A Portal to Leya (13 page)

COMMENTS

Jabberwocky9
Madness
is underrated. I think all great thinkers are mad. They just go together like
hotdogs and mustard. I’m mad too. Don’t worry.

2cents
careful
with alcohol. Don’t ever mix with anything. I had a scary experience with that
myself.

EMMET’S
PAINTING

I’m
an official lunatic. I barely talk or go anywhere. Don Banks has returned. I
didn’t even know he was coming! He just showed up this morning at my bedroom
door. Talk about invasive. Don’t I have any rights? I guess the mentally ill
are second class citizens. I might as well get used to it. When I asked Dorrie
she explained that I wasn’t going to school enough so the school recommended a
tutor. She said she told me. I don’t remember. I think my depression is destroying
my short term memory. I listened to Don Banks drone on about Viet Nam, how his
buddy saved his life. Just when he was explaining the good parts, Dorrie
interrupted, said that Trudy was at the door. As much as I craved her body and
her wine, I told Dorrie not to let her in. I decided I had my own trauma. If I
get arrested for obstruction of justice, so be it. It’s my fate. As a matter of
fact, after Banks left, I started thinking some more about Emmet, his
paintings. I always thought I had to go to Paris to see his paintings, and we’d
sit and have coffee and pastry in some outdoor café and catch up on all the
time we lost. Leya said she’d come too. But Dorrie said that his paintings are
in Middletown, 35 miles away. She said we can go this Saturday. I told her that
we should go Friday instead. I don’t know why I said Friday. I don’t know why I
say anything anymore. She said “Great idea, Lance.” So, yes, I will go to
Middletown

Lance

COMMENTS

Susanne
I
hope you go to see Emmet’s paintings. I think it will make you feel much
better.

Heather
Go
to New Haven. I miss you. You have me. I will go with you if you want. xoxo

GOOD
FRIDAY AND THE BEANTREE CAFÉ AND BY THE JETTY

Christians
believe no one dies alone because the Lord is always present. It’s Good Friday.
It is the day that Jesus was nailed to a cross and died of asphyxiation. His
body was stretched out and it compressed his lungs and that’s how he died. His
last words were these: “My God, my God why hast thou forsaken me?” Leya died
the same way. I wonder if she had last words. I saw her this morning. I saw her
standing at the shed. Her image was blurry, but I could tell it was her. I can
barely hear her voice anymore. Sometimes I try hard to recall it. When I can’t,
I panic. The waves are clogged. I’m confused, perplexed. I don’t understand murder,
how my own mother lied to me. I am trying to make sense of it all. One part
wants to forgive her and the other part wants to reject her. My waves are
static.

Today helped clear the waves: Dorrie took me to
The
Bean Tree
a small café- book store in Middletown where Emmet Price’s
paintings are displayed and for sale. The ride was quiet. When we walked in, I
smelled church—incense and candles. I saw shelves and shelves of books in
narrow rows. A woman in a long hippie type skirt, sandals and two pony tails on
the side of her head said hello. She looked younger from a distance. When she
got up close, I saw her wrinkles.

“Hello” she said “My name is Lola. Is there anything
special you’re looking for today?”

“
No,
I want to see the art,” I told her. I got right to the point. There was only
one painting left out of the three, and it was titled
by the jetty
. It
was salmon colored blended with pastels, with the jetty, sunfish sailboats,
orange row boats in the foreground and a row of wood shingled cottages in the
background. Of all the places Emmet’s seen, I thought of how it could have been
the Eiffel Tower or the Seine River or medieval castles or churches. No, it was
Long Island Sound and some damn rocks and shi**y cottages. Dorrie asked how
much. “I’m sorry. It’s not for sale,” the hippy lady Lola said, even though it
was displayed with other paintings that were for sale. She looked worried,
sick. She said this was a special one, the last, and she’d had it for a while.
It was given to her as a gift. I couldn’t help myself then, and I yelled at
her, told her the artist was my father, Emmet Bryce and that was our painting.
I told her she couldn’t have it. I even tried to take it off the wall and I
would have but Dorrie grabbed my arm (pretty hard) and coaxed me out of the
store. She said I embarrassed her, and that I needed to take a deep breath. But
Lola was so impressed, she gave me the painting. She told me Emmet was a
brilliant painter and that I should be proud. She was teary eyed. I asked her
if she knew that he burned down churches. She said that she had read that in
the paper, and that she was sorry but that he was still a brilliant painter
even if he did burn down the church.

