suggested Bill McNeill.”
Cora broke into slightly hysterical laughter. “That’s great. I love it.”
“I guess I don’t get the joke.”
“Her blaming McNeill. Not that he couldn’t have done it. He’s as big a scumbag as Mario was.”
“She said McNeill and your ex-husband had a fight just a few days before Mario was killed.”
“Did she tell you why they fought?”
Swift shook his head.
“They fought because McNeill was having an affair with the slut.”
“How do you know that?”
Cora looked at him as though he was simple. “ Everyone knows that.”
It had been a very long day. Another long day. After Cora finally left, Swift wandered restlessly around the house. It felt tight and confined. Like being in a box. He went out to the backyard, the former church garden, and sat on a stone bench for a few minutes gazing up at the mercilessly bright stars in the black sky. The night air smelled of freshly dug earth, dead leaves, and, more distantly, wood smoke.
He tried to focus on what his senses reported, tried to use the cold and the silence to clear his mind, but that internal itch was crawling through him again. He wanted .
He wanted all the things he couldn’t have.
He thought about Cora and Tad and then for the first time in a long time he thought about his own mother. Every so often, usually when he least expected it, he forgot his anger and animosity and just…missed her.
The back of his eyes burned. He blamed it on Bernard and the reminder of those fucking poems. He should have ripped them to pieces.
He couldn’t afford this. Couldn’t afford to start thinking about these things. He would never be strong enough to face these memories. The memory of his mother blaming him for his father’s death, telling him he should be locked up so he could never hurt anyone again.
Just as he’d done his best to fulfill her wish that he become a poet, he had done his best to fulfill her wish that he’d never been born.
And yet it was Marion who had paid for the expensive treatments that had saved his life and his mind. The same Marion who had fought to have him permanently committed to a mental hospital, and when that failed, fought successfully to keep him from gaining control of his inheritance.
Not that he blamed her for the last two. He didn’t really blame her for any of it. But he couldn’t forgive her either.
And thinking about this did no one any good. Least of all him.
Swift went back inside the house, went into his office and pulled out the blue rigid paper box with its melancholy images of clouds and autumn leaves. He stroked the laminated lid absently.
Who had collected his poems after his final spectacular crash and burn? Bernard or someone hired by his mother? Someone had come to that motel where he’d been living and gathered up the few belongings he hadn’t pawned or sold for coke, gathered up these poems scribbled on scrap pieces of paper with the rest of the detritus, saved it all on the off chance he survived.
Or perhaps the belief that he wouldn’t.
Swift’s thumb stroked the lip of the lid. Were they any good? Were they coherent? Were they even legible?
Did it matter?
He picked the box up and put it back in the drawer. He slid the drawer closed.
Bernard’s timing was off. A week or so ago Swift might have felt strong enough to face whatever was in this pretty box, but not tonight. Not now. Tonight he felt about as fragile as he had in six years of staying clean and sober.
And whatever was in this box might be the final straw, might be just enough to tip those delicately balanced scales the wrong way.
In which case he might as well take the ferry to Orson Island this very night. That was the promise he’d made himself. That if he ever started using again, he’d spare himself and everyone else the party and just take a long walk into the ocean.
He rose, turned out the lights and left the office.
Exhaustion that was partly lack of sleep and partly the
Cora broke into slightly hysterical laughter. “That’s great. I love it.”
“I guess I don’t get the joke.”
“Her blaming McNeill. Not that he couldn’t have done it. He’s as big a scumbag as Mario was.”
“She said McNeill and your ex-husband had a fight just a few days before Mario was killed.”
“Did she tell you why they fought?”
Swift shook his head.
“They fought because McNeill was having an affair with the slut.”
“How do you know that?”
Cora looked at him as though he was simple. “ Everyone knows that.”
It had been a very long day. Another long day. After Cora finally left, Swift wandered restlessly around the house. It felt tight and confined. Like being in a box. He went out to the backyard, the former church garden, and sat on a stone bench for a few minutes gazing up at the mercilessly bright stars in the black sky. The night air smelled of freshly dug earth, dead leaves, and, more distantly, wood smoke.
He tried to focus on what his senses reported, tried to use the cold and the silence to clear his mind, but that internal itch was crawling through him again. He wanted .
He wanted all the things he couldn’t have.
He thought about Cora and Tad and then for the first time in a long time he thought about his own mother. Every so often, usually when he least expected it, he forgot his anger and animosity and just…missed her.
The back of his eyes burned. He blamed it on Bernard and the reminder of those fucking poems. He should have ripped them to pieces.
He couldn’t afford this. Couldn’t afford to start thinking about these things. He would never be strong enough to face these memories. The memory of his mother blaming him for his father’s death, telling him he should be locked up so he could never hurt anyone again.
Just as he’d done his best to fulfill her wish that he become a poet, he had done his best to fulfill her wish that he’d never been born.
And yet it was Marion who had paid for the expensive treatments that had saved his life and his mind. The same Marion who had fought to have him permanently committed to a mental hospital, and when that failed, fought successfully to keep him from gaining control of his inheritance.
Not that he blamed her for the last two. He didn’t really blame her for any of it. But he couldn’t forgive her either.
And thinking about this did no one any good. Least of all him.
Swift went back inside the house, went into his office and pulled out the blue rigid paper box with its melancholy images of clouds and autumn leaves. He stroked the laminated lid absently.
Who had collected his poems after his final spectacular crash and burn? Bernard or someone hired by his mother? Someone had come to that motel where he’d been living and gathered up the few belongings he hadn’t pawned or sold for coke, gathered up these poems scribbled on scrap pieces of paper with the rest of the detritus, saved it all on the off chance he survived.
Or perhaps the belief that he wouldn’t.
Swift’s thumb stroked the lip of the lid. Were they any good? Were they coherent? Were they even legible?
Did it matter?
He picked the box up and put it back in the drawer. He slid the drawer closed.
Bernard’s timing was off. A week or so ago Swift might have felt strong enough to face whatever was in this pretty box, but not tonight. Not now. Tonight he felt about as fragile as he had in six years of staying clean and sober.
And whatever was in this box might be the final straw, might be just enough to tip those delicately balanced scales the wrong way.
In which case he might as well take the ferry to Orson Island this very night. That was the promise he’d made himself. That if he ever started using again, he’d spare himself and everyone else the party and just take a long walk into the ocean.
He rose, turned out the lights and left the office.
Exhaustion that was partly lack of sleep and partly the
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