“When?” It was all Ebenezer could think to say.
“Today…sometime today. My mother called, told me. Don’t remember much…running I think. My knee…don’t remember…killing me…” he mumbled on until the sound descended to a point beyond Ebenezer. The old man looked down at the nasty wound and began undoing Billy’s belt buckle. The pants would have to go if he was to make an honest attempt at the wound. Billy made no movement to stop him as Ebenezer slid the ruined pants carefully away. One tight spot took his pocket knife. Billy’s eyes were closed but his lips moved in a silent litany as Ebenezer hurried to the bathroom, picking through the medicine chest for hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and bandages, thanking God that his own wounds had necessitated him having such supplies on hand. He usually would not. As he gathered the medicines he wondered how on earth Billy had managed to get anywhere with a knee like that.
On the way back Ebenezer happened to glance at the clock hanging on the wall in the kitchen, the luminous dial barely visible in the weak light from the stove ventilator. 4:47 a.m.. Christ, how long had he been wandering around in this condition? It was a miracle he was still alive.
By the time he got to the recliner it was obvious Billy was fitfully asleep. His mouth hung open and slack, but his breathing had steadied. Still, the boy’s eyes twitched and started behind the lids. Ebenezer swabbed some peroxide onto a cotton ball and began cleaning the wound, not overly surprised that his patient did not come to his feet in a frenzy. He hadn’t figured Billy would.
In fact, during the entire time of the cleaning Billy never flinched once. His energy had simply trailed out, leaving his mind and body empty when it shut down. Ebenezer didn’t try to move the boy when finished, hoping and only minutely satisfied he’d done all he could (save a trip to the hospital) to keep any infection at bay.
Then he went and pulled a blanket off his rumpled bed. He dug an afghan out of the corner by the French doors and chest, and covered Billy to the neck with it. Finally he eased himself down on the couch on top of the blanket. He covered himself with a thin sheet, wrapping it around his legs, as he worked himself into a comfortable sitting position.
He watched the boy all night, tired and distraught himself, but refusing to give over to the oblivion of sleep, half in fear of the dreams that would surely follow.
Chapter 67
The rocking chair squeaked every time Nora shifted her weight. It was late and she’d been glued to the chair for hours in the same pose: elbows stiff at the armrests, her head cradled in her hands as the tension in her body fueled the almost imperceptible motion of the rocking chair.
It had been Elizabeth in the morgue. The result of the tiny infant she’d borne of her womb, not a grown and lifeless stranger upon the cold steel table. Her child now gone to whatever fate awaited her. And looking at the lifeless body Nora hadn’t been able not to feel that what had been substantial about her daughter was not trapped behind those cold, parted lips. That had given her faint solace. Nothing she’d dreamed or imagined had prepared her for the final act; it was altogether crushing, so deeply disastrous as to be nigh insurmountable.
Elizabeth was gone, her shell lay covered by a thin sheet.
Nora had wanted to touch her face but a terror within her body had forbade it. To touch the body would have been to recognize Elizabeth’s presence there when she wanted so badly to believe the girl was gone. She could not disgrace her daughter’s memory so.
And perhaps the men there had thought her insane, this mother incapable of tears though her own flesh and blood lay cold on the slab? She thought of this now because it had rolled around the perimeter of her mind for hours; every second, every agonizing memory had spoken its piece as the isolation and mourning grew.
There was no confirmation yet, but the doctor (eyes down-cast, unwilling to meet her eyes as his voice had droned on nasally) suspected a drug overdose. In the long hours since, this question had vexed her because if so, what then? Surely, Elizabeth would not…
The empty Valium bottle had been found near her body, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. A sob hitched in Nora’s chest. Surely Elizabeth would never do such a thing? Such an abomination. The thought made her dizzy, feeble.
She had never been able to put herself in Elizabeth’s shoes. No one could and this was no crime, surely…. Maybe her own unease had made her flee the house more frequently, leaving Elizabeth alone to wrestle with the demons that came. But (Nora protested bitterly against this possibility) it could not be so. Her intentions had been only to save her daughter through the intercession of the Lord. It had not been avoidance, just an attempt (she still tried to convince herself), a vain attempt to save her flesh and blood.