On the ride home, the car was silent. We
were both on standby. I held the painting, ran my hands along the bottom right
hand corner, Emmet Bryce’s signature, the closest I’d come to a connection. I
knew he felt me, then. I sent my waves. I’m glad I went. I love my painting.

Lance

COMMENTS

Jabberwocky9
So
glad you got the painting. Happy endings are mad great. I love the beach too. I
hope you go back there soon. I love the name Lola. I’m going to name my
daughter Lola (if I ever have one).

Heather
coming
over to color eggs?

@heather
I’ll be there in an hour.

EASTER
EVENTS

I collapsed last night. I think I need to stop the
Benadryl. I woke up, went downstairs, found my basket (Dorrie insists) and
gorged myself with chocolate eggs and jelly beans. Today is Easter Sunday, the
day Jesus rose from the dead and my head is aching. We are Catholics but we
don’t always follow the rules. I used to be jealous of Leya’s family, the way they
piled into the car every Sunday. We stopped going when I was little. I’m not
sure why. It was about the time that Emmet Bryce left. I was only four-years
old. But this morning, we went to church—all three of us. I agreed to go
because I thought I could say a prayer, get closer to Leya, the truth,
forgiveness, something damn it.

It was crowded in the church because people
(sinners) who don’t normally go to church decide, like us, to go on Easter
Sunday. I was smashed between Ben and some elderly man with a bad cough and
wheezing. It wasn’t the most holy experience. We had nosebleed seats, so I
couldn’t even see the priest or the Alter which means I could barely hear the
Mass. I like to hear what’s going on. But, at one point, I looked up at the
stained glass windows inside St. Thomas and the sun streamed through and a hymn
was being sung and when we bowed our heads in prayer, I spoke to you Leya and
Emmet and prayed for forgiveness and peace and all that good stuff. I felt a
rush. My body was shaking. I even went up for the Eucharist. I figured I was
cleared of all mortal sins and I had confessed as much as I could on my blog
and in my head.

After, we had Chinese for dinner (I ordered fried
dumplings) and then we played cards. It was, overall, a productive day. Dorrie
said we should go to church every Sunday. “We won’t” I told her. Then I heard
the sirens.

I looked out the living
room bay window and saw an ambulance and police cars at the Markus’s house. I
ran outside, barefoot, imagining the worst. I couldn’t help myself. I was a
maniac from all the chocolate eggs I’d eaten. I felt like an actor in a movie.
When I reached her house, I saw the grandfather on the ground by his chair,
paramedics working on him. Trudy was standing with Neal Lourdes off to the
side, holding a half emptied bottle of wine moaning “Grandpa please…please
don’t die…please don’t leave me.” And Neal Lourdes the alleged cold-blooded
murderer, sporting an electric monitoring device on his ankle, was rubbing her
back, saying “It will be okay, Trudes. I promise. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m
here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” What a scene. It was
dramatic for sure.

He called her Trudes. I thought of that
later. I decided Trudy was telling the truth and Neal was really with her the
night Leya died. I mean really WITH her. He would never have called her Trudes
unless they had a thing and, also, he was taking a huge risk being at her house
so he must be either stupid or in love or both.

Lance

COMMENTS

Heather
so
that’s why you never made it! : ( I colored an egg for you. You have to come
over to get it.

@heather
forgive me?

