We'll Never Be Apart (14 page)

CHAPTER

T
HE DAY OF
J
ASON'S FUNERAL IS BRIGHT.
The sun blossoms high and yellow in the clear sky. It's cold, a bitter cold that makes such a pretty day seem cruel. There will be no church service, not even a short memorial by the graveside.

Sara comes and signs me out. Dr. Goodman brings a police officer. The police officer outfits me with an ankle monitor that gets strapped to my right leg. It's light but too bulky to wear under my jeans, so it rests on the outside. Donny, Dr. Goodman, and Nurse Dummel escort me outside, which makes me feel like I should be wearing an orange jump suit, a straitjacket, and a facemask. Dr. Goodman looks especially worried. I climb into Sara's car, which smells like pine trees, leather, and vanilla. I have to crack a window to keep from choking. We drive to the edge of town.

I've been this way before, with Cellie when we buried Grandpa. We had taken the bus as far as we could go and walked along the frozen river, our footsteps harsh and unforgiving on the frigid landscape. The day of Grandpa's funeral it snowed, a beautiful white blanket that bleached the world of color. There's no snow today, but it's just as cold. And that seems worse.

I stay pretty quiet during most of the drive, and Sara doesn't push me to talk. A couple of times she reaches over and squeezes my hand or my knee. When we get to the cemetery, she parks at the gate.

“Do you know the way?” she asks.

I nod. Dr. Goodman gave me directions to the plot, courtesy of the cemetery director. “Do you mind waiting here?” I ask. “I think this is something I need to do alone.”

She bites her lip. She seems nervous to let me out of her sight.

“Look, I know your ass is on the line if I run. I promise, I won't. Just give me thirty minutes. I'll give you the directions, and you can come for me after. Plus . . .” I gesture to the blinking ankle monitor.

She mulls it over for a minute and then finally says, “Okay. You can go by yourself.”

I thank her and get out of the car. Right away the cold seeps through the canvas of my shoes, gets into my socks, and nibbles at my toes. I hug my sweatshirt tight to my chest, as if I could ward off the icy chill by huddling inward. I walk a few steps and pause by a pillar with a carved lion on top of it. The cemetery is bare and bleak, the grass brown even though it's rained off and on the last couple of days. Gray tombstones dot the lawn and roll up through the hills. I can feel Sara's eyes on me, boring into my back. I turn and give her a short wave. She returns the gesture, her face a little grim.

When we buried Grandpa, Cellie walked through the cemetery with me, our joined hands swinging between us. This time I walk alone. I start up the winding road. Digging into my hoodie pocket, I retrieve the directions Dr. Goodman gave me. My toes grow numb. I curl and uncurl them in my shoes, hoping to push some blood back into them. Once I'm out of Sara's sight, I stop at a holly bush and pry some branches from it. They're pretty, with little red berries and evergreen leaves.

I walk until I see a tractor with a backhoe. A few feet away there's a hole in the ground, with a casket lying next to it. There aren't any flowers. The state sprung for a plot of land and a cheap wooden casket. That's all. I glance down at the sprig of holly leaves in my hand, hoping it's enough. The gravedigger is here, dressed in a green jump suit. He leans against the tractor, smoking a cigarette. He drops it and stomps it out when he sees me.

“Wasn't sure if anyone was going to show,” he says, inspecting the red-blinking ankle monitor strapped to my leg. “I was just about to finish up.”

“I'm here.” I don't take my eyes off the casket. My hand clenches the holly branch and the little thorns pierce my skin. My heart crashes like waves against rocks.

“You want some time alone?” the gravedigger asks.

“No.” I reach out a reverent hand to touch the casket. Jason's in there, resting peacefully, I hope. I lay the sprig of holly on top, the way I've seen people do on television. It doesn't give me any comfort. I didn't think it would. Still, I want Jason to have the best. “Go ahead,” I say. I know what's coming next.

The gravedigger sighs, makes his way over to the lowering device, and begins to crank it. The coffin hovers just above the ground, then moves slowly to the right before descending into the hole. I watch, oddly detached.

Then there's a guttural cry that I barely recognize as my own voice. I leap onto the casket. “No,” I cry, hugging the cheap coffin as it swings above the hole. Even though I know Jason is gone, I somehow can't let go of his body. I want to rip the lid off the coffin, touch his face one more time, feel the warmth of his cheek under my fingertips, feel the flush of his face, smell the breath of his voice.

Strong, dirty hands drag me back, away from the casket. “You're going to break my winch,” the gravedigger says.