There, it was in the open, finally voiced, finally torn free of its thin cover. But the Pandora’s Box was so wide with her new acquiescence. Had she gone against His will, deserting her child in the time of greatest need? Was she actually as weak as she felt at this very moment? At last the true questions were free and apparent.
She rocked on.
But one question remained. Had Elizabeth committed suicide?
Had she been capable of such a thing? How could she have even considered after her Catholic upbringing with its promise of vile retribution for those cheating their true destinies? Nora’s hands trembled mightily as she contemplated these things. Her darling daughter, gone now for all time. What would she do? What could she feel safe believing if this plague of suicide was affirmed?
She’d tried Billy again, earlier in the evening, but (not surprisingly) there had been no answer. He had raced away, trying to beat this thing, leaving Nora with the knowledge that she could no more help her son in his time of need than she had been able to help her daughter.
Where had he gone? What was he capable of doing? Her mind screamed calamity. Her tears would no longer come and the handkerchief lay crumpled and stained, dried in her hand. Still, through the long night (the longest of her life), she sat and rocked and thought, trying to find solace in prayers that went around and around on themselves like a dog chasing its tail.
Chapter 68
The next morning Billy awoke to flaming agony. The knee was a raw wound so big it seemed to suck energy from the room itself. It was afire and unquenchable, though not surprising; damnation was prophesied to be hot. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to get home. He wanted solitude when the break came. “Where are my pants?” he asked, his voice soaked in exhaustion. His throat was parched, his lips flayed.
Silently, Ebenezer rolled off the couch and started to his bedroom, waiting until the doorjamb to call over his shoulder because he knew Billy wanted privacy. The boy’s look was unmistakable; Ebenezer had seen it many times reflected back from his own bathroom mirror. “I had ta throw ‘em out, Billy. They was ripped all ta hell, but I b'lieve I got a pair ‘at’ll fit ya. Might be a little short but they’ll get ya home.” He returned several minutes later with a threadbare pair of jeans, the ends bell-bottomed and frayed as if they’d been lifted from a Flower Power van. Billy didn’t even take the time to scrutinize them. He simply slid them on carefully, grimacing as he threaded his bad leg through, but not crying out. Meanwhile, Ebenezer had gone to the closet in the hallway and extracted an old pair of Walgreen’s crutches. The tips were gone but they’d serve. Ebenezer offered them wordlessly to Billy, still fiddling with the zipper of the jeans. His eyes were on the floor.
“Thanks, Ebenezer,” he finally whispered. Despair was thick but Ebenezer knew its course would have to run. There would be no succor in words, there never was. Sometimes the path was long and arduous, the lessons painful, but such lessons required studied attention. It was unavoidable. “I hope I didn’t scare you last—“
“Don’t even start that,” Ebenezer said firmly. “Friens are for helpin; this world’d be even more fucked up if not. Ya needed me, ya came. Simple.”
“Thanks, Eb.” Billy looked at Ebenezer and squared his jaw. The old man nodded and said nothin
g. When Billy looked back at the floor he said, “I think I’ll need a ride home. No way I’m gonna be able to walk it.”
“No problem, boy. I’ll give Mike a ring at City Cab and someone’ll be over within the hour.” Grave concern clouded Ebenezer’s falsely optimistic tone. “Ya’re sure ya’re all right, son? I can go with ya if ya like…” although in his soul he already knew the answer.
Billy knotted his lip and shook his head. “No, Eb. Thanks anyway…I don’t need company.” A tear fell from his eye as he twisted his head away. Ebenezer walked to the phone and stood in the kitchen doorway until he was sure Billy had finished wiping his eyes. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he heard the boy say, so low Ebenezer dared not make a comment.
