Authors: Aven Jayce
“Well then, I need to do whatever I can
to help. I’m coming along.”
“What?” he says.
He moves closer and places his hand on my
arm, with his mouth parted slightly as if he’s speechless. “I was only playing
around weeks ago when I took you to work with me. You don’t have to do this.”
“I
want
to do this.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“But we haven’t finished talking about
the books and all that bullshit. I feel like you should still be angry with me
about certain things. I wanted us to have this evening to get everything out in
the open.”
An abbreviated laugh comes out of my
mouth, like any of that is enough to ignore someone in need of help, or act
like an asshole for weeks. “Dan, it’s absurd to equate a person with the things
they create. And none of that is as important as I thought.”
I set the clothing on my bed and he
touches my hip while his other hand gently slides my hair to the side, exposing
my neck for a kiss before I have a chance to turn and face him. I tilt my head
and inhale his scents; cinnamon Altoids, aftershave, and light cologne. He
nibbles gingerly toward my ear and whispers that he adores me.
Dan’s
too cheesy for me,
but
perfect for my softer side.
We
said that sentence together. We become one!
Yes, I noticed that.
“Thank you,” he says then sits on my bed
so I can get ready. “It sucks because I wanted tonight to be special. You know
a little affection, flowers, maybe some whipped cream, and some foot action,
and then a bunch of moaning and erotic faces.”
“In that order?” I grin. “How about some
pie first?”
He nods. “My mom called and told me about
the pie.”
“Does she do that a lot, give people
pies?”
“Div,” he laughs. “Please don’t ever ask
her that question in front of my dad. He’d repeat it for weeks. And no, she
only gives pies to special people. You’re the first, besides me.”
“What else did she say?” I ask. Wondering
if she mentioned my place.
“Just that she likes you more than me and
my father,” he jokes.
“Well, she asked me if I’ve ever been in
your basement.”
“My mom said that?” he sounds stunned. “I
wonder why. I only use it for storage. I’ll take you down there when we get
back if you’d like. We can fuck on the dingy sofa from my college days. It only
has a few cum stains on it.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting. Forget it, I’m
not going in your basement.”
“Who said the stains were from sleeping
with women? I had a lot of lonely nights on that thing.”
I can tell he’s kidding, but still, I
have to say it. “Fucking gross, Dan.”
He gets such joy from making me squirm.
“There’s nothing from my novels in the
dark recesses of my basement. No bound women, knives, ropes, blood, or guts.
Besides the sofa, I have empty boxes, a bike, an old television set, a bunch of
kites I made as a kid, and some exercise equipment. The norm. I understand I’m
probably boring as fuck. Don’t be disappointed there’s no sex room down here,
just memories from my childhood and college days.”
“What did you say?”
“Huh?”
Now I know why Kristen Keller mentioned
it. First the Pittsburgh Pirates now... is this some strange coincidence again?
“Hey, what’s up?”
“My father just... I mean fate just
slapped me across the face. I need to show you something.” I pull him quickly
toward the stairwell.
You’re
going to have to tell him about the suicide.
I know. I hate talking about it and it
never gets any easier.
“Life sucks and yet it’s so fucking
excellent,” I sigh, looking into his eyes while we stand in my living room.
“I’ve cleaned up a few things, but I haven’t a clue what to do with the rest.”
I motion toward the dining room.
If his parents thought my father’s
obsession was wonderful, Dan will too, and hopefully Kristen and Greg weren’t
just being polite.
“They were more than a hobby,” I say as
he steps closer. “My father’s kites took over his entire life after my mother
died.” He walks through the living room and straight up to the collection.
“Wow,” he exhales.
“There’re over two hundred of them. I’ve
stacked as many as possible, but they’re still floor to ceiling. I don’t know
where to put ‘em. My closets are packed to the brim with other things, and if I
store them downstairs they could smell of mildew after a while, and that scent
would never come out. So... here they are.”
He doesn’t say a word but his eyes are
scanning the room, studying each one.
“Most are paper and weren’t meant to be
flown, but a few are vinyl. They’re all handmade which takes great skill. He
was an expert at building things with his hands, something I never picked up. I
couldn’t even piece together a goddamn birdhouse.”
His silence is making me anxious so I
continue with my wordy explanation.
“He started making them a year after my
mother died. Then he slowly descended into a dark state of depression. When he
got home from work each day he’d sit in our den, engrossed for the rest of the
evening in creating these things. I loved my dad so much, but I couldn’t reach
him the way I wanted... the way I
needed
to, and he refused to get help.”
Dan starts touching a few of the smaller ones
that are piled on top of my dining room table. He picks up my favorite; the
white dove. It’s the only bird my father ever made, all the rest are
butterflies, dragonflies, ladybugs, and other flying insects. All things my
mother loved. But I always thought he made that dove for me.
“It’s interesting... that
one...that’s...” I pause as my voice cracks and my eyes well with tears. “He
had that one in his lap when I found him.”
“Found him where?” Dan asks softly with
the small kite in his hand.
“You know this whole kite thing,” I take
a breath and wipe my eyes, ignoring his question. “They make me think of
Charlie Brown. You know, poor Charlie Brown, his kite always ends up stuck in a
tree, movement stops, and his dreams are crushed.”
Take
another breath.
“It was all just a diversion for my
father because he didn’t want to fucking deal with losing his wife. But, you
know, I was there...” another tear falls, “but he never saw
me
. Or he didn’t want to and I know why.
I looked just like her. I reminded him too much of her.”
