 |
|
He was burning on a funeral pyre in her mind. The flames rising so high, she couldn’t tell the difference between smoke and sky. His body slowly turning from white to black and when she opened her mouth to scream, nothing came out but a hoarse death rattle. There was something hard biting into her cheek. Blade of steel? His broken bones? The sharpened teeth of her darkest voice? She opened her eyes, dry and itchy from too many tears and restless nights. She had fallen asleep with her head propped on the windowsill. She staggered over to the bathroom and almost screamed when she saw herself in the vanity mirror. There was an angry red imprint across her cheek, where the wood of the sill had bitten into the tender flesh. But more worrying than the whiteness of her face and the almost manic brightness of her eyes, were her increasingly cryptic dreams. This one had made no sense at all. It wasn’t a memory. She was afraid. Afraid that like Cassandra, she was the one who would remain while everything around her burned and collapsed seething in hatred and death. Outside, the morning was bright and hot and full. The sun edging into the bathroom through the white poplin curtains. It was Sunday. Holy day. She washed her face carefully and brushed her hair. She would go to church today. She had not been inside a place of worship since she left. Even her marriage to Riley had taken place in City Hall with no pomp or circumstance. She had not even worn white. Perhaps, it had been her fault. She had doomed their marriage from the beginning. Refusing to do any of the traditional things. Her deepest, darkest voice whispering that any union that was not to him could never be anything but a sham. And a church wedding would have been like cutting off her nose to spite her face. Because God had died when a bullet was put through his head. But she would go to church today and show Him that she had survived despite His best efforts. That they had survived. That she would fight. She put on her white shirtwaist dress like a suit of armor. The subtle application of makeup her war paint. She left her hair down so it would flutter behind her in the summer breeze like a battleflag. She walked out of the house and got into the Buick. Even though she had not been to church in almost two decades, she still remembered the path. When she pulled in front of the white clapboard church, she shivered with sense-recognition. Even the air felt different here. More rarified, thinner and higher. She had always had this same creeping sensation along the back of her neck whenever she would be dragged here by her mother Sunday mornings, legs itching like crazy in those wretched stockings, sweat already seeping through her heavily starched Sunday church dress. Walking in to see the huge wooden statue of Jesus nailed to the cross on the wall over the pulpit. Walking in to see him turning around in his navy church suit, his silvery hair wet and slicked back, rolling his eyes at her in shared apathy. She slid into the row her and her mother used to always sit in. Ignored the whispers and stares. She took out a battered, dog-eared Bible from underneath her seat. And jumped in surprise when the shiny, dark head sitting in front of her swung around. “Heya, B. Long time no see.” “F-Faith?” Faith sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. Spoke loudly despite being in church and having all the old biddies glaring at her choice of red skirt and low-cut black top. “No, Richard Nixon. Of course, it’s me. What’s shaking?” She leaned forward and whispered into Faith’s ear. People around them were starting to cough and shoot them pointed looks. “Not much. How have you been?” “Same as ever. How long are you back for?” “I…I don’t know.” “Huh. So have you seen him?” She dropped her Bible. The shushing rose to a buzzing hum. “What?” “Have you seen the guy?” “N-no.” Faith grinned; her teeth a white crooked slash against the painted crimson of her mouth. “Riiiiiight. Sure you haven’t.” Faith pinched her playfully on the arm and she couldn’t help but laugh. After Faith had started going steady with Xander in high school, they’d hung out quite a bit. Chatting in the girls’ bathroom between classes while Faith smoked cigarettes and she fussed with her stockings. Going over to Wilkins’ Drug Store on weekend afternoons when Will was busy with Dru, to look at fashion or idol magazines and giggle at Faith’s endless stories of Xander’s ‘hidden talents.’ “Faith…I don’t want to pry, but what are you doing in church?” In all the years her mother had been dragging her to St. Vigious for Sunday services, she’d never once seen Faith there. Whenever she’d asked her mother about it, she’d always mutter something about Mr. Wilkins not having any respect for the Lord. She’d asked Will once too and he just looked at her and rolled his eyes. For Chrissakes, Summers. Did you misplace your brain somewhere? She’s Jewish. Don’t tell anyone. Faith snickered and pointed at the preacher coming out to stand behind his pulpit. Well, some things had changed. Father Lorne had apparently decided to hand over his duties to a new man. “Gorgeous, isn’t he? He’s new in town. Name’s Father Lindsey.” “Faith! He’s a man of God.” Faith fanned herself and she suspected it was not from the heat. “Those are the best kind. Whoo, check out those lips. Take me now.” She muffled her laughter behind her hand. Old Mrs. Rosenberg turned to glare at her with her squinty pug eyes. Good heavens, was that old witch not dead yet? Faith was continuing to sing the praises of the new preacher even as he started to intone the requisite sermon of hellfire and damnation, his eyes lit with the unquenchable flame of the self-righteous. “It’s no good Faith. The only person he wants to embrace is Jesus.” Faith shrugged and sighed. “Oh, well. He’s good to look at, at least. A girl’s got to find her fun where she can.” She hesitated, not wanting to push too hard. Oh, what the hell. Turnabout was fair play. “Faith? What about Xander?” Faith’s face went smooth and inscrutable, her eyes growing calm and cold. Nothing hinted at any inner turmoil except for the barest twitch of her full, red lips. “Xander Harris is a pigheaded moron of the highest order.” “Oh.” Faith turned her head away and sniffed as if she smelled a bad odor. It probably had not been her best idea ever to bring up Xander. Faith was being very silent. Finally, as Father Lindsey raised his hands in the air, palms-up, calling on God to forgive them all for their sins, Faith turned back around and looked at her with dull eyes. “I don’t come here every Sunday morning to hear I’m going to burn in hell. Or to gawk at preacher man. I keep thinking one of these days…he’ll come. And I’ll be able to look at him all I want for a while.” She looked around the church. Xander was not to be found. She turned back to Faith and put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Faith. I’m sorry.” Faith smiled calmly and she was struck dumb by her utter beauty. Not even the Virgin Mary had such a gentle smile. “I know. Me too.” They were quiet for the rest of the service. Afterwards, she walked out with Faith’s arm tucked in her own. Faith whistled when she saw the Buick. “Wow, B. Driving your father’s car now too, huh?” “You bet. Are you going back to the store? Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.” She laughed as she watched Faith hike up her skirt to the shocked gasps of some of the old biddies, and climb into the Buick without opening the door. Faith turned to her and grinned slyly. “You did say ‘hop’ in.” She laughed and turned the car radio on. The oldies station was playing The Chiffons as they drove towards Main Street. One fine day
The top was down. The wind was blowing through their hair. And Faith was singing brokenly along at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t stop laughing. When she finally parked in front of Wilkins’ Drug Store and got out, Faith jumped out and twirled her around in a hard hug, making her eyes roll with dizziness. “Goodness, Faith.” “That was fun, B! Let’s do it again sometime.” “Sure, anytime. How about lunch next week?” “Sounds great. You know where to find me.” Faith turned to stare at the window of Harris’ Auto Garage and she followed her gaze. Xander was at the counter looking out at them. He ducked behind it when he saw them looking back. Faith sighed and flipped him the middle finger. “Pigheaded moron. Well, see ya B. Oh wait!” Faith flew into the store and came back out, waving four packs of Lucky Strikes. Faith pressed them into her hands and laughed. “Give these to Will. And tell that horse’s ass it’s about damn time.” She looked up at Faith, mystified. They hugged one more time and she watched as Faith sauntered back into the store. She put the cigarettes in her purse and turned resolutely to cross the street to the Garage. It was time to have a little talk with Xander. The old brass bell over the door jangled when she opened it. “Go away! We’re not open today. Can’t you read the sign?” A muffled voice came from down behind the counter. She marched over to the counter and leaned over to stare down at Xander crouching on the ground. “Peekaboo.” “Gah! Geez, Buffy. Give a guy some heads up, okay?” “What are you doing down there on the ground, Xander?” He got up slowly and shifted from foot to foot. “Stuff. Important mechanic’s stuff that you couldn’t possibly understand.” She snorted. “Right. This important stuff couldn’t happen to be avoiding Faith?” He looked wildly around. “What? Who? Wilkins? Where?” She sighed and shook her head. “Relax Xander. She’s not here.” Xander slumped at the counter and took a large swig of his coffee. She raised her brows. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Buffy. It’s just straight coffee. Not a drop of brandy or bourbon or whisky added. Here, have a sip.” She took a careful sip, wrinkling her nose. He was right, it was just coffee. Evil coffee. “Ew, Xander. That is the worst coffee I’ve ever had the misfortune of tasting.” He grinned and she noticed how he had lost the slight pouchiness on his face and the whites of his eyes were clear and free of red, the deep brown of his irises twinkling. He was also much thinner and fitter than he had been before. He looked healthy and vibrant. “You look good, Buffy. I like the shorter hair. Welcome back.” She smiled in pleasure. Out of all the boys, Xander had always liked her least. He always used to complain when she would tag along with them to the baseball field and the pond. And later, he viewed her with suspicion when she’d started going with Angel. He had always been a loyal friend. Until everything changed that winter night. “Thanks Xander. You look really great.” He winked and puffed out his broad chest with pride. “I’ve been dry for five years.” “That’s terrific! Congratulations.” “Thanks. It wasn’t easy but one day I looked into the mirror and saw my old man. It scared the bejesus out of me.” She patted him on the arm. “I understand. We missed you at church this morning.” “I don’t go anymore. But I’m really sorry about your mother. I was at the funeral.” She stared at him in surprise. “You were?” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Um, yeah. I was going to go up and talk to you afterwards but then I, ah…saw Wilkins and I had to leave.” “Faith was there too?” Now it was Xander’s turn to look surprised. “Didn’t she talk to you at the funeral?” “No. She never mentioned it.” She looked at him hard. “Maybe she saw you as well and had to leave. Did you ever think about that Xander?” He turned his head away from her penetrating stare. “You don’t understand, Buffy. It’s too late. It’s been too long. I can’t go back.” She sighed. “No one is saying you should. But don’t you think you need to move forward?” Xander rubbed his forehead distractedly. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” She huffed. “How hard can it be? She’s right there across the street. Stop being such a yellow-livered coward, Alexander Lavelle Harris.” He cringed at the sound of his middle name and made a motion with his hand to shush her. “Not so loud! I don’t want anyone else to know.” She bit her lip and tried to refrain from laughing. Everyone knew Xander’s middle name. He just didn’t know they did. “Alright, Xander.” He cuffed her lightly on the arm. “So, how’s the glamorous life of a big city high school History teacher?” She laughed ruefully. “Not so glamorous. But the kids are wonderful and I really enjoy my job. What about you?” He shrugged. “It’s not what I thought my life would be like but this place is mine, you know? And I’m okay with that.” She nodded. “How’s your mother doing?” “Not so good. But I got her a day nurse, so I can run the store down here. She’s upstairs sleeping right now.” She looked at him sharply. “A day nurse? Who is it?” His face tightened and he couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “Mrs. James. She comes here for a few hours Tuesday through Saturday to take care of mother. She also has other patients. Like old Mrs. Rosenberg.” She grabbed his arm tightly. “Xander, have you seen him at all?” He shook his head. “No. He never sees anyone. In the beginning, when he first got back from that home, I used to see him with her in the car sometimes when she would drop off something at the post office or return books to the library. But he never came out of the car. He was just a blur behind the glass. After a little while, I never saw him at all.” “Why? Why didn’t you ever try to visit him? You were one of his best friends.” He wrenched his arm from her grasp and glared at her defensively. “Did you ever think that he didn’t want to be seen? He didn’t want visitors and frankly, no one wanted to see him either.” She reeled back with the force of his words. It was like a slap. “What do you mean?” "Think about it, Buffy. We’re not kids anymore. No one wants to see him. No one wants to be reminded that this town isn’t special. That it’s just as dangerous here as it is in any big city. No one wants to face the truth.” “What truth?” He stared at her, his eyes flat and hard and knowing. She shivered when he spoke again. That tone…it was the same one he had used when he’d revealed them all that one bitterly cold night so many years ago. “That darkness is everywhere. That evil lives and breathes beneath every man, woman, and child. I don’t need to go to church to know that.” She was petrified by his insight. Remembered something Jonathan had said. “Hatred never dies.” Xander looked over at her swiftly, their eyes fixed on each other. “Yes.” There seemed to be nothing more that needed to be said. She squeezed Xander’s hand one more time. “Don’t be a stranger, Xander. Can we have lunch sometime soon?” He smiled softly. “Of course. Call me anytime. I’ll be here.” She walked to the door and turned to wave goodbye. Froze when she saw the picture tacked up on the corkboard beside his head. She had not noticed it before. He had been standing in front of it while they were talking. It was a picture of him and Will from when they were kids. He was clutching a BB gun in his small hands and grinning into the camera. Will was standing off to the side, his face turned away from the camera. She grabbed onto the door handle to keep from collapsing. Horrible visions flashed in her fevered mind. Xander holding a gun…then his form melting into fog. Will lying on the stretcher, his face bloody. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. What was real? What was her own tortured mind playing tricks on her? “Buffy? Are you okay?” She looked up to see Xander peering at her with concern from behind the counter. Mustered up a smile. “I’m fine. See you soon.” He smiled back, his teeth so white and straight in the sunlight coming in through the window, her eyes were momentarily dazed. “See you soon, Buffy.” She walked out quickly on watery legs. Got in the Buick and drove directly to Mr. Giles house. It was only three o’clock. She was much too early for dinner. She didn’t think she would ever be able to keep down food again. Ran up his front porch and pounded on the door hard, her hand shaking on the brass lion’s head knocker. Finally, the blue door creaked open and a dark wary face peered out. “Yes?” “I-I’m looking for Mr. Giles. Can you tell him Buffy Summers is here to see him? I was supposed to come for dinner, I know I’m early but I have to talk with him.” It must have been her frantic and wild appearance but the door swung open and the woman ushered her in. “Please follow me. He’s in his study. He mentioned you would be by later tonight.” The thin African-American woman led her through the living room and down a narrow hallway. She got an impression of old Queen Anne antiques and threadbare but still obviously valuable oriental rugs. She caught a glimpse of herself in the intricately carved mirror in the hallway and was shocked at her disheveled hair and large, dark pupils. The woman must have thought she was on drugs. She smoothed her hair down with a trembling hand and clutched her purse tightly to anchor herself. The woman stopped in front of a heavy oak door and knocked lightly. “Yes?” “Mr. Giles? Miss Buffy Summers is here to see you.” She almost crumpled into his arms with relief when his thin, stooped form appeared in the doorway. “Why, Buffy? What…what’s the matter, dear? Goodness, come in, come in. Here, sit down. You looked as though you might faint.” He helped her sit down on the loveseat in his study and held her hand while she gasped for air. He looked up at the woman standing silently in the doorway. “Ms. Wood, could you please fetch us some brandy?” The woman nodded and walked out. She turned to him after her breathing steadied. “Was that…was that your wife?” He chuckled and shook his head. “No. She’s my housekeeper. I’ve never married.” “Oh.” He leaned over and peered at her face. “Buffy, you look quite unwell. What’s the matter?” She couldn’t tell him. She didn’t even know what there was to tell. All she saw was an old picture. It meant nothing. She had not slept well or eaten regularly in days. She was starting to become unraveled. Memories crowding in on her, suffocating her. Her fears, her love for him. All making her insensible. “Mr. Giles…you worked on Warren Meers’ case, right? You were the prosecuting attorney at the time, weren’t you?” He sighed. “That was a very long time ago.” “Please, please tell me. I have to know. Did Warren do it?” “Buffy, Warren Meers is dead. The case died with him.” Mr. Giles’ housekeeper reentered with a tray of sandwiches, a decanter full of golden liquid, and two tiny glasses. “Thank you, Ms. Wood.” Ms. Wood nodded and left again. Mr. Giles placed a thin cucumber sandwich in her hands and poured a bit of the brandy into both glasses, handing her one. She drank it in one gulp and gasped when she felt like a trail of fire was traveling down her throat. He patted her softly on the back as she choked and sputtered. “Easy, easy. I can see you don’t drink much.” “N-never.” “Go on and eat your sandwich. It’s very good.” She took a tiny bite and tried to relax. “Mr. Giles?” He drank his glass of brandy before he answered her. “Warren Meers was a singularly unpleasant young man. He’d had many run-ins with the police, especially with Chief James. The Chief had caught him speeding and committing acts of vandalism numerous times, but because he had gone to high school with Warren’s mother, he let the boy off easy. That had been a mistake. Young men like Warren Meers are not deterred by warnings. Leniency only pushes them to further acts of transgression. The absolute breaking point was when Warren manipulated the Chief’s own son to commit an act of vandalism on the police cars. I believe you remember that incident.” “Yes. Will got belted good for that one.” “Hmm, well yes. That was probably the proper thing. What you don’t know is that Warren was