Authors: J. C. Gatlin
15
The One You Love
Kim sat
impatiently in interrogation room two and stared at the wall. She had been
sitting in the small confines of the room since early that morning.
It was
late afternoon before the Detective finally told her she was free to leave.
Kim stood
and slowly stepped to the door, opened it and slipped into the busy hallway of
the police station.
Mallory
was waiting for her, and rushed to her as Kim came through the locked doors and
into the lobby.
“Oh, Kim,”
Mallory said, wrapping her arms around her. “I heard everything. I’m so sorry.”
Kim
embraced her tightly, saying nothing.
Outside
the police station, Michael was waiting for them and approached the girls as
they made their way down the stone steps at the front entrance.
“What
happened to Ross?” There was a possessive desperation in his voice. “Tell me
what's going on!”
Mallory
pushed him away. “Not now...”
“Something's
happened.” His voice
rose
an octave as they brushed
past him. Mallory's white Miata was at the curb in front of a parking meter.
Bolting down the steps, he followed them. “I want to know what's going on.”
“Leave us
alone.” Mallory opened the car door for Kim and placed a hand on her arm for
added assistance. She did her best to shield Kim from the distraught young man.
Michael
was crying now, blocking her at the car door. “Please,” he sputtered. “Please...”
Kim
hesitated, raising her head to meet his gaze. She wanted to say more, but her
voice broke slightly. She managed a slurred rush of syllables that formed some
foreign-sounding phrase. “He's dead.”
It didn't
even sound like her own voice. And the words were hollow, had no meaning. Kim
felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching her mouth say
those two simple words. She wasn't even certain for a fact that she had spoken
them.
But
Michael heard.
He
stumbled backwards, speechless, tears running freely down his cheek. Standing
at the curb, he watched Kim climb into the passenger seat and pull the door
closed.
“He's
dead...” His voice was barely a whisper.
He shook
his head and wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve as the girls sped away.
Mallory
drove Kim home in silence. She wanted to talk about their fight. But it was
pointless. She really didn't know what to say about it anyway.
Kim
seemed so distant, lost in her thoughts, and stared out the passenger side
window. Had Mallory said anything, Kim probably wouldn't have wanted to hear it
anyway.
So she
turned on the radio and cranked up the volume.
When they
returned to the townhome complex, Kim knocked on the landlord's door. He asked
about Zeus and gave her a new set of five brass keys dangling from a ring. He
had installed five deadbolts into her door, for protection.
“Five deadbolts?
Really?”
Kim held up the key ring. “Really?” she asked
again. When she got to her front door, she inserted each key into each lock and
slowly unlocked her door. Zeus greeted her, jumping up and placing his paws on
her shoulders.
“Do you
need me to stay with you?” Mallory asked her.
Kim
shrugged and shook her head. Shoving Zeus away, she stepped into her dark home.
Mallory
reached for her. “Wait, Kim…”
Kim
hesitated. She didn’t look up at Mallory or really even acknowledge her. She just
simply paused in the doorway, staring down at her tennis shoes.
“Kim, I’m
just really, really sorry,” Mallory's voice caught in her throat. She waited
for a response, but Kim didn’t give one. Finally, she continued. “Not just
about Ross, but about our fight and, well, you know, about everything.”
“Don't
mention it.” Her voice had drifted away as she shut the door on her friend.
With Zeus behind her, she locked it, slowly turning each deadbolt. It took all
the energy she had left and she leaned against the heavy wood casing. Her eyes
tearing, she slid down to the floor and sobbed.
Zeus
approached her, sniffing her cheek then licked her ear.
* * * * *
* *
It was
the middle of the night when Kim rose from her bed. She couldn’t sleep. Zeus
watched her as she dressed, grabbed her coat, and made her way downstairs. He
followed. Coming to the door, she turned and told him to stay. A moment later,
she was outside locking the five deadbolts.
The moon
high above her, Kim walked across the shadowy parking lot and slipped through
the security gates. She walked the streets, passing in and out of the glow of
lamp posts, and made her way downtown. Her mind raced with memories of Ross.
And, she fought back tears as she walked the empty sidewalks. The night wind screamed
around her, and she buttoned her coat tighter, scrunching it around her neck.
She
didn’t want to go home. Walking for another forty-five minutes, Kim found
herself at the old folk’s home. She entered the building, the
dry,
hot air turned-up an extra notch on this cold January night.
Stepping through the hallway, she found the night shift workers on the floor.
Nurse Carla was nowhere in sight.
Kim came
to her grandfather’s room and creaked open the door. She peered inside.
Grampa
was asleep in bed. Quietly, she slipped in and shut
the door behind her. Coming to his bed, she watched him a moment. He was
lightly snoring. She leaned over the bed and hugged him, then kissed his forehead.
Maneuvering
through the dark room, she sat in the recliner by the window. Sitting deep in
the chair, she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around
them. The window was drafty and cold, but the room was blistering hot. She
could hear her grandfather a few feet away in bed, quietly wheezing as he
breathed. Finally shutting her eyes, Kim fell asleep in his old recliner and
dreamed about Ross.
When
morning came, she opened her eyes and found her grandfather standing over her.
“Hey
Princess,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She
looked up at him.
“
Grampa
?”
“Kimberly?”
He knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Kim
said. She felt the tears welling in her eyes and her face flushed. “It’s Ross.
He’s dead.”
“Oh, Princess.”
He took
her hands in his and caressed them. “Tell me what happened.”
Kim felt
his thin arms wrap protectively around her, and she rested her face on his
shoulder. She felt thankful for his embrace and brief lucidity, just when she
needed it the most.
* * * * *
* *
Morning
sunlight spilled into the small living room of the rental home just two blocks
from the University. A faded couch with springs breaking through the fabric
faced an old television set in the corner and a scratched coffee table littered
with text books, notebooks, empty pizza boxes and old beer bottles.
Michael
sat on the hardwood floor in front of a dying fire. He ripped another page from
a spiral note book and tossed it into the glowing blaze.
A
shirtless teenage boy stumbled into the living room, stretched and let out a
loud sigh. He then flipped through the empty pizza box looking for leftovers.
“Morning,
Roomie
,” he muttered with half a yawn. “
You been
up all night?”
Silently,
Michael ripped another page from his notebook. He tossed it into the fire,
where the page lit up in a burst of blue-orange and disintegrated.
“What are
you doing?” the boy asked him, and moved beside him by the fire.
Michael
ignored him, ripping out another page. The boy grabbed it before he could throw
it into the fire.
“What is
this?” he asked, staring at the paper. It looked like some kind of poem in
handwritten cursive letters. “Did you write this?”
Michael
shot him a fleeting glare and ripped the notebook paper from his hands. He gave
it a quick glance, reading a couple of lines he had written.
“For every tear that you have shed
My own heart has wept and bled.”
This had
been one of his very favorite poems. It was poetic.
Beautiful.
Sad.
Lonely.
And it was about
Ross.
“He's dead...” Michael spat under his
breath,
then
tossed that page into the flame. It lit
up before gradually disintegrating into a wad of black ash.
16
A Grave Denied
Friday,
January 21, 2000
11:38 AM
Rain made
the already miserable conditions of Ross McGuire's funeral that much more
unbearable. But the attendance was fairly admirable at the First Baptist Church
of Stillwater. Ross came from a large family, and it appeared every relative
was there. His drinking buddies and several brothers were pall bearers. Many of
his coworkers left the garage early to pay their last respects. His mother sat
in the front row, sobbing uncontrollably.
The
service was understandably closed casket.
Kim and
Mallory sat with the family. She looked around at the teary-eyed faces in the
little church. She was surprised to see Alec Whitman there.
And,
appreciated the landlord and Mrs.
Roundtree
showing
their support.
She brought little Rosie with her, and held the dog in
her arms. Most surprising was her Professor, with his hands cupped in front of
him, some three aisles behind her. Several of her classmates sat in the row alongside
him.
Michael
was among them. Quiet as ever. But his eyes weren't focused on the shiny
casket, or the grieving families, or the eggshell memorandum detailing Ross
McGuire's short life. He was watching Kimberly.
Staring at
her.
