Bright Before Us (17 page)

Because I had nightmares about it all weekend,
I said.
I kept dreaming that I saw her jump. My ex-wife.

There was a harsh little beat of silence.
Why didn't you tell me this at the scene?

I wasn't certain then,
I said.

I sorted through things. Evaluated my motives. Gauged my veracity.

I was in shock,
I said slowly.
You saw me at the beach. I didn't understand why I was so upset, and then over the last few days I've ...

I turned around. Rebekah was standing at the window, watching the cars pass.

Nora Lucas,
I said.
No, I haven't called her.

I stopped by her house,
I said.
She wasn't there. She hadn't been there in a while. Look, isn't there any evidence you can, that you can divulge?

I don't know what's going on here, Mr. Mason,
he said.
But I think it goes without saying that I can't share anything with you about this case. Not until identity of the deceased can be established.

I tensed.
But you know the identity, I'm telling you who ...

As my voice rose, Rebekah turned to watch me.

This is my wife,
I said, weighting the final syllable.

My chest tightened.

I sputtered.
You're just going to ignore what I told you?

There was a long pause, and when he spoke again his tone had shifted. In place of his anger was something new; he held it back enough that it took a finely tuned ear to discern its presence, but it was there: pity.

I don't understand,
I said. I felt a helpless, hiccupping laugh rise in my throat.
It's the truth. She jumped from the bridge.
I stared out the window, trying to collect my thoughts.
I didn't see her jump, I didn't mean to say ... you could probably tell from the autopsy that—

When he spoke again it was deliberate, slow.
Why do you think this woman is
—here he paused, I assumed to look at his notes—
Nora Lucas? The deceased wasn't in a state in which—

I grabbed a piece of chalk from the chalkboard's rim.
Not with any accuracy.

He sounded perturbed.
Right.

She was unhappy.
I waded through my reasoning.
She told me, ‘This is where people come to die.' I saw the body, and it was her.
Her house was abandoned. The strands of red hair. My fingers ground the chalk into an ashy dust.

His voice was quiet, compressed.
Mr. Mason, I think you've—

I haven't,
I said.

Outside, a car rolled past, blasting its radio.

I'd like it if you would come to the station right away,
he said.

I replaced the receiver without another word. Walking over to her, I sat in the miniature chair beside Rebekah. We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time.
Here's how it works,
I said again.
There's only a place for one number. Only one number can go there. So the other one gets carried.

She looked at the paper, and then back at me.
Why?
she said.

 

At half after four Rebekah left with her father. I went to a bar about ten blocks from Hawthorne, where a group of pathetic men in Hawaiian shirts enjoyed a complicated trivia event. College kids played Connect Four in the corner. Slowly, I swiveled my head: the place was eighty percent girls, with their rainbow-colored cocktails and shared orders of six measly chicken wings. The chalkboard above the bar advertised two dozen shooters designed to mimic baked goods: the Pineapple Upside Down Cake, the Bananas Foster, the Jelly Donut.
Boston Cream Pie,
I read aloud.

The bartender swung a rag beside him like he was twirling his pistol.
That's what you want? That's our specialty.

I shook my head and ordered a shot of Jameson.
And a beer,
I added.

The bartender frowned.
Heretic,
he said.

I downed the shot, then pointed to the tiny glass. He refilled it.

You look,
the bartender said,
like someone in a movie playing a sad guy in a bar.

I looked up at him.

Straight out of central casting,
he said.

When I didn't return it, his smile faded.

Do you have a phone?
I asked.

He set it down beside me.
Local, right?

Do you have a phone book?
I took a prodigious swig and looked down: the beer and the second shot were gone.

He set the directory next to the phone, motioning to my empty glass.
Another?

Yeah,
I said, skimming the pages—pet grooming, pest control, preschool. I stopped flipping, running my finger down the columns of numbers.

The bartender looked down at the page.
Oh, Lord,
he said, pouring my refill.
It just gets better and better.

 

At seven o'clock, still vaguely drunk, I pulled up to the house across town, parking in the empty driveway—my thoughts abstract, tamped down, tolerable. I heard Greta's voice saying,
Do something, anything, to keep it together
; heard the sound of the whiskey bottle's stubby neck rolling across the wood floor. Everything felt distant and manageable. It was the best I'd felt in days: I had done something. I was drunk enough to believe I was being proactive.

Outside the house, I saw a woman standing next to her long, wide car. An old lady's car. She wore a fitted corporate pantsuit in eggplant, with a cheap paisley scarf knotted at her loose-skinned neck. Her gray hair was spiked and immobile. We shook hands, hers covered in ornate gemstone rings. I had made the appointment from the bar; it was easier than I had anticipated.

We spoke on the phone,
I said.
Thanks for coming on such short notice.

Francis,
she said.
I'm Beverly.
When our hands let go she leaned in and hugged me, her touch as formal as an airport frisk.

I'll need to ask you a few more things now,
she said, though we had discussed everything over the phone already.
How old were you when you married?

Twenty-two,
I said.
I told you that, I think?

She was undeterred.
To receive the energy. When did you divorce?

I felt my buzz wearing off, my hackles begin to raise.
I'm a little skeptical about things like this.