jailed for a short time afterwards. It was hushed up for his poor mother’s sake but it is believed that was the final seed of Warren’s hatred for the Chief and for his son.” Oh, she remembered. That one day the summer after junior year, she had been playing ball with Will and the guys. Warren and his goons had slunk into the stands to mock him. Hey, James! Hey, I’m talking to you, you pussy. Look at the fucking fairy, playing with a girl! Will had rushed the stands and gotten into a tussle with Warren, leaving her and Angel and Xander standing on the field, mouths open in shock. Will had busted Warren’s lip and given him two black eyes before Angel and Xander had pulled him off. Andrew and Jonathan had run off the moment they saw the deadly blackness in Will’s normally calm eyes. “Buffy, Warren Meers was a no-good hoodlum. He was trouble as a boy and he would have been utterly dangerous as a man if he had lived long enough. God forgive me for saying this, but when he drove his car into that tree and killed himself, he saved the world a great deal of grief.” She gasped and looked at Mr. Giles, who seemed to be avoiding her eyes. “What are you not telling me?” Mr. Giles got up and fingered a delicate cut-glass paperweight on his desk. “What is the point of dredging up the past? How will it help anyone?” She clutched the sides of the chair and stared at him imploringly. “Please, tell me. Tell me everything you know. I know you’re not supposed to but I’m begging you.” “I don’t know much, Buffy. But at the time, Dr. Travers was very disturbed by what he found.” “What?” “Are you sure you want to know this?” “YES.” “Dr. Travers told me later in the hospital when William was recovering, that both he and the Chief had been shot at nearly point-blank range. The angle of trajectory indicated that…it had been done by someone who was right-handed.” Oh, God. In her mind’s eye she could see Warren Meers sucking on a cigarette while leaning against the hood of his car in the school parking lot. Holding the cigarette and flicking off the ash with his left hand. Her voice was so shaky; she thought it would fail her entirely. “Warren Meers was left-handed.” Mr. Giles sighed and fell into his armchair. “Yes, he was. It was the only thing that did not fit. Dr. Travers and I tried to reenact what we thought had happened. It would have been very difficult for a left-handed person to shoot two people in the head at near point-blank range at that trajectory. Dr. Travers said it would have been pretty much impossible. It was hard for me to accept. That I was prosecuting the wrong person. He had everything. Motive: he hated the Chief and his son. Opportunity: no one back then locked their doors when they were home. Especially during the summer. Means: he could have gotten his hand on a gun fairly easily. And he had no alibi. When the police questioned him, he refused to tell them where he was around the time of the murder.” “But you knew! You knew he couldn’t have done it and yet you continued? Why? How could you?” He clenched his hands and she could see his knuckles growing white. His hands were now lined and wrinkled with brown age spots. Slightly shaking with palsy. “I wish I could explain it to you. Sometimes I lie awake at night, thinking about how I helped drive an innocent young man to suicide. But at the time, I firmly believed…I still do believe that Warren Meers was a menace to this town. To society. And I had to protect this town. Do you know what something like that can do to a small town? How an unsolved homicide and attempted homicide can rip the very fabric of everything we hold sacred here? You’ve been away for so long. You’ve forgotten. All you know is your big-city ways. I was a city boy, you know. I grew up in Boston and I chose to come here because there was still an innocence, a freshness, a gentler way to this place. That’s why people stay here. What would happen if trust, safety, community, that very innocence we all depend on was torn away? What would happen if you could not look upon your neighbor without wondering if he or she was a cold-blooded murderer?” She shuddered. His logic made a terrifying sense. For she had grown up here too and she knew what lengths people would go to to preserve their peace of mind, their façade of happy, carefree innocence. “That means…that means, whoever did it is still out there free. To kill again.” He shook his head firmly, as if to convince himself. “It has been nearly twenty years, Buffy. Whoever did it is no longer a threat. Most likely, it was a burglar or a transient looking for money. The Chief and William just happened to get caught in the middle. Let the past die, Buffy. You have to let it go. No good can come of this.” She rose to her feet shakily. “Hatred never dies, Mr. Giles. Thank you for telling me what you know. I think we’d better postpone our dinner. I’m not feeling very well. I’ll call you when I’m ready to sign the necessary papers.” He put a warm hand on