After he hung up with City Cab he walked back into the living room. “Sorry, son. I never met her, but I know if she was anythin like ya’ve said, and anythin like you, she musta been a helluva gal. ‘Sa goddamn sad day when someone like her goes, boy. Seems the earth itself should scream…” Ebenezer’s lip trembled and it was his turn to look away. But only for a second. “C’mon,” he said, turning back. “Let’s get ya ta the bottom a these goddamn stairs ‘fore the cab gets here.”
It was a long and painful descent. The chords in Billy’s neck stood out as Ebenezer supported what weight he could safely manage, but it still took a major toll on Billy. Ebenezer grunted and puffed but never said a word. When they reached the bottom Ebenezer picked through the pocket of his jacket, withdrew a small clutch of bills which he placed in Billy’s hand. “Be careful wit these,” was all he said. Then they shuffled slowly through the gated entrance (closed once more either by the wind or another resident) as the sweat collected on Billy’s lip and forehead. Ebenezer pulled a chair from the table on the patio and brought it out to the curb so Billy could sit until the cab arrived.
When it did the driver waved (a cigarette perched at a crooked angle in his sloppy mouth) but made no move to help. Ebenezer grabbed Billy under the armpits and got him to his feet. By this time the cabby’d finally managed the energy to open the back door. Billy pushed the crutches in first and paused at the curb. “Thanks for patching me up, Eb. I must’ve scared the shit out of you, banging on the door like that in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that, I tole ya.”
Billy bent to squeeze inside, but before he did he posed one more thing to Ebenezer. “Hey,” he said, turning his face so he could look directly into the old man’s eyes. “How’d you know it was me that first time at the door? You saw me coming up the street?” He pulled his leg into the cab with strain gripping his face and waited for the answer.
“No, I didn’t see ya comin, Billy.” Ebenezer stopped before closing the door “Ya’re the only one it coulda been. Ain’t nobody else comes ‘round.”
The old man pushed the door shut with a click. As the cab pulled away from the
Chapter 69
Billy lay on his bed with his leg propped on a pillow, thinking. He’d finally called his mother and she was devastated but holding up. Her voice had been as hollow as a tin drum when she told him what the coroner’s office had concluded. They’d said Elizabeth committed suicide. Nora would not believe this. Someone must have forced her, Nora argued over the phone, though her tone told a different truth. She begged it off as a murder the New Orleans’ police were letting go uninvestigated. Billy had said nothing. Nothing about his injury; there would be no good come of it.
He’d cut her off in the end, finally, simply, stating he needed to be alone. He needed to think. He would come by later, he vaguely promised, but now he needed no company. Elizabeth’s memories were around him like a cloak, and Nora had made no attempt to change his mind; she simply let it go. The woman was finally vanquished, but there was no victory for Billy.
The mail had arrived no more than thirty minutes later, while he was still sunk in the new-found knowledge his mother had provided. If it had not been for the day he’d lent a hand to the mail lady (she’d spilled her bag and he’d helped her collect it) he would not have read the note that day. His knee was simply not up to the walk, even though the wall of postal boxes was just down one flight of stairs.
There was only one thing: a single envelope with the word URGENT scrawled across it in bold letters. She’d handed it to him, explaining she was ahead of schedule and thought maybe he’d need to see this as soon as possible. Billy thanked her for the extra effort (ignoring a suggestion in the offering) and steered off course with a counter-offer of cold water (which she’d gladly accepted). When she left he’d sat staring at the letter, not actually having the nerve to pick it up from the foyer table where he’d left it.
It was very clearly in Elizabeth’s hand, the postmark a date Billy would never forget. And as he knew he must, he finally tore open the envelope and pulled out the pages within. They were obviously torn from her book, the journal she’d mentioned. His hands shook and he could almost hear her clear, proud voice as he began reading.
Dear Billy,
I’m sure you’ve heard what I’ve done and I know you’re upset. I wish there was something I could write that would change the way you feel, but I can’t. I’ll just have to tell you why I did what I did and let it go at that. I’m tired of having the dreams weakened, Billy. The things we talked about that day, everything is starting to fade and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I just can’t allow it to go any further. Please call Thomas (his number’s on the inside of the envelope) and tell him I loved him. You, just please know I’m better. I know Mother won’t understand. I can’t help that.