Dan puts the kite down and moves toward
me, but I raise my finger to wait. If he takes me in his arms at this moment
I’ll burst into tears. I just want to get this over with.
He stops and listens. I can tell he’s in
awe of the display, yet he understands the pain that comes with the beauty.
“I’d follow him from our home to the city
park on the rare occasion he took one out to fly. He never said much, just
things like ‘isn’t she pretty,’ or ‘you think I should release her? You think
she might reach the clouds and disappear forever?’”
“He’d stare at the sky for hours, but I
don’t believe he ever saw the kite. I think it was an excuse to look up toward
my mother.” I can’t hold back any longer. I’m becoming a blubbering mess. “He
never got any better, only worse.”
Dan reaches out and this time I nestle my
head against his heart, taking deep breaths to regain control.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know that’s
probably not enough, but I’m sorry.”
He rocks me back and forth and I enjoy
his warmth and the ability he has to pacify my grief. It’s a feeling of
protection that I haven’t experienced since my mother was alive.
“What happened to him?” he asks.
I step away and look at the kites,
staring at the dove on the table and remember how tranquil it looked in my
father’s lap the day I found him. I lift it in the air, wishing it could fly.
“He couldn’t take being away from her any longer. I found him the summer before
I started college sitting in his office chair with a plastic oven bag over his
head.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Dan whispers. “Div, I...”
“He gassed himself. There was a helium
tank, and a hose...” I take a long, deep breath, holding it for a moment. I’m
not going to cry. I exhale. Keep it together. “He looked so peaceful, his face
was calm, but he didn’t leave me any words. How could he not write something
down? At the very least he could’ve written somewhere that he loved me or that
he was sorry. Anything. Even the words goodbye, you know?” I set the kite down
and turn away for a moment. “He could’ve at least said goodbye. All he had was
the kite with him when he left.” Dan’s eyes are watery like mine. “Do you find
it odd that a man so sad could make such beautiful things? They’re full of
color and life, the total opposite of how he felt.”
“Maybe that’s what he was searching for.
To find the beauty he had lost.”
I nod. “He wanted to bring her back and
that wasn’t going to happen.” I turn to my living room looking at the blank
walls and remember I had done same thing, only with photographs.
“I think they’re amazing,” he says. “This
is why I couldn’t come into your home?”
“Well, I had a living room full of
photos.”
“And I have one full of books. So?”
I look to my kitchen and Dan’s eyes
follow. “And now my kitchen’s packed with my mother’s carnival chalkware
collection that used to be in my office. See, they’re spread out around the
floor, under the table, on the counters and everywhere. Plus, my guest bedroom
is full of erotic pop-ups, boxes of signed paperbacks of my trilogy, and other
books. I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”
He grins while moving forward and places
a hand on my cheek. “Don’t hide your life away. I’d only think you were crazy
if you got rid of these things. Any guy who couldn’t handle the fact that you
have a lot of stuff would be a total dick.”
I smile as he wipes the remaining tears
from my face.
“You’re a kick-ass woman, Divine, and the
more I learn about you the more you capture my heart.” He kisses my closed eyes
and that suppresses my sadness. “You still wanna come with me?”
“Absolutely. Let me finish getting
ready.”
We head back upstairs, but Dan gets
sidetracked before we ever make it to my bedroom.
He’s in the guest room, admiring all of
my books.
“Shit, these are cool.”
“The pop-ups, or the boxes full of my trilogy
that no one wants to buy?”
He laughs and starts playing with one of
the pop-up books, pulling a paper tab that makes a woman’s head bob over a
guy’s dick.
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you
something.”
“Go for it,” he says.
“Why did you say you never heard of my
pen name? You lied about that.”
“No, I didn’t. I hadn’t heard of you.” He
stops and turns. “I know I didn’t come right out and say I was Hayden Night,
but if you had ever asked I would’ve told you; same with your pen name. I said
I never heard the name and that was the truth.”
“Yeah but you posted that my books were
slow and dry on the Dick Sluts site, and when I sent you a private message on
Facebook, you said your books were better than mine.”
“The dick what? Dick what site?”
“The Dick Sluts!”
“Div, I pay Bridgette to run my author
Facebook site. She gets twenty dollars a week, which she probably spends on
beer.”
“So
she
thinks my books suck?”
“I highly doubt it. Bridgette doesn’t
read. She hasn’t even read
my
trilogy. I asked her to respond to fans politely and to do a little marketing
each day, that’s all. Sorry she was such a bitch. I’ll have to take care of it
myself from now on.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t say such
crappy things about my books. It was fucking rude.” He nods then continues
pulling the tabs, this time on the page of the woman slapping a guy in the ass.
“You know it’s funny, I always thought
Hayden was a woman.”
“Yep, you and everyone else in this
world,” he says. “And since we’re discussing this, how are you with criticism?
You take it well?”
“On my books?”
He nods.
“What?”
“Your pen name’s awful. Cuddlecock?
Really? You have no idea how hard it was not to crack up when you mentioned it
that day.”
“Shut up, Mr. Night,” I tease. “There’re
ten authors using that same name.”
“Forty-two, actually.”
“Okay, forty-two. That’s a lot. I wanted
mine to stand out, you know,
be different
.”
We say those last two words in unison.
“How’s that working out for you?” he
smirks.
“Well, at least I don’t buy my own books
from the bookstore. That seems a bit egotistical,” I smirk back.
“My books are there only because I know
the owner. We went to high school together. Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of
supporting locally owned businesses?”