“I can handle Griggs,” I say, feeling less sure than I sound.
Abe shakes his head sadly. “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t think anyone can. I stopped at Rosie’s on my way over to get a cup of coffee. She had some interesting news.”
Dread washes over me. “What?”
Abe looks like he’d rather say anything than what he says. “Apparently our twitchy friend from yesterday, one Arthur Davis from Hillsboro, hung himself last night in the sheriff’s jail barracks, waiting for a bond hearing that was supposed to happen this afternoon. A deputy found him strung up from the edge of one of the bunk beds, a sheet wrapped around his neck. He’s dead, Benji. Our lone gunman is dead.”
the strange men
Apparently, dead drug addicts don’t warrant much attention. There is a
small blurb online, a ten-second mention on the news: A man under arrest for suspicion of armed robbery at a convenience store in Roseland hanged himself sometime between midnight and 6:00 a.m., when his body was discovered at the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office barracks during the morning shift change. He apparently was a known drug user with a history of petty offenses. Any further information pending notification of next of kin.
Griggs releases a statement, saying, “While the sheriff’s dep
artment does its job to keep the streets safe, it is always difficult to understand why an individual would feel the need to take his own life. Our thoughts are with the family of Arthur Davis.”
Apparently it was cut and dry. No further investigation required.
These are some strange days, Cal said.
I can’t sit at home and stare at the walls. Not while I can sit in the store and stare
at the walls there. People ask where Cal is. I tell them he went back to California for a bit. I pray. I do. I really do. I pray even though I’m not very good at it. I pray because that is how Cal said he came down the first time. I feel foolish at this, now that I have knowledge of what I’m trying to do. When I called him originally, it had been out of horror and fear and the need for someone to hear my pleas.
Now, it’s just for him.
Cal. Please come back. I’ve only known you thirteen days and you’ve been gone for the last four of them. It’s been under two weeks since you fell but it might as well have been forever that I’ve known you. I need you to come back. Please. Please just come back. See my thread. Hear me now. Please.
But there’s no reply. Like any time I’ve ever prayed before, there is nothing. I come to the conclusion that no one is listening, that no one ever did. Angels exist; that’s been proven by the one who fell from the sky. But there is nothing else. I believe in the impossible. I believe in the improbable. I do not believe that my prayers matter. Not for the first time, I realize just how small I really am, just how petty I sound.
That fear doesn’t stop me from closing up the store every few hours to rush back to Little House, only to find it as empty as when I’d left it. It doesn’t stop me from sitting on the roof every morning, watching the sunrise, searching the long driveway for that familiar figure in the dawn, ambling up to say he’s hungry, to ask if we can go for a ride in the truck because it’s so cherry.
But there’s nothing.
Every time I close my eyes I see blue and hear the rustle of feathers. I hear his
warning about the river and I jerk awake, flailing around for someone that isn’t there. My bedroom door is left open, and every time I wake, I look to the floor there, to see if he’s made his nest.
It’s always empty.
I trudge up to Big House shortly after sunrise, exhausted but still unable to get any real sleep. My mother is in the kitchen with the Trio. They are quiet as I walk in, and I get the distinct feeling that it’s only because I’ve entered the room, that any conversation they’d been having ceased at my entrance. Nina watches me with big eyes, looking like she’s going to speak but then thinks better of it. Christie looks away. Mary attempts a smile. My mother hands me a cup of coffee, full of sugar and cream so it’s a light brown, the only way I can drink it. I take a sip. It’s hot.
I shouldn’t be like this. I went twenty-one years without knowing he existed. I’ve spent the last five focusing on one day at a time. I’ve relied on no one but myself. Yes, there is this little family that stands before me, watching, obviously waiting for me to say something, anything to explain away the bags under my eyes, the hangdog look on my face. But even with them, I’ve been alone. Granted, the lonely island I have become is by choice. So why am I acting like such a goddamn pussy? Why do I care so goddamn much?
Because he’s gotten under my skin. He wormed his way in and I can’t figure out how to get him out. I’m haunted. I’m haunted by memory. I’m haunted by the scent of his skin against mine, the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. The way his mouth moves, the way his heart beats in that impossible, improbable way. That feather in the bag on my back. The way it feels like silk under my fingers. The way it’s blue. I need—
No. No. I don’t need. I don’t want to need. Fuck this. Fuck him.
My mother is the first to break the silence. “You getting any sleep?” she asks, even though she knows the answer already.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice more rough than I’d like. “I’m fine,” I try again, clearing my throat. It doesn’t sound any more believable.
“Haven’t seen Cal around,” she says carefully.
“He’s back in California,” I mutter, taking another sip of coffee. “Went home for a bit.”
I don’t miss the shared glance between the sisters.