I struggle against his fierce grip. Sadness and fury rage inside me. The gravedigger drags me back a few feet, my heels digging into the soggy earth. When we're a safe distance away, he drops me, and I crumple into a heap, exhausted. Through my sobs, I hear the gravedigger walk away and start the winch again. There's a soft thump as Jason's casket hits the slushy bottom of the hole. This isn't right. Jason should have had a Viking's funeral. His body should have been lovingly wrapped in linen, placed on a boat, and set adrift in the ocean, where flaming arrows from the shore were shot to catch the boat on fire. He should have been cremated at sea. Not left to rot in some cheap grave. When I open my eyes, all I can see are the gravedigger's green kneepads. He's crouched in front of me again.

“Shame no one else is here to bury your young fellow,” he says. “I've been doing this a long time. Seen a lot of grief. Sometimes it helps if you write it down. Write the person a note. A goodbye letter. Say all the things you want to but never got the chance.”

That's when I notice the piece of blue paper and chewed pencil in his dirty hand.

“Here, take 'em,” he says. “I only got the schedule of plots to be dug, but you can use the back to write something.”

I reach out and take what he's offering.

The gravedigger stands. “You take your time. This is my last dig today. I'll wait over there.” He points to a mausoleum down the hill. “When you're finished, give me a wave and I'll help you bury your fellow.”

The gravedigger leaves. I smooth out the piece of paper and use my thigh as a writing surface. Then I think better of it. There's no way to explain how I feel in words. I fold the paper over so it makes a triangle and then I rip off the excess. Now I have a square. Perfect. I fold it into a crane, a symbol of peace. Something I think Jason didn't have in this life. Something I hope will follow him into the next. I stand and wave the bird at the gravedigger. He nods and walks toward me.

“You done?” He eyes my unusual choice.

“Yeah.” I rub one of the wings between my fingers.

“Well, go on, then.” He nods toward the hole. Slowly I make my way over to the gravesite. I hold the crane aloft and then release it. For a moment it catches the wind, floats, then drifts down until it meets the top of the casket. A couple more tears slip down my cheeks. “You can start again,” I tell the gravedigger. “I won't freak out this time.”

“All right then,” he says, making his way over to the tractor. He sits in it and starts it up. The tractor comes alive with a rough jerk. He shifts the controls and the backhoe lifts, scooping up the perfect amount of soil. Dirt spatters on the hollow wood, and the sound is more difficult to listen to than the silence that accompanied me on my walk through the cemetery.

I relax my eyes and let my focus soften until the sky and trees blend together like the heavy brushstrokes of a van Gogh painting. I pretend that the sound of the dirt is only the rain, only the sound of my grandfather coming to take Jason home. As if on cue, dark clouds cover the sun. The sky opens and an ugly, gray sleet begins to fall.
Yes,
it's only the sound of the rain, of the weather, of our families riding the storm clouds to carry us away.

F
ROM THE
J
OURNAL OF
A
LICE
M
ONROE

 

On the Fourth of July, the whole neighborhood gathered to make a bonfire under the bridge, just down the street from Candy's house. Candy even managed to get up off the sofa, huffing and puffing like some old dragon with emphysema. One of the younger kids had to carry her accordion for her.

Right as the sun dipped below the horizon, we made it to the bonfire. Candy settled herself on a pair of milk crates, unhinged that accordion, and began to play “Moon River.” Until the booing and hissing and throwing of garbage started. Then she changed to “Paint It Black” by The Stones. Other musicians joined in as well, bringing an odd assortment of instruments into the song: a four-string guitar, a harmonica, even a violin. There was laughter and dancing and cheap, illegal fireworks. I was happy. A girl from down the street offered me a shot of tequila. I took it in one swallow, and just as quickly it blazed a fiery trail in my veins. I liked how it touched every atom inside of me, made me feel alive. I took another shot from her. Then another.

Jason and Cellie had disappeared. They'd been up to something all day, talking seriously in corners, plotting something, I was sure of it. But I didn't care. I wanted Jason and Cellie to be close. Then she wouldn't think of him as a threat.

I took another shot. Mickey, the boy who lived next door in a two-bedroom house, had offered it to me. He had a Mohawk, a lip piercing, and ten siblings. When he grabbed my hand, pulling me closer to the fire, I didn't struggle. “C'mon, Alice. Just one dance,” he said. Looping my arms around his neck, I closed my eyes and got lost in the beat. Everything felt so good. So warm. But then Mickey was pushed away from me. My arms dropped to my sides. Jason stood between us. His eyes were cold and dark, glinting like black diamonds in the firelight.

“Find another partner,” he said.

The way he said it, Mickey knew to back off and walk away. Immediately.

When Jason turned back to me, I felt the weight of his stare settle on my shoulders. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.

I shrugged. “A few shots . . . I feel all tingly.” I grinned and tugged at his shirt. “Please don't be mad.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, you're going to feel like shit in the morning.”

I rolled my eyes. I didn't care. The tequila steamrolled through my body, