the rest and saw words. Thousands of them.
Damian picked up the heavy duffel bag and dumped it on the floor and patted the cushions. “Here,” he said.
She moved over to the sofa on autopilot, looking down at the manuscript. She sank down into the cushions.
“Here,” Nick said softly.
She looked up. He was holding a wine glass out to her, the red liquid winking in the light from the lamp on the table next to her. Riley took the glass, sipped and put it on the table, then lifted the top sheet aside.
January, 1983: I’m not sure I can tell this story even this way, when it’s just me and a blank screen and no one to hear.
The words leapt up at her and she gasped and looked at Damian.
“I know we aren’t good at talking about the past,” Damian said. “Today of all days, especially. I wrote this to make up for that lack.”
Nick sat next to her. “We won’t always ruin your birthday,” he told her. “But this is the first time in nearly thirty years that you’ve been in our lives on January second and it is making us remember more than we’d like.”
She gripped the glass tightly. “Should I…do you want me to read this now?”
“Only if you want to. Or later, if you want to read it alone.”
“I would like to read it now. But I don’t want you getting all squeamish and self-conscious.”
Nick picked up the ancient hardcover book sitting beneath the lamp, leaning past her to reach it. He held it up. “I have Julius Caesar to keep me company.”
Damian snorted. “That amateur.” He gave her another small smile. “I’m going to cook dinner for you. Thai green curry.”
“I love green curry.”
“I know.” He headed for the kitchen while Nick opened his own book, leaving Riley alone with the pile of pages.
She took another sip, a longer one. Then she began to read.
January, 1983
I’m not sure I can tell this story even this way, when it’s just me and a blank screen and no one to hear. I’m writing this for you, Riley, but I think I’m only going to be able to tell this story if I’m just telling it to myself. So let’s pretend I’m just talking to myself, getting things straight in my mind. In a way, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Even deciding where to start is a matter of picking one of a dozen bleak days.
I’ve been through tough times before. Many of them. You don’t live for as long as I have and not collect sad memories like broken seashells on a deserted shore. But 1983 was almost unendurable and it began on the second day of the year.
Tally’s water broke in the early afternoon of New Year’s Day, not long after Carson Connors, Miguel Sandoval and Nick had left for the Widow Jane mine in response to the marked map that Donna had given Carson.
Joy and Connie were passed out on the sofa, the fumes of alcohol rising from their bodies like a foul exhaust. Oscar and Donna had left not long after midnight had come and gone. Oscar had looked ill and Donna had been quiet. Jimmy’s death had hit her hard and Oscar was adjusting to that unsavory fact.
That left me to get Tally to the hospital for the delivery, which I didn’t mind at all. We wrote a note for Carson and Nick and took Connie’s rusty Mustang.
At the hospital, they parked me out in the waiting room, but Tally knew I was there, so I stayed where I might be useful and waited. I’ve seen enough labors to know that Tally’s first might last for a dozen hours or more.
Midnight came and went. It was three in the morning on January second when Nick walked into the hospital, almost stumbling over his own feet. When I saw his eyes, I knew. Not the details. I still don’t have all the details, thirty years on. But I knew the shape of it.
Nick fell into the plastic chair next to me and bent over, trying to breathe. The rich, thick coppery scent of fresh blood wafted up from beneath his zippered coat.
“He’s dead. Carson’s dead,” he whispered, so low that no one but I could hear it.
Even though I
Damian picked up the heavy duffel bag and dumped it on the floor and patted the cushions. “Here,” he said.
She moved over to the sofa on autopilot, looking down at the manuscript. She sank down into the cushions.
“Here,” Nick said softly.
She looked up. He was holding a wine glass out to her, the red liquid winking in the light from the lamp on the table next to her. Riley took the glass, sipped and put it on the table, then lifted the top sheet aside.
January, 1983: I’m not sure I can tell this story even this way, when it’s just me and a blank screen and no one to hear.
The words leapt up at her and she gasped and looked at Damian.
“I know we aren’t good at talking about the past,” Damian said. “Today of all days, especially. I wrote this to make up for that lack.”
Nick sat next to her. “We won’t always ruin your birthday,” he told her. “But this is the first time in nearly thirty years that you’ve been in our lives on January second and it is making us remember more than we’d like.”
She gripped the glass tightly. “Should I…do you want me to read this now?”
“Only if you want to. Or later, if you want to read it alone.”
“I would like to read it now. But I don’t want you getting all squeamish and self-conscious.”
Nick picked up the ancient hardcover book sitting beneath the lamp, leaning past her to reach it. He held it up. “I have Julius Caesar to keep me company.”
Damian snorted. “That amateur.” He gave her another small smile. “I’m going to cook dinner for you. Thai green curry.”
“I love green curry.”
“I know.” He headed for the kitchen while Nick opened his own book, leaving Riley alone with the pile of pages.
She took another sip, a longer one. Then she began to read.
January, 1983
I’m not sure I can tell this story even this way, when it’s just me and a blank screen and no one to hear. I’m writing this for you, Riley, but I think I’m only going to be able to tell this story if I’m just telling it to myself. So let’s pretend I’m just talking to myself, getting things straight in my mind. In a way, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Even deciding where to start is a matter of picking one of a dozen bleak days.
I’ve been through tough times before. Many of them. You don’t live for as long as I have and not collect sad memories like broken seashells on a deserted shore. But 1983 was almost unendurable and it began on the second day of the year.
Tally’s water broke in the early afternoon of New Year’s Day, not long after Carson Connors, Miguel Sandoval and Nick had left for the Widow Jane mine in response to the marked map that Donna had given Carson.
Joy and Connie were passed out on the sofa, the fumes of alcohol rising from their bodies like a foul exhaust. Oscar and Donna had left not long after midnight had come and gone. Oscar had looked ill and Donna had been quiet. Jimmy’s death had hit her hard and Oscar was adjusting to that unsavory fact.
That left me to get Tally to the hospital for the delivery, which I didn’t mind at all. We wrote a note for Carson and Nick and took Connie’s rusty Mustang.
At the hospital, they parked me out in the waiting room, but Tally knew I was there, so I stayed where I might be useful and waited. I’ve seen enough labors to know that Tally’s first might last for a dozen hours or more.
Midnight came and went. It was three in the morning on January second when Nick walked into the hospital, almost stumbling over his own feet. When I saw his eyes, I knew. Not the details. I still don’t have all the details, thirty years on. But I knew the shape of it.
Nick fell into the plastic chair next to me and bent over, trying to breathe. The rich, thick coppery scent of fresh blood wafted up from beneath his zippered coat.
“He’s dead. Carson’s dead,” he whispered, so low that no one but I could hear it.
Even though I
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