Perhaps we should just get started,
she said.
I'll need an object of hers.

We walked up the steps. I took out my keys, hesitating, before I stepped forward.

And then we were inside.

 

The house no longer smelled of life being lived there. There was instead the distinct tang of neglect—dust, musty moisture leeching into softer surfaces, cracks in the floor alive with bacteria—like no windows or doors had been opened, no rooms disturbed. And there was something else, something sweet and deceased. The place was bleak, though still furnished. Emptiness hung in the air like a caustic vapor. I was suddenly so ready to be out of that place I impulsively took a step backward. I had a key, yes. But I wasn't welcome.

Do you have the object?
she asked.

Hang on,
I said.

I went up to the bedroom—the dated posters, the ancient dried roses. The same air-freshener smell. The space felt empty. I slid the louvered closet door on its rails. Apart from a white dress hanging against the back wall, its hem stained faintly with grass, the closet was empty. The sight of the dress made me wince. A clock showing the incorrect time ticked loudly from above the desk. I could hear footsteps outside the door.

I stepped into the hall to find Beverly waiting.
I felt her asking me to come up,
she said. I offered the dress to her as though I were surrendering.

She paused.
Oh, yes. There's definitely something.
I leaned against the wall, not sure what to do with myself. Beverly entered the master bedroom and moments later I heard her speaking to someone.
Yes, she's definitely here. Oh, I know. What are you getting? Oh dear.
I stepped forward, and saw that she was on a cell phone. Apparently her partner could get premonitions off-site. Beverly walked with her eyes closed, pausing near the bed.
Oh, I feel a great sadness here.
There was a distant chipmunk voice at the other end of her call, the words indistinguishable.
A great regret,
Beverly said. The phone voice buzzed in response. Beverly glanced down the hall and looked at me imploringly.
Francis,
she said,
I'll need you to help her pass into the light.
She motioned with her finger.

We sat together on the edge of the made bed. She took my hand. Her skin was dry and cool. The dress lay beside her.
Francis,
she began,
I need you to push all of your energy toward this spirit. Use your mind to tell her that you have only kind words to say.

I closed my eyes and thought, I have only kind words for you.

Francis, I need you to help me fill the room with psychic light.
She squeezed my hand tighter.
Can you help me do that?

I pressed my eyes until no light penetrated.
Yes,
I said. I imagined the bedroom hosting its own sunrise. Orange, then yellow, then white.

Good,
Beverly said.
Now I need you to tell her not to be afraid.

Don't be afraid,
I said aloud.

I want to,
I said.

Tell her something wonderful awaits her,
she said.
Tell her to walk toward the light. I can feel her turning back, she's afraid—

Pass into the light, Nora,
I said.

Pass into the light,
I said, opening my eyes.

I saw a menopausal woman with gym-teacher hair and a bad suit staring at me earnestly, and I thought, She really believes. It was comforting, and it was sad. I closed my eyes again and sighed, deep and rattling, like I was taking my last breath.

 

I walked her downstairs, both of us jangling our car keys. We paused in the foyer as I wrote her a check.
Walk you out?
I said.

That won't be necessary,
she said, turning toward the door. She passed the entryway closet—still full, I assumed, of board games and junk—without a word. As her car pulled
away, I opened the closet door and stepped back. The smell of roses was ripe and suffocating. She had walked right past it.

I realized the check I had written her would bounce.

 

I sat on the couch where I had slept the night of the funeral, sneezing from the dust and staring at the bookshelves, whole sections devoted to baseball statistics, half a dozen guides on quilting. There were pictures in frames on the shelves, arranged among VHS tapes, tchotchkes, dead plants, and lion-head bookends. I wandered upstairs, opening a dresser drawer in the master bedroom: a neat stack of men's dress shirts, folded and crisp. None of their things had been moved.

Across the hall, I picked up the novelty phone in the bedroom and heard the dial tone. The bill had been paid at least somewhat recently. How long did they give you before they cut off service? I dialed the old apartment phone number automatically, without thinking, and a female voice answered.

There was a confused pause.
There's no one named—

Fuck it,
I said, setting down the receiver.

I knew I would stay there overnight; that that was the only option. Buckingham knew where I lived—if he didn't, he could easily find out.
I tried you at home,
he had said. It all felt like too much. I heard Buckingham's voice again:
So you said.
Despite the booze—God, I wished I had more pills—the gravity of it all, the sheer, abject snowballing fucking
enormity
of what was happening here was
more apparent than I wanted it to be, than I thought it would be after a king's share of quality Irish whiskey and several watery domestic beers. Why the fuck had I said that aloud?
Before she jumped,
I heard my voice saying to him—it replayed again and again, like someone slapping me.
Before she jumped. Before she jumped.

And then, from the landing at the top of the steps, I saw the aquarium. The water was still and clouded, the fish floating. The sides of the tank were coated in scum. The smell, the one I had smelled when we entered the house, seemed to intensify as I connected it with its source. The place suddenly felt more still, more ghostly, more saturated with death than it had after the funeral, or on the day we emptied the rosy closet. It felt like a repository for sadness. It felt like a tomb.

Y
ou want me to live with you? I want this, without the commute,
you said.
I like you a lot.