Part IV

1 . Dead Wagon by Lindy Dentinger

2 . Grandfather Dying by Adam Waterreus

3 . Broken Bones by Hanne Zak

4 . The Grieving Process by Spencer Allison

5 . The One Who Got Away by Emily Drew

6 . Our Dried Voices, When We Whisper Together by Mary Elder

7 . Untitled by Cat Daze

8 . Tatooed by Adam Membrey

9 . Journey's End by Marcus De La Rosa

10 . Learning by Donald A. Thuleen

She’s afraid

of the still life posing 

in crumpled bed sheets.

 

I’m not, and won’t be

because he taught:

“Just grab it now,

steady, like this, just

grip hard.” Careful to show,

pinched between glossed teeth,

how to break the smooth pods

in two. The green seed 

skins loosed from salted fingers;

the dish—salted too—

covered with glistened husks

limp and bulging.

 

Instead, facing that strange

body, burdened almost

by the glow that washes

these corners empty, 

I remove his thick

rims before they leave

more of a mark—they’ve

already painted a line

dark purple across the

ridge of his nose that

matches his age spots

and spindly, searching

veins. 

Northwood Hills Hospital, London. Room 114. 8:21 PM

 

     I had thought Claudia was going to say something again, so I was leaning over her when Benny said, “Dad,” which completely distracted me. He hasn’t called me that for four years.

     “What, Benny?”

     “Can I talk to you outside the room, huh?” He had hooked his thumbs into the loops on his jeans, which meant he wanted to be the big man.

     I tried to look attentive, respectful. “Sure, son.”

     In the drafty hall outside the room, Benny immediately started shivering and thrust his hands in his pockets. “You English have got to stop this socialist medicine. This hall is freezing.”

     I didn’t remind him where he’d been born, but I tried to make a sympathetic face at the burly nurse who looked up, disgruntled. Benny, of course, spotted this and thought the worst.

     “Father, do not make patronizing faces at me over my head. I am not in my twenties anymore.”

     “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to. What’s, ermm, up?”

     Benny set his jaw. “We should stage some kind of making-up for Mother. You know, before she goes. The doctor doesn’t give her the night.”

     “I know that,” I said, to buy time. “What do you mean, ‘stage’? Are you ready to, um, put the past to rest?”

     “No, Father, we’ve been through this. I just feel we should put a good front up for Mother.”

     I may have gaped at him then. “Are you suggesting that you want to fake a make-up? That the last thing you want your mother to see is a bloody lie? I’m ready to make up, Benny. I can’t apologize anymore, I just want—your pardon, I suppose, to be archaic. I thought when we came here—”

     “Have it your way, Father,” Benny said. “What’s done is done. But think it over, for her sake, okay?”

     “For her sake? Benny, you think about it—” Benny had already walked back into room 114. My boy has always been so headstrong.

     The nurse to turned to me. “I’m John, by the way. What’s up his bum?”

     “I’m Christopher Dorsey,” I said, shaking John’s hand. “Point of fact, I slept with his wife.”

 

8:34 PM.

 

     Which is why you cannot fucking trust posh nobs. They just come out with this shit. 

     “Erhhm, ahh, I may have slept with my son’s wife. Fancy a smoke?”

     I ask you.

     This is not to say I liked the ponce son either. Smarmy little tic looked as if his balls had crawled back inside his body, if they ever dropped to begin with. At least the father isn’t as up himself. And I was pretty bloody curious, I can tell you.

     “Shit, mate,” I told him. “Why’d you do that?”

     “Why did I do it?” He got this far away look in his eyes, the old man, and rubbed his whiskery chin. “Her name is Selinde. How does one say no to a woman named Selinde?”

     “One has never met one,” I said, but then I felt bad for being sarcastic. This man was balls up in the life department.

     “Ah. How to describe her?” Dickens here got all thoughtful again. “She has legs like, like milk and honey. And all this sweet, sweet yellow hair. And she is ravenous. She can just devour a man.”

     I think he was trying to say she was a good time. “Still with her?”

     “No, no, she went back to my Benny three years ago. Not here now, though, because she’s in California, finding herself. I hope for Benny’s sake she comes back this time.”

     “Right, then,” I said. “She a good fuck?” I thought about my Tam at home. She’d got baby spit up in her hair again when I left. I’m quite fond.

     “Oh, my word, yes.”

     I stared at the old guy, trying to figure him out, like. “You still got a bit of a thing for our Selinde here, don’t you?”

     He blinked at me. “You are a very forward nurse.”

     “It’s a long fucking night, mate.”

 

10:08 PM

 

     Father proved really obstinate about trying to make up for Mum. He would, though; she was always on my side. Never spoke to that bastard again after my Selinde. On the other hand, he seemed very close to getting on his tweed-coated knees and begging for my forgiveness, which would have been satisfying. Satisfying and quite ineffectual.

     What he did to my Selinde—well, it doesn’t bear speaking of. She can be confused; she’s been confused all her life. But that doesn’t matter, because when you love a woman like Selinde, you let the little things go, and some of the big ones. She wrote me a letter before she went to California. I can remember all of it. Ben, she wrote to me, I’ll come back to you, like I always do. You take care of me like no other man. Think of me always, cuz I’ll be thinking of you!

     While I was thinking of her, Father was waxing philosophical.

     “Benny, you must be a little sympathetic. I know I did the wrong thing by you. But you took her back, you forgave her. You know—how she can be.”

     “Yes, Father, I know how my wife can be.” Condescending asshole. “What goes on between two married people is nobody’s business but our own.”

     “Benny, let’s be blunt. I went on between two married people. And I was wrong. But, God, Benny, you know Selinde can be pretty irresistible.”

     “For the love of God, do not call me Benny! My name is Benjamin. And thank you, by the way, for implying that my wife seduced you instead of what we both know happened!”

     “She was more than a willing partner!” Father was yelling now, and the nurse stuck his head in.

     “You two mind being a little quieter? Not all of our patients are dead yet.”

     Fucking rude staff. I hate England. Even the room was as drab as possible, grey walls, tubes, not even a picture. Father, of course, with his extra helping of class guilt, pandered shamelessly to the nurse, whose tattoos were very visible under his scrubs.

     “Oh, sorry, John, we’ll be quieter.”

     Apparently he knew this man, because the next thing the nurse said to me was, “So, your missus is off in California, eh?”

     “Yes, she is. She didn’t feel like dealing with my father. I frankly don’t blame her.”

     “No, I’d rather be in California than in a hospital with my mother-in-law any day,” the nurse agreed, sounding a little snide for my taste. “This your ex-wife then, Mr. Dorsey?”

     “Claudia, yes, this is she,” Father said, ever the Nazi for correct grammar. “Benjamin, I want to make it right. For your mother, please, give me a chance.”

     “Don’t speak about ‘for your mother’ to my face! You know perfectly well that I can’t forgive you, and you’re just using Mother as an excuse to worm back into my life. Now, I’m trying to do the mature thing here, Father. Maybe be a man for once in your life.”

     It felt pretty good to say that to him. I was let down when he didn’t look surprised at all, just a bit tired. 

     “Benny, I love you. You’re my son. You don’t have to ask me over for dinner, just let me know that one day we’ll be friendly again. Maybe not soon, even.”

     The old man is perpetually immature, as usual. “I am your son, Father. So I shouldn’t have to tell you to grow up. But I guess I do, so I’ll say right now that you’re sixty-five and don’t seem to understand how the world works. You seduce somebody’s wife, they don’t forgive you. End of story. Now face up to reality, and do the right thing by Mother, for once in your life.”

     “I will not lie to a woman on her deathbed!” Father snaps, clearly expecting some swell of music, like Wolfgang fucking Mozart would be following him around with a piano. “I’ve made more mistakes than most people, but all I can do is admit to them and try to get it right. Think about what that means, Benny.”

     Oh, sob, sob. “Don’t call me Benny.”

 

12:39 AM

 

     I go back to check on Mrs. Dorsey, and the old man and his boy were at it again. You meet all kinds in this job.

     “You know what I think, Father? You know what I think?”

     “What, Benny?” Mr. Dorsey was slumped in a chair, his son was standing all twitchy above him, like a headmaster.

     “I think you’d do it again, given half a chance. I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”

     “Oh, Benny—”

     “Don’t call me Benny!”

     I cleared my throat noisily, which I’m good at. “I’m about to go on break. Who fancies a smoke?”

     “Aren’t you a nurse? Has no one told you how unhealthy that is?” Benny glared at me.

     “Oh good God yes,” says Mr. Dorsey.

     Outside it was black and freezing as usual. Pretty much only the doctors’ cars were here.

     “Selinde despises smoking,” Mr. Dorsey said, taking a harsh drag. “That was a shame, because she was one of those women who look gorgeous when she smokes. Lips like candy.”

     “Sounds like the kind of woman who’d look gorgeous doing fuck all,” I commented. “Is your boy right about that? Would you take her back?”

     “I don’t know,” Mr. Dorsey said, rubbing his face. “I think I’d rather have my Benny. But he’s not going to let that happen, is he?”

     “Dunno, mate,” I said. “It’s a tough nut, this one. You want my advice? Find a decent woman, keep you company, like, and try again with your boy in a few years.”

     “Heh. I don’t know if I have a few years. And life’s too short for decent women anyway, don’t you think?”

     I wasn’t sure what point he was making. “I got one I’m pretty fond of. Pretty girl. Ass you could get a mortgage on. We got a kid now.”

     “Of course, I’m getting on,” waffled Dorsey. “They flee from me that sometime did me seek, eh? I’ve had my moments, though. Quite a few.”

     “Tam’s a good girl,” I told him. 

     When we went back to the room, Benny seemed to have calmed down. He was reading a purple and green book in the chair. He didn’t say anything about our smoke break, and he seemed the type, believe you me.

     “How’re you holding up, Benjamin?” Mr. Dorsey asked, quite kindly.

     “I’m fine. Have you thought about what I said? For Mum?”

     Before the old man could say anything, Mrs. Dorsey moaned softly. We all turned to look.

     “Claudia?” said Mr. Dorsey. “Are you, errhm, awake?”

     She didn’t say anything, though. She was in a bad way, her skin gone all yellowish and her hair thin. There was still brown in it, and I wondered how much younger she was than her ex-husband. Dry saliva crusted at the corners of her mouth.

     “She’s resting, Father, but she’s near the end,” Benny said, since he was clearly most qualified to speak on this point. “Do you see what I mean now?”

 

12:52 AM

 

     Back from America… older, Benny, now. Looking out to the hall. And Christopher grey now. But Christopher still… looks like himself still.

 

7:52 AM

 

     “Do you, know, Father, if Selinde doesn’t come back from California, it’ll be because of you.”

      “How’s that, Benny?” I was tired of him railing at me. I was tired of watery tea from the nurse’s station, though it was very kind of John to bring it. I ached.

      “She’s had trouble dealing with what she’s done,” Benny said, nodding fiercely. “That’s why she’s gone to find herself.”

      “Oh, is it,” I said. I am constantly amazed by Benny’s rather limited view of Selinde. Selinde is not a woman who is plagued by guilt, never has been. She looked as happy in my bed, when I kissed her smooth ears, as she did on her wedding day. I’d guess she looked just as happy when Benny let her back into his house. He never really understood her, still doesn’t.

      “Yes, it is. As a matter of fact—”

      He was interrupted by John, stalking back into the room. There was a bizarre noise coming from one of the machines.

      “That’s it, boys. She’s gone. I’m very sorry,” John said, fiddling with something. “The doctor will come by soon.”

      “What?” Benny gaped at him. “That’s it? Mummy—” He went by the bed and held her hand, staring at her. I went and stood beside him, patted his back.

      “I’ve got to call Selinde,” Benny mumbled. He pulled out his phone and stared at it. “I think she’s coming back. Do you?”

     “I know, Benny,” I said, without thinking. He stared at me and he was crying a little. He was crying for Selinde, who’d gone back to that hazy place from whence she came. “Benny, your mother is dead. Claudia is dead.”

      I looked at John, was gazing at us with a strange expression on his face, as if, after all these years being a nurse, he was disgusted by one more death. “Well. I’m sure you two want to be alone,” he said, abruptly, I thought, and walked out. I sometimes wonder what happened to him and that girl of his.

      Benny was crying into his hands. He was saying something like, “No one at home.”

     I stared at Claudia’s body. A dead body is not like a living one, not like it at all. A woman’s living body is like the sky in England, curved, full, changing and wet. It shines and beats. Claudia, whom I never really understood, had married me because I had convinced her that it was a good idea. I suppose all I know about her, in the end, is that 

she was constant, in whatever way her neatly-cornered life gave her to be. I have been changing and moving all my life. Her nose, her weak chin, pointed up to the grey ceiling of the hospital, and beyond it, to the dawning grey morning of England in April.

 

Winner of the Gurian Short Story Award 

He held the lavender bra in his hands and realized he had been supplying the local Goodwill’s entire lingerie department for the past several years. But no feelings came to mind. No sense of concern, of grief, of contentment or lust. He simply tossed it in the decaying basket behind him and folded the rest of his clothes from the dryer. He used to have someone do this kind of thing for him. He used to simply be able to get out of the shower and find his clothes all ready for him on his bed. 

      The phone rang and he nearly stumbled over all the boxes that stood in his way to the kitchen. They were all the same size, the same beige color.  The entire apartment, smothered in white, held no signs of home. There were no picture frames on the walls or fish tanks in the corner. It was only in front of a fading love seat that sat a small, dusty television. But Jack wasn’t on the move. In fact, he’d been leaving in the apartment for nearly six months. He yanked the phone off the wall and took a deep breath.

      “Hello?”

      “Mr. Newman, we have a small question for you.”

      “And?”

      “Well it’s not really a question, but we’re not going to be able to provide a trailer for you on the set. Do you live in the area?”

      He took another deep breath. “Yeah.”

     “Well, that works great. Thank you for your help, Mr. Newman.”

    He dropped the phone onto the kitchen counter and cowered over the sink full of dishes. Through the window he could see his source of movement for the past two years: a 1993 Geo. It was nearly as plain as the woman he had to pretend was his sister in the last movie he made, but not quite as plain as the woman he had to pretend to fall in love with. It was getting harder and harder to fool everybody. 

     The phone rang again. He recognized the number. 

     “Yeah, Bob?” 

     “Jack, Jack, baby… have you lost the fifteen pounds like I said you should?”

     He looked down at his gut, watching it protrude even further as he took a deep breath. “It... it hasn’t happened, Bob.” He could hear the deep sigh of disgust over the line. 

    “Well, I’ll just have to work with them and get them to shoot from the chest up. Cheekbones still high and face still as pretty as ever?”

     “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

     “Please be on time, okay?”

     He dropped the phone back down on the counter and smiled to himself. He ran his hands through his smooth black hair and down his still-perfect face. He had the high cheekbones and the perfect white teeth. His blue eyes were able to communicate emotions nobody ever believed he really had. He still looked and talked like a dream, even if it was one you’d wake up from and never remember. 

     Most actors are proud of their movies. Some of them even have movie posters in their basement, just so that they can walk into their greatness whenever they feel like it. But Jack had no such thing.  It wasn’t that he never made any good movies. In fact, it was only fifteen years ago that he nearly had Hollywood around the ring of his finger. He had made a series of romantic comedies that made millions for everybody but him. The phone rang again, but Jack knew what this one was going to be like. It was the same kind of call he got late nearly every night. It was always some young, drunk woman ready to ask him the question everybody wanted to know.

     “Yes?” he answered, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand. 

     “With all those amazing love stories you were in, what’s your own like?”

     Click. They never bothered to stay long enough to hear his answer. And if they ever did, he knew they were too drunk to ever remember it. Jack was indeed a part of many supposedly great love stories. There was the movie A Soul Intent where he met his true soul mate before they were even born, and they spent their entire lives working to find each other. Of course, they did, and millions enjoyed seeing the results. It also sent millions of love lives to desperate ruin. Then there was Breathe, where he was an asthmatic doctor who literally gave one woman the breath of life when he revived her. She happened to be a fitness fanatic who got him in shape and cured him of his paralyzing asthma. Millions held their breath when they saw that one and left the theater breathless. 

     But the sad reality that came to Jack was that those movies were not great because he was in it, but because he was simply a part of the story that was bigger than him. He knew that every time he managed to charm the woman he had to fall in love with, it was all for show. He was a replaceable part, though a very good-looking and cheap one.  And yet he never understood why the big parts stopped coming after all those successes. Some said he just got lucky; some said he was just getting older. Now, it was all about the low-budget fare that would find a healthy shelf life on some women’s lifestyle channel. Everyone still wanted him for his looks, even if they had to shoot every scene from the chest up. 

     There was a knock on the door. Jack stumbled over more boxes, dancing his way through the obstacle course. He was still feeling lightheaded after some drowsy drinking. But he didn’t even bother to look through the peephole. It was either someone he knew or someone content on distracting him from his misery. 

     But she didn’t look familiar. She had a loose, flowery dress hanging over her thin, nearly shapeless figure. Her messy bleach-blonde hair nearly covered her big, green eyes. Of course, it was hard to tell exactly what her face looked like when her makeup was all smeared. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. “Who are you?”

     She scoffed and crossed her arms. “Who am I?” 

     Jack wasn’t playing games with her. He wasn’t quite putting everything together.  

    “If you haven’t noticed, Jack, I’m your co-star. We’re doing a movie tomorrow, remember?”

     “Ah, yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. He was clearly faking it. And his co-star wasn’t too happy about it.

     “I don’t mean to be a bitch or anything, but I’d like my underwear back.”

     Jack’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Oh,” he said, motioning towards the laundry room. “Those?”

     “Well, I’m glad you had the decency to wash them.”

     As Jack brought the lavender underwear out of the laundry, the blurriness before him was starting to gain some focus.  

     “I guess what they say is true,” she said.

     He sat on the armrest of the couch by the door. “What’s true?” 

     “That you’re a lucky bastard.”

     “Wha—look, I—”

     “I’m just going to pretend you don’t have a hangover and give it straight to you,” she said. She moved her legs shoulder-width apart to develop a more intimidating stance.

     “You remember rehearsal the other day? You probably don’t, but I’m going to keep going. We were actually supposed to be acting, Jack. And usually, when you act, you look the person in the face. You say it like you mean it. That’s what acting is about. But you weren’t even looking at me. You were looking past my face, and hoping that the camera would just pick up the right angle and make it look like you were, in fact, looking at me. You didn’t charm my pants off. You charmed the cameraman. You charmed a fucking camera, Jack. Did you notice the camera you were looking towards wasn’t even on? The real one was right next to it! They had to trick you so you wouldn’t screw it up! No wonder you still get some work these days. You simply look good for the camera and hope they finish the illusion.”

     “Now that is out of line!” he whimpered. He had no true defense. He reached under his shirt sleeve and caressed his right shoulder. 

     “I—I can’t believe I let you sleep with me last night.” She turned to the door and began to open it. “I thought that everyone had you wrong and that you just needed someone to love you. I realized that you were probably collapsing under the weight of all these incredible love stories that, as you and I know, are utter bullshit. For some reason, I trusted. But it wasn’t you I trusted, it was that scandalous face of yours that makes you think you matter.”

     “Look, I—” He was still rubbing that right shoulder of his.

     “Will you let go of that shoulder? Is it sore, Jack? Are you really falling apart at the ripe old age of thirty-five years old? Or are you just a complete wimp?”

     He looked down at the ground and sighed, still holding his shoulder. “Charlotte—”

     “No, Jack, you know what your problem is? You don’t listen. You know what the most important part of acting is? It’s not charming a goddamn camera, Jack. It’s listening. No wonder they say you’re such a shitty actor. And I know you don’t read the reviews, which is a damn good thing because they never mention you. Why? Because you don’t matter. You can’t act. You’re faking it. There’s never any nuance in your performance. You know why? Because it’s kind of difficult to get nuance from making love to a camera that isn’t even on! And you know what? They can’t even shoot below your neck anymore! And I know there is room for decency in this town because someone gave me a wonderful little gift basket at rehearsal the other day with a wonderful little card wishing me good luck on the shoot. There are ways, Jack, to show you care.”

     He slowly pulled up his arm as he took a deep breath, but she ignored him, broke open the door and stomped outside. Only seconds later, it opened again with her tear-stricken face poking through.

    “You know, Jack. Maybe you are a great actor. You somehow convinced me you gave a shit.”

     An hour later, Jack was standing in front of his bathroom sink, looking for the pills in the medicine cabinet. He just needed an Advil after a long, hot shower. Then as he closed the cabinet, he saw himself in front of the mirror. The towel only covered from the waist down, leaving him to view his gut in all its glory. He still had some definition in his chest, but that was from years of being a skinny kid and an athlete. He had done nothing in the last several years to stay in shape. Hair dripped from his head just as tears fell from his face. And as he leaned on his right arm over the sink, he grabbed his shoulder with his left hand again. On the shoulder was a bunched-up tattoo. 

     It was the name of the only girl with whom he never acted. 

The date was August 8th, 2005 sometime in the early morning at the parking lot of his work in Lincoln, Nebraska.  Just six hours earlier, I had chatted with him through an online messenger service where we were able to see each other via webcams.  To my knowledge, I was the last.  It was a late evening.  The events that took place in those hours forever changed my life.  