Glaring at her again.
Their eyes met.
Kim
looked away and over at Mallory. She was searching the crowd as well, and Kim
wondered if she was looking for Addison. And, she wondered, if he was here,
somewhere, hidden among the mourners. She was positive that he had lied about going
out of town.
* * * * *
* *
In the
back of the church, he watched Kimberly sitting in the front pew, sitting near
the corpse's brothers, sitting beside his whore of a mother.
Poor
Kimberly.
Poor, sweet little girl.
He watched
salty tears roll down her cheek. He wondered how long she had been crying.
Poor child.
She looked so frail.
So gaunt.
So unhealthy.
As if she hadn't eaten in a week.
It made
his own
eyes fill with tears. His heart ached for hers.
Through
blurry eyes, he watched her every move. Her black hair fell onto her shoulders
and down her back. It was so curly.
So wild.
So free.
She should have worn it up. It would've been the
proper thing to do. Still, he longed to touch her.
To hold
her.
To comfort her.
He wanted to take away
this pain. This awful, ceaseless despair caused by such an undeserving boy.
He looked
up at the closed casket. Its smooth oak sheen, nestled among wreathes and
ribbons,
couldn't hide the depravity that lay cold inside.
That awful, awful corpse that touched his little girl.
No,
Kimberly shouldn't feel such anguish over such an undeserving boy.
* * * * *
* *
Kim could
feel him watching. Feel his eyes burning holes in the back of her head.
Self-consciously, she looked over her shoulder. Michael was staring at her
again, his eyes unblinking.
Uneasy,
she reached over and took Mallory's hand in hers. Mallory squeezed it. She held
Kim's trembling hand throughout the service. And she was still by her side when
the procession moved to the cemetery, and Kim was standing over the gravesite.
The
graveside services were short, as the rain kept most of the mourners away. But
Michael was still there. She watched him button his black coat to keep out the
rain.
When the
casket was lowered and the mourners parted, a sea of black umbrellas returning
to their cars, Kim let go of Mallory's hand and ran after Michael. Mallory
tried to stop her, but Kim ignored her, calling for the thin boy with wet
matted black hair to stop.
“What are
you doing here?” she demanded.
He shrank
back, as if he were surprised to have her attention. “Excuse me?” he said
meekly.
“You've
been staring at me through the whole service,” Kim said, moving toward him. She
was on the verge of screaming at him. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Ross was
my friend.” He kept his head
lowered,
his long bangs
covered his eyes.
“Since when was he your friend?
I don't think he even knew you.”
“He knew
me.”
People
stopped walking, watching them. Mallory approached and put a hand on Kim's
shoulder. Kim swatted it away. She pointed a finger at Michael, daring him to
retreat.
“Tell me,”
she said. “When were you friends with Ross? I want to know.”
“No you
don't,” he said quietly and turned away from her. He started walking again. Kim
ran after him, grabbing his shoulder and spun him around. He almost slipped in
the wet grass among the head stones.
“I want
to know what is going on here!” She shook him.
Mallory
stepped forward to separate them but Dr. Whitman put an arm around her, holding
her back. He leaned toward Mallory's ear. Kim ignored it, though. She was
solely focused on Michael.
“What are
you hiding?” Kim finally released him. Michael took a step back.
“Ross was
my best friend. I loved him,” he said.
Kim
didn't want to hear it.
“Since when?”
“Since
before he met you.” Michael turned around. His eyes welled with tears. “You
wouldn't be together if it wasn't for me.”
“What are
you talking about?”
“All
those love letters he wrote you, all those words that swept you off your feet,”
he said slowly. “I wrote them. He was reciting poems that I wrote, because he
wanted to impress you.”
“That's
not true.” She spoke in a suffocated whisper.
“Oh, love
rips the heart in pieces and distance fills the empty creases.” Michael's voice
was barely above a whisper, as if his words were for Kimberly's ears alone. “So
take what little comfort and solace to atone in knowing that you're not alone.”
Kim
inhaled as her mind struggled to wrap around what he was saying. She looked at
Mallory. The doctor still stood beside her, his arm still draped around her
shoulder, holding her back. Ross' mother was trembling. Her boys surrounded
her. The Professor and several students encircled them. Kim turned back to
Michael.