her shoulder. She felt encased in ice. “Whatever you want. Can I drive you home?” She was about to nod until she noticed a glass-front cabinet tucked in the corner of his office. It was a gun collection. A very prodigious one. Suddenly, she felt like screaming. It seemed wherever she turned, she could not trust her eyes or her memory. And then she thought of Angel. Angel’s father had been an avid hunter and gun collector as well. Her mind scurried trying to fit pieces together but they kept slipping through her hands, turning to water. Tried to think back to that day when she’d gone over to Angel’s for dinner. She could swear she had walked past a similar glass-fronted cabinet housing several rifles and smaller handguns. She put her hand to her temple, massaging it. It meant nothing. Pretty much all men that lived around the area hunted or collected guns. It was just the thing to do. It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. Or else it had to mean there was no one she could trust. There was no one she could face without seeing his blood on their hands. She shook her head and laughed, high and shrill. “No. No, thank you. I’ll be alright. I just need to go home and sleep. I’m so dreadfully tired.” Mr. Giles looked at her white face with concern and clucked his tongue. “Well, alright then. Please be careful dear. And make sure you eat something before you go to sleep. You’re getting very thin.” “Yes, I will. Thank you.” She let him walk her out and waved goodbye as she got into the Buick. The sun was starting to set in the sky. Gold bleeding into deep red and eventually into blue. She was shaking so badly, halfway back to her mother’s house, she had to pull over onto the side of the road and wipe the cold sweat from her neck and hairline. Flashes of light behind her eyes. Xander, Angel, even Mr. Giles. All holding guns. All smiling. All silent. And then his bloody face, his shrouded body, being carried away. She put her hands up to her mouth and muffled her moans. When she got back to her mother’s house, she ran inside and locked the door, shoving the heaviest living room chair underneath the knob. She walked to the kitchen and rooted around in the back of the refrigerator. Found a lone bottle of beer her mother must have been saving up for a rainy day. She went through the drawer of utensils and took out the largest, sharpest kitchen knife she could find and a book of matches. Walked slowly up to her bedroom and sat in front of her open window to stare at his. She placed the knife carefully on her bedside table and took a large gulp of the beer. Fumbled through her purse for the cigarettes Faith had given her for him. Unwrapped a pack and lit one up. She had not had a cigarette since she was eighteen. She stared at his closed blinds until her eyes grew blurry. Ashed carelessly on her bedroom floor. And made herself think back. Back to that night. *************************************************************** It was so unbearably hot. She was tempted to take off all her clothes and sleep in the nude. But then she remembered how it felt to be sprawled naked with him across his bed, his mouth at her breast and she shivered and pulled the sheet tighter. She had not seen him since that night. Since that dream? It had been almost two weeks. Soon he would be leaving for Harvard. Soon she would be leaving for Radcliffe. She had already started packing. Tossing things into suitcases all through the night. Every night since that night. Terrified to sleep, terrified to realize it had been real or that it had only been a dream. Some nights she would just sit on the porch swing and rock idly, watching the world sleeping. After the first three nights, her mother stopped coming outside to ask her to please go to bed. She suspected her mother thought she was in love. She was not in love. She was in loss. Counting every increment of time that meant he was slipping farther and farther out of her reach. But tonight, finally she was tired. She had almost fallen asleep in her dinner after ten days of her self-imposed vigil. Nothing had felt sweeter than falling into her bed and closing her bleary eyes. And she’d had no dreams. Only to be awakened by the pop, pop of stupid children setting off leftover fireworks from Fourth of July. She turned on her stomach and went back to sleep. The next thing she felt was her mother’s cool hand at her forehead. “Mother?” “Shhh, dear. Go back to sleep.” Her mother’s face looked terribly white in the moonlight. She sat up. “Mama, what is it? Are you all right?” Then her mother’s face grew so still, she felt her heart drop to her feet. The only other time she had seen her mother look this way was that day her father did not come home from work. “What is it? Please tell me.” “William.” And then she finally registered the flash of lights and the nasal hum of the police car sirens. She pushed her mother aside and sprang out of her bed, her foot catching on the corner of her sheet. She wrenched it away and sprinted down the stairs and out of the open front door. She could hear her mother calling out behind her. ‘No, Buffy. Don’t. Don’t go over there.’ She didn’t understand. What was going on? There were police officers milling around. Was his mother having another party for the department? She felt a wave of bitterness that he had not invited her or even told her. Of course, he was no longer speaking to her. And then she saw the old rickety white ambulance pulling up in his driveway. Oh Dear God. What was going on? She heard her mother panting for breath behind her and she whirled around. Grabbed her mother around the shoulders and shook her hard. Not caring whether her fingers were biting into her mother’s flesh. “Tell me what’s happened! Tell me now. Please.” Her mother just stared back at her dully. She turned around again to see them carrying a stretcher out. Oh god, there was a body underneath the red-spotted sheet. She could see the large feet sticking out of the end. She knew those feet. Had seen them soaking in a plastic basin several times. The Chief. Sometimes she would go over and watch Ed Sullivan with Will and the Chief would come home and watch with them while soaking his corns, making funny jokes. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle her scream. Felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Saw Will’s mother standing beside the stretcher, body sagging. The only thing keeping Mrs. James upright was the police officer holding her elbow. But, where was Will? And then she saw the other stretcher being carried out the front door and down the porch steps. In that moment, she knew. She knew. She had lost him forever. His body was still so light; it only took two people to carry it. She jerked out of her mother’s grasp and ran towards him. Kicked one police officer in the knee to get to him. Oh, love. Oh, my Will. She could see his slack hand peeking out from under the sheet. Took it in her own. Oh dear God, no. It was cold. Before she could even be afraid, before her mother could stop her, before anyone else could push her hand away, she uncovered the sheet from his face. His lips were so blue. His eyes were closed. She could almost count every pale vein on his eyelids. And all around his hairline, clotting and matting his silvery hair, was red. Blood. His blood. She wanted to cut her own heart out and throw it away. She didn’t need it anymore. But then she noticed his chest rising and falling the barest bit. She leaned forward to brush his lips with her own. Only to be wrenched away by a police officer. “Keep her back! Don’t let her touch the body.” The Body. He had become the Body. Not her best friend. Not the one person she would give her life for. The Body. Her own body felt weightless. As if she was floating above herself. Above it all. Watching down on everyone scurrying and yelling. They tore his hand from her and put him in the big white box. The ambulance. Her mother grasped her arm and held her back so she would not try to get in with him. She watched dimly as his mother was helped into the ambulance. Watched as they took him away from her, the red sirens growing smaller and smaller until they were only a pinpoint in the distance. And then vanishing completely. She fell to her knees, the grass scratchy and dry against her skin, through the thin cotton of her nightgown. The nightgown he had taken off of her that night. The nightgown with the pink buttons she had carefully sewn back on before her mother could notice. She fell to her knees and vomited. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Tasted blood in her throat. She looked down at her hand. It was bright red with her own blood. The same color as his blood. She heard something broken or maybe dying in the distance. Some poor animal crying out in unbearable pain. Then realized that the sounds were coming from her own mouth. If only she had stayed awake this night. It was all her fault. If only she had sat out on the porch for this one night. She could have saved him. And now she was being punished. The ground rushed up to meet her face and all she saw was blackness. ********************************************************************* She sat there until the cigarette burned down to its filter, singing her fingers. His window was still closed. Was he awake? Was he thinking of her? Did he remember? Could she make him remember? Would he even want to? She finished her beer and lit up another cigarette. She would not sleep tonight. I know you are out there. I can feel you in my blood. I need you more than the air I breathe. There is no point in breathing if you are not here with me. I have sat here all day. You have been gone all day. I don’t mind. I would wait for you forever. She thinks you will not come back. She thinks you believed her lies. I know you. You will return. I can feel it in my blood. Your blood. We are the same now. Be careful. What you see, is not what you see. |