     Arriving at my little one-bedroom apartment located on First Hill in Seattle, I began shedding clothing the moment I stepped foot in the door.  I had just finished performing in a student theater production of Urinetown in Bellevue.  I was exhausted, eagerly anticipating a warm bath.  Once naked, I turned on the hot water full blast, and began the timer.  This dwelling was on the first floor of an old building that had galvanized steel pipes, and like the clogged arteries of a dying man, it took a long while for the warmth to circulate through to the units.  While waiting, I checked my computer.  He was online.

     I don’t remember exactly how the conversation started, but it had something to do with the fact that I was trouncing around naked in my apartment waiting for the water to get hot.  He commented how he wished he were there to see, so he could point and laugh, and thus began our usual comical banter.  We sent a few comments back and forth and then I broke off for a moment to plug the drain for the tub.  I donned a towel, and returned to my computer where now I could see his face.  We had both recently purchased webcams so we were able to see each other while living so far apart.  Just five months prior, he had moved back to live with his parents; this choice was a last ditch effort to put his life back together.  While we chatted online, I was able to see his face.  He was smiling and we joked around with each other in the fashion we had developed over our three-year relationship.  Everything was, if I dare say it, slightly better than normal.  He had just bought a new pair of glasses. They were very complimentary to his face, and it was great to see that he had gained some weight.  It was so wonderful to see his little smirk again.  

     Overall, we had a relatively short conversation.  He was telling me stories about our dog, his parents, his Aunt Vicky.  His grandmother had been part of the parade in their annual town festival, and the most exciting news of it all: he just recently started a new job.  He had been there a week, and this day he received his first paycheck—the first in over two years.  On my end: the show went well, and it appeared as though we were going to be selected for a regional competition; the cats are doing great (they miss the dog); I still hate my job and I need to figure out what direction I’m taking in my life.  At the time, I had been preparing my entrance essay for Gonzaga, but he suggested I move to Nebraska and go to college there. “Oh, the tub’s full.  Be right back.”  Subject changed.

     The water was cooling and now I desperately needed to bathe.  I had not slept the night before and was literally falling asleep at the keys.  When we said our goodnights, I was the first to shutdown my webcam, while his continued broadcasting.  I watched his face for a moment thinking to myself, I hope that you find peace again soon, because I miss you.  During the conversation, he had been smiling, but just before he shut down his camera, suddenly he looked as though he were ready to cry.  He lingered there for nearly half a minute with a face of mourning.  I defensively rummaged around inside his head for a moment.  He had spent much of his adult life attempting to anesthetize his pain.  By this time, I had come to learn that there was little-to-nothing I could do (or that he would allow me to do) to help him, despite how desperately I wanted and tried.  When the rummaging elicited that familiar dull ache, I took my leave.  The computer remained on with the chat program running, and once clean, I sank into bed, cuddled with my body-pillow and fell reminiscing into a coma-like sleep.   

     Since I had been awake for over 24 hours, when my phone rang, I was oblivious to it.  There were two phone calls; both came through close to eleven at night in Seattle, one in the morning in Lincoln.  I only have my imagination to fill in the chasms.  The part of me that questions what I would have heard had I answered is locked away in a deep place now.  I was the last.

     Around ten in the morning on the ninth, I finally woke to the ringing of my phone.  The number had a 402 area code (Nebraska); I had missed the call.  I wandered out of bed, leaving my phone lying on my pillow to go about the morning business.  When I checked my computer I found the chat window with Jason still open.  A few hours after we parted our cyber liaison, he had sent one last message that said, “I love you and always will. . .”  I retrieved my phone; three voicemails total.  The first two were Jason, both saying the same thing.  In the first he sounded as he always did, warm—but with a tone of sorrowful distance that I interpreted as “I miss you.”  In the second he was crying, a thing not uncommon for me to hear in his messages.  

     The last was from a police sergeant in Lincoln, Nebraska.    

      I was a bit slow that morning.  It was odd to me that I was getting a call from Lincoln.  I don’t know why it didn’t register right away, but I finally started to connect it with Jason.  I felt a little panicked and I began wondering if he had been arrested.  Maybe he took a little bit of his Seattle life with him and got busted.  Voicemail was my only response when I called the number provided by the sergeant, so I left my information hoping that they would call back quickly.  A couple of hours went by and I still had heard nothing.  

     My job in Seattle at this time was resident manager for my apartment building.  A major portion of my résumé was cleaning and preparing recently-vacated units so I could lease them.  While waiting to hear back from the Lincoln PD, a fellow manager had requested my help with a turn-over—his building was two blocks from mine.  I called him to make arrangements to meet with him that afternoon at two.  Right after, I tried to call the sergeant in Lincoln for the second time.  This time, I made it through and actually talked to an officer.  