“No,” she
said. “No, I don't believe it.”
“I think you
knew.” His voice was still quiet. Unnaturally calm. “I think you've always
known.”
“Why? Why
would you do that?”
“I wrote
them for him.” A look of tired sadness passed over his features as tears flowed
freely down his cheeks. “I wrote them for him,” he said again, quietly looking
down. “He gave them to you.”
Kim
didn't know what else to say. He was right. She did know. She had always known.
And there was nothing left to say. Turning, she walked away.
Mallory
called after Kim. Breaking free of Dr. Whitman's grip, she ran after her
friend.
For the
briefest second she thought she saw Addison amid the crowd of mourners. Mallory
paused looking in his direction.
He wasn't
there.
Of course
he wasn't. Addison was out of town.
Laughing
at the thought, she called out to Kim and caught up to her standing next to
Ross' grave. Taking her hand, she gave Kim an encouraging smile.
Still she
caught herself glancing uneasily over her shoulder.
Doctor
Whitman watched Mallory take Kim's hand as the two women stood above the
gravesite.
He
wondered what it was that grabbed Mallory's attention, and looked in the
general direction she had been staring. He saw nothing unusual.
Alec
considered joining the girls, then decided to give them some privacy. Turning
his head against the rain and wind, he headed toward the parked cars.
When he
heard his name called out, the doctor
turned,
complete
surprise on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked the slender man
approaching him.
“I'm
sorry to bother you doctor.” The man looked frazzled and was entirely
underdressed for a funeral. “But I need to talk to you.”
Alec
forced a thin smile. He retained his affability but there was a distinct tone
of annoyance in his voice.
“We've
talked about boundaries before,” Alec said to the man as they walked past
Michael and headed for the cars. “You must call my secretary and schedule an
appointment.”
As the two men brushed past him.
Michael didn't move from his spot while the rain fell
harder. He watched everyone leave the cemetery one by one.
Kim was
the last to leave. She returned to Ross' grave and lingered there for nearly
ten minutes before Mallory took her by the hand and led her to a waiting limo.
He
watched the headlights come on, pull from the slick pathway and roll away.
Finally
alone, Michael walked over to Ross McGuire's grave. He stood where Kimberly had
just stood, his feet covering the wet indentions in the grass where her high
heeled shoes had been. He then knelt forward, the rain cold in his face, and
read Ross' headstone.
“You had
panache,” he said out loud, almost yelling through his tears, never seeing the
man behind him. A sudden, involuntary scream died in his throat as an arm
wrapped around his neck and shoulders, pulling him back, and the instant
flicker of pain penetrated his right eye socket
Michael
twisted his head, his eye popping and blood gushing down his face. He screamed
and flailed his arms. His hand hit the face behind him; he punched a nose. The
arm around his neck suddenly released and Michael fell forward, landing on the
ground. He spun around and looked up. He could see out of only one eye. Rain
fell in his face. Blood gushed down his cheek.
Above
him, the angry man yelled, raging forward. He lifted his arm, his fingers
wrapped tightly around the handle of a sharp awl. He thrust it forward. Michael
raised a hand to protect himself. The spike punctured his hand and he screamed.
Thunder
crashed and the man pulled back, whipping the awl out from Michael’s hand. He
thrust it again, as Michael’s instincts took over and he rolled. The awl
slashed through the air and planted into the wet ground.
Michael
scrambled to his feet, too shocked to speak. He could barely see. The man came
toward him. Moving backwards, Michael held up his bloody hand. The man raised
the awl again. But Michael lunged forward, taking the offensive, and grabbed
the assailant’s legs, knocking him violently to the ground.
Thunder crashed again.
Michael
stood and backed away from the man lying on the ground. Blood poured from his
hand and he could feel it streaming from his eye socket down his face. He felt
light headed, looked around and stumbled. The world around him was spinning.
Tumbling
backwards, his head hit Ross McGuire’s headstone. With one last thud, his body
hit the ground, his face planted in the mud.
Blood
poured out of the meaty eye socket into a pool of rainwater.