if I get it, the faster they move in. I don't want to go down that road.

  There is the road to the orphanage. That old stone monastery. The old stone monastery and all its memories come back. I don't want to walk there. I stop and lean on a tree in front of the old church and let my memories roll in.

  I can still hear Wallie's voice crack, we were teenagers and it was still changing. Something in him bloomed late. All of him bloomed late. He was a thirteen year old kid in a sixteen year old body. I was a forty year old in a fifteen year old body on a sweltering summer day. A perfect match.

  “Come-on, Caleb! Quick before he comes back," says Wallie, pushing his sleeves up, squatting and opening his hands for a catch.

  "I got work to do, man," I reply.

  "Just once, right here, wha'cha got?"

  "More than you."

  Like clockwork, a monk steps out from behind a tree with his hands held behind his back just as the pomegranate hits Wally in the chest and splatters its blood red juice on his tunic. A miracle, all we got was a disapproving glance. The monk turns around pretending he didn't see what happened. Wallie couldn't resist. We both just stood there surprised.

  "Whew, that could've gotten you a week of kitchen duty. God bless brother Long." Bowing with hands clasped.

  I couldn't help but smile at that.

  "Wouldn't be the first time you got us in trouble," I say.

  "Stop whining, have to live a little, Caleb. We won't be in here forever. They won't rule us for long. One year," Wallie says.

  "One for you, two for me."

  "Know where you’re going?"

  "Not a clue. Far, I hope. I know where your going-"

  "-don't say it."

  "You know I'm gonna say it, a big mansion somewhere in Switzerland and you'll have servants waiting on you hand and foot saying, 'Would you like to play catch Sir Wallie Walford? Would you like me to shave your peach fuzz from your chin Sir Wallie Walford?"

  "Yeah, right," Wallie laughs.

  "You'll go all soft and squishy-like, and you'll forget all about this place... and..."

  I stop myself.

  "Not everything."

  Wallie kicks the summer dirt with his sneaker. He likes doing that for some strange reason.

  "Hey, how come don't you talk to anyone else? You know they all think you’re some kind of psychopath waiting to blow. I, on the other hand disagree. I don't think you’re a psycho ready to blow. I know it."

  "How'd you end up being called Wallie, anyway? Your name is David."

  Two more pomegranate crates to go.

  "Long story. I'll tell you when we get out-a here."

  "Wal, you don't have to make promises to me. I get it, things are set up for you and that’s good. You leave here and don't look back. There's nothing worth remembering here. You got it."

  I hate these tunic pants, they have no pockets.

  "Stop trying to 'big brother' me," says Wallie.

  "Say it, 'I won't look back'."

  "Not saying it."

  "Say it." I push.

  "I've got you by a year, remember that. My mom died giving birth to me, I watched my father suffer to death. I have a lot I want to forget, but here is not one of them. I'll find you-"

  "-no. I don't need promises. Let’s just play it by ear as always, okay?"

  One of the few days I truly want to remember. Leaning on this tree, it happened. Like finally remembering where you put your car keys. I know the exact moment it overtook me. Wallie's black polished limousine crunching the gravel beneath the new tires pulling away from me was the moment my grief transformed into anger. I didn't plan it. It just happened.

  It keeps people away that I don't want to talk to but its benefit was also its curse. It brings wretched loneliness.

  Wallie’s corny jokes, dreams of starting the biggest tech company in the world. kept me human. They brought light to my darkness. I didn't have any dreams then. They stopped when my folks died.

  Wallie had a passion for Pop-tarts. Brought
in by his guardian, made great trading chips for chores and even homework.

  The day I buried my parents, Wallie was the only one I let near me. I can still smell the smoke. There we stood under the stars on our hands and knees in our underwear digging a pit in with bare hands. We clawed at the ground, teeth gritted, tears and snot pouring from our faces, fingers curled like animal claws we grated away the grass, dirt and tossed the stones.

  It was coming out. Pouring out of us like rain. The sorrow, pain and anger of losing the center of our lives. We cried and dug until we collapsed on the ground, lying on our backs staring at the stars in the dark sky above us.

  Then we tossed in sticks, leaves and used brother Long’s lighter to start the fire. We tossed in our funeral suits and vowed those were the last funerals we would ever attend.