I had the most beautiful dream last night. I can’t let it go. Maybe it was some kind of sign. I want it to be at least. Maybe what I tell you will help, I don’t know.
I dreamed I was standing out front of Grandmother’s house again. Such an incredible day. A quiet, gentle breeze ruffled through the grass. There was the stoop with those three quaint little steps up to the porch. The first one was cracked in the middle, don’t you remember? Grass was growing in the middle of the gravel drive between the tire ruts and the carport sagged a little, just like it always did. The house was still distinguished, just old, still achingly beautiful to me.
I walked down the drive, trying to peer into the empty, darkened windows, feeling the tears roll down my cheeks even though I really didn’t feel sad. If anything, I felt tired. Just like now.
I wanted to go inside but something kept telling me Grandma had gone, that there was no need. The house had been vacuumed of her essence. It was all in the ones who remembered her now, somehow I remember that. And standing there these memories flew all around me. When I breathed in deeply I could smell her perfume. I thought I caught a whiff of it this morning when I woke up.
There was also something else. I turned and walked a few paces back, just enough to see around the corner of the house, where the large oak in the front yard used to stand. I’d missed it somehow, but now there it was, just like when we were kids, blooms bursting out of every crook and crease, the dark leaves folding and stretching for all they were worth to soak in the sunshine. The trunk seemed to throb with a hidden life.
The same tree that’s been dead for years, Billy. The last time I drove by Grandma’s house it had been cut, the rest rotting away, a fifteen-foot stump with enormous molds and fungus sprouting out all over. There were places where the bark had sloughed off showing traces of worm-tunnels…
But not now.
Now it was back to its glory. A beacon of coolness and shade. Billy, it was beautiful.
I turned around and walked back to the fence. The garage apartments were still there, but their shriveled and cracked surfaces had been covered with fresh paint. I remembered how we used to sneak into the monstrous first story garage, scavenging through piles of antiques and junk, searching for the alley cats forever being born there. A pure moment, one that never leaves or changes. A lasting moment. But even as I stood just outside the doorway I didn’t want to enter because I di
dn’t want the memory to end.
Do you remember the snowman we built that Christmas? There’s a picture in one of Mother’s books of us holding an icicle taller than both of us put together! Or how about that boy in the neighbor’s back yard? The one who kept on eating spoonful after spoonful of dirt? We watched him from behind the bush until his mother came out and started yelling at him. You do remember Billy. Now that I’ve said it you must. It’s part of who we are. The dream made all those things real again.
Then I heard Grandma’s voice. She said something and I turned around, seeing her immediately in that faded, print dress she always wore. She told me life had made me a beautiful woman and she was proud of me. I started crying and told her I hurt, that I was getting so tired, but she told me not to fear. There’s no need, she said. I asked her if this was the end and she smiled (Oh! It was just the same as I remembered!) and said it was only a beginning. One of many. Then I took her hand and we walked to the dirt road running along the back fence.
Billy, it was so real I’m crying now. She said it would only be a little while longer, to have patience, but I can’t. I have to go. I believe now, and I have the strength. The dream was like a great, gentle whispering and I cannot let it go. Remember Billy, I love you forever, and I hope that Mother will understand some day.
Elizabeth
Billy finished the last word and put the page down on his stomach. His lips began trembling uncontrollably and tears burst in a stream from his eyes. When the sobs started he curled into a ball, alone in a deep wrap of grief and anguish, but thankfully comforted in the heart-wrenching fold of his sister’s dying epistle.
Chapter 70
The funeral was held at Odd Fellow’s Rest on Esplanade down the street from Delgado College. The normally busy boulevard was unusually bereft of traffic, partly because of the weekend and partly from the inclement weather. It was very cold; the wind racing off the river like a knife through the trees and people alike. The coming afternoon promised rain and a further drop in the mercury. To a Northern it was simply another day; to a Southern it was hell.
Not Far From Golgotha Page 25
