her to the bottle. Jason had always been so controlled, never overdoing
anything, and she thought it had rubbed off on her. How sudden and irrevocable
death was.
She rose from the bed and poured herself a gin. Then the bathroom, her penance,
and next a long shower, holding the walls. Everything was vibrating, pulsating.
She scrubbed the ink from her face and hands; she opened her mouth and drank
hot mouthfuls from the shower. She wanted to clean her tongue, clean the
insides of her skull. The worst part was knowing she would feel this way for
so, so long.
Leaving the bathroom, she gathered up the newspapers,
crushing the awful reality into a great crackling mass, and stuffed them into a
wastebasket. The basket wasn’t big enough. She gathered the remainder and
carried it into the kitchen, threw it into the bin. Her hands were filthy
again. She walked back to the bathroom, willing herself not to cry, scrubbing
at her fingers with soap, watching the dark remains of spiteful text swirl down
the drain.
Minutes later, she was sipping ice water when the buzzer sounded. Western
Union, the tired voice said. She buzzed him in before thinking that no one was
supposed to know she lived here.
A knock on the door, a man in uniform sweating from the summer heat.
“Came by yesterday, ma’am, but there was no answer.”
She signed for the telegram without making eye contact. When he was gone, she
tore it open. She read it once without understanding. She read it again. Images
revealed themselves, sounds. Again. Voices now, textures. His laugh, the silk
sleeve reaching out to touch her face.
PERFECT WEATHER FOR BIRD WATCHING / MIGRATING EARLIER THAN PREDICTED /
DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ / HAVE BINOS READY.
She crumpled to her knees. What?
“Don’t believe everything you read.” That’s what he
always said, or some variation: don’t believe everything you hear, or
everything they say, or everything you see, or everything you feel. His
mantra—that life was a big trick, that the gullible were secretly
guillotined while only those who doubted everything had a chance to escape. She
had believed, for a day, and it had nearly killed her.
She was down the stairs and out the door in seconds. It was midday and the
sidewalk was scalding on her bare feet. The Western Union truck’s engine
had just started but she banged on the door before he could pull away. Who
sent this?! When?! How?! The poor man didn’t know anything, shaking
his head at her. There were no other messages, no other clues. Only this. A
whisper in a graveyard. He drove off, left her standing there in her bathrobe,
receiving looks.
Back inside, she tried Veronica again. Woman would not answer herphone. Did she know? Was she with them even now? Darcy hated her; she burned , envy lighting her aflame. She emptied the wastebasket,
tore through the newspapers, and found the photographs. Well, they were grainy. She had thought that he looked so … different in
them, but had assumed that was how it was in death. And now? She was crazy.
Surely.
Could this be happening? She would kill him. If he were really alive, she would
kill him when he came for her, for doing this to her. But, Lord, please let it
be so.
She sat on the bed. She was crying again.
And, despite it all, there was pride. She knew it couldn’t possibly have
ended this way, knew he wouldn’t have let that happen.
She remembered the time he first came for her, waiting on the sidewalk in front
of his shiny new Ford. Here in Chicago, where an unconnected hoodlum like him was
not welcome. Just standing there, as if absolutely certain that this was where
he was meant to be.
She was off balance, amazed. The world was tipped from its axis, compasses
swirling. But she did regain her composure enough to speak first, thank you.
“I’m afraid there’s no bank in my building, and my purse only
holds so much,” she said.
It had been two weeks since her day on the running boards. After the brothers
had left her at
anything, and she thought it had rubbed off on her. How sudden and irrevocable
death was.
She rose from the bed and poured herself a gin. Then the bathroom, her penance,
and next a long shower, holding the walls. Everything was vibrating, pulsating.
She scrubbed the ink from her face and hands; she opened her mouth and drank
hot mouthfuls from the shower. She wanted to clean her tongue, clean the
insides of her skull. The worst part was knowing she would feel this way for
so, so long.
Leaving the bathroom, she gathered up the newspapers,
crushing the awful reality into a great crackling mass, and stuffed them into a
wastebasket. The basket wasn’t big enough. She gathered the remainder and
carried it into the kitchen, threw it into the bin. Her hands were filthy
again. She walked back to the bathroom, willing herself not to cry, scrubbing
at her fingers with soap, watching the dark remains of spiteful text swirl down
the drain.
Minutes later, she was sipping ice water when the buzzer sounded. Western
Union, the tired voice said. She buzzed him in before thinking that no one was
supposed to know she lived here.
A knock on the door, a man in uniform sweating from the summer heat.
“Came by yesterday, ma’am, but there was no answer.”
She signed for the telegram without making eye contact. When he was gone, she
tore it open. She read it once without understanding. She read it again. Images
revealed themselves, sounds. Again. Voices now, textures. His laugh, the silk
sleeve reaching out to touch her face.
PERFECT WEATHER FOR BIRD WATCHING / MIGRATING EARLIER THAN PREDICTED /
DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ / HAVE BINOS READY.
She crumpled to her knees. What?
“Don’t believe everything you read.” That’s what he
always said, or some variation: don’t believe everything you hear, or
everything they say, or everything you see, or everything you feel. His
mantra—that life was a big trick, that the gullible were secretly
guillotined while only those who doubted everything had a chance to escape. She
had believed, for a day, and it had nearly killed her.
She was down the stairs and out the door in seconds. It was midday and the
sidewalk was scalding on her bare feet. The Western Union truck’s engine
had just started but she banged on the door before he could pull away. Who
sent this?! When?! How?! The poor man didn’t know anything, shaking
his head at her. There were no other messages, no other clues. Only this. A
whisper in a graveyard. He drove off, left her standing there in her bathrobe,
receiving looks.
Back inside, she tried Veronica again. Woman would not answer herphone. Did she know? Was she with them even now? Darcy hated her; she burned , envy lighting her aflame. She emptied the wastebasket,
tore through the newspapers, and found the photographs. Well, they were grainy. She had thought that he looked so … different in
them, but had assumed that was how it was in death. And now? She was crazy.
Surely.
Could this be happening? She would kill him. If he were really alive, she would
kill him when he came for her, for doing this to her. But, Lord, please let it
be so.
She sat on the bed. She was crying again.
And, despite it all, there was pride. She knew it couldn’t possibly have
ended this way, knew he wouldn’t have let that happen.
She remembered the time he first came for her, waiting on the sidewalk in front
of his shiny new Ford. Here in Chicago, where an unconnected hoodlum like him was
not welcome. Just standing there, as if absolutely certain that this was where
he was meant to be.
She was off balance, amazed. The world was tipped from its axis, compasses
swirling. But she did regain her composure enough to speak first, thank you.
“I’m afraid there’s no bank in my building, and my purse only
holds so much,” she said.
It had been two weeks since her day on the running boards. After the brothers
had left her at
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