     The officer who picked up the phone was not the same one who had called me originally.  With a slightly suspicious mindset, I told him who I was and how I was asked to call earlier that morning.  What information were they looking for?  He answered my question with another question: “Do you know a J.C.?”  JC was short for Jason Charles.  Jason.

   “Uh, yeah. What’s this about?”  As I was speaking, I remember steeling my voice against defensiveness. 

    “Our sergeant working this case is not here at the moment.  I’ll have him give you a call back.”  

    “Okay.  Thank you, officer.”  He never did answer my question.  Jason must have gotten into trouble for something.  I felt my heart sink a little bit; all this time and energy spent in steering him away from trouble...  I didn’t want to go through the rabbit chase again, so I set it to the back of my mind.  

    I dinked around my apartment for longer than intended and didn’t start work at the other building till around quarter-till three—45 minutes later than arranged.  Once there Dar, my fellow manager, told me what needed to be done and I started going to work.  Not more than ten minutes had passed when my phone rang.  Yet again, I didn’t make it to the phone soon enough to catch the call, but this time, I immediately called the 402 area code back.  That number was Jason’s mother, Carol.

     It rang about four times and then I heard, “Dee, I’m on the other line.  Can I call you right back?”  Her tone felt serious.

     “Yeah, sure, no problem.”  I hung up the phone.    

    It was this point when it started occurring to me that something serious had happened to Jason.  It was not common for his mom to call me, but in the past, she only did so while Jason lived in Seattle, and she wasn’t able to reach him for weeklong spells. Maybe he’s been hurt and is in the hospital.  Less than thirty seconds had passed when she called back.  Before she could even speak, I could hear crying.

     “Dee,” her voice was low and broken, “Jason killed himself last night.”  

      There are moments that I’ve heard people talk about—when they say time stands still.  Modern action films sometimes instill a slow-motion panning special effect that depicts a marvelous dramatic climax, and if this were the movies, this would be the part where a bullet went straight through my chest.  

     The words hit my ears, then registered in my mind—in the moment it takes to draw a breath, I wailed.  I dropped the phone. My body was no longer in my possession.  I could no longer command my parts to move, and even if they would respond, there was no destination at which I could find safety.  The pain was all around me, in me, outside of me.  I could not move away from it.  To this day, I’m still not sure how long I was there, or just how far the siren of my turmoil reached.  The time-space process began to reestablish when Dar came into the shambled apartment and saw me crouched over my phone.  The scream just kept repeating and repeating, louder and louder.  With every breath I took, the pain was more and more intense, until I finally realized that no amount of screaming was going to make it stop.  I was able compose myself only long enough to garble something to Carol and hang up the phone; years later and I still have no recollection as to what that was.  

     Four hours later, the continuous stream of weeping drained away to episodic bursts.  I had made it home draped over the shoulders of a very dear friend…

 

     Three weeks later, the vaporous remains of self-anesthetizing spirits began to wear off and after waking one late afternoon, I came to this blessed epiphany: 

   Sitting in the alley of my apartment building, watching a Fall sunset, there in the middle of a buzzing city, I found a quiet moment.  I began listening to the sound of my own breath.

     I hated the last choice he made.  I love him.  I wanted him to live; not just live, but do so happily.  He did not—could not.  What had been left of his brain was in agony without all of its parts, from the first inhalations to the fatal explosion into his chest.  

    I did love him.  I hated it, but I had to respect his choice—primarily because he left me no other option, and most importantly because I loved him.  I could finally hear and feel my own heartbeat.  These were his choices.  

    I could hear the noises of city life, the wind through what was left of the leaves in the trees, and this sunset was absolutely beautiful.  For just a brief moment, I was able to recognize: life did not stop for him—it was still buzzing all around me.  These things will not stop for me either when my time comes.  This was a soothing thought for me.  After some more self-deliberation, I could experience peace.  Welcome to participation in the great infinity! 

   Very shortly following this afternoon, I decided to acknowledge myself and move forward, one step at a time.  This life is too short, and it was time to begin living again.  What was that going to look like?  What did I want to do?  The sun set and I went back to my little apartment and began the processes of putting together an entrance essay for admission to the university.  I’m going to do what I should have done years ago—I’m just going to be a little behind.