Heather
of course xo

FORGIVENESS
AND THE DEATH OF EMILIO THOMAS MARKUS

I read more about my father, Emmet Bryce:
Parishioners
of Emmanuel church forgive their friend Emmet Bryce for burning down their
church: Love your neighbor said Thomas Bowden. Emmet was a dear friend, after
all, and sick said another.  
I read it and then asked Dorrie for Emmet’s
address. I added this to my letter:
I’m sorry you are sick. I hope you feel
better soon
and gave the letter to Dorrie, asked her if she could please
proof it, and then she said she was sorry and that she loved me and thought I
was brave. I looked at her and almost said okay. But I didn’t. I’m still mad.
Part of me is still mad.

BTW: Trudy Markus’s grandfather, Emilio Thomas
Markus passed away on Easter Sunday at 11:59 P.M.. That has to be significant. Neal
Lourdes’s truck has been parked at the Markus’s home since yesterday. I can’t
say I’m jealous. But I am curious. I wonder what they are doing in there, if
they have talked about going to the police.

COMMENTS

Heather
Awesome
news, Lance. And I’m glad you had a nice Easter and that you mailed that
letter! I miss you.

@heather,
I’m at school in the afternoons, 3x a week. Meet me after school.

Heather
k

Jabberwock9
Death comes in threes.

A
LETTER TO FRANCIS

Today
was not productive. I woke up dizzy.  I never see Leya anymore. When I do, it’s
blurry and she fades in and out. It disturbs me. All day, I obsessed over
visiting my dad. I asked Dorrie. She said no, not now—maybe soon. I asked her
when I would become officially manic, what age. I wonder about these things.
Dorrie said never, and I shouldn’t worry about it. I’m not really worried, I
assured her. I lied because I’m sick of being a wimp. I want to be more like
Francis, any brave soldier for that matter. I wrote him a letter:

Dear
Francis:

I wonder when you will be coming home.
How is the weather in Afghanistan? Remember at White Sands Beach we would race
on the jetty and I slipped and cut Leya my leg. You carried me back to the
cottage. You were like a soldier even back then. I am trying to be brave like
you. But when I think about being in a war, with guns and bombs, it only makes
me afraid. At night, I hear a jet and think it’s going to crash into our house.
I don’t like to be alone. I am always afraid. I will never be a soldier like
you, Francis. I hear they have spiders as tall as 3 feet. Is this true? I don’t
think I could stand to see one of those. Never mind the sounds of bombs, the
spiders are scary enough. BTW: I still miss Leya but I’ve met someone else.
Neal Lourdes is still under house arrest. His lawyer keeps getting a delay (not
sure how). I wonder if you could tell me about criminals. I have this theory
that we are all guilty and that maybe Neal (Leya’s murderer) was an addict. He
couldn’t lose Leya because she was his addiction. What will happen to him? I
thought you might know more about these things. Dad is a criminal. Did you know
that he burned down a church? But his friends forgave him so they might not
press charges. I wrote Dad a letter and mailed it. Good Friday, I got one of
his paintings. When you come home you can see it. Did you know Jesus forgave
his enemies? I’ve been thinking of that, lately. Okay, See you soon
(hopefully).

Love your brother, Lance

COMMENTS

Jabberwocky9
OMG—great
letter Lance. You’re a neat kid. Don’t forget it.

Susanne
I
think you are very brave, too Lance. Leya thought so too. I love the letter and
hope you stop worrying soon. Life is hard right now, but I’m sure it will get
better. Yes, I agree that Neal must have a good lawyer. But come on. Why is it
taking so long?

@all-- once, again, thx I don’t have much else to
say. But I appreciate your responses.

@heather thanks for the poem and the chat.

Heather
pleasure was all mine!!!!

BECOMING

I am not necessarily brave. But someone is making me
feel braver, I have to admit, and I’m having more Sir Lancelot moments and enjoying
every minute of it (wink). I never realized.

Less than two months before summer vacation. Trudy
Markus is gone. Her house is dark and closed up. I think she must be living
with Neal Lourdes. I think she dropped out of school too. Every morning, I walk
to school, but I don’t see her. I don’t think I’ll ever be with Trudy
again…that way. But I just hope they go to the police. Neal’s trial is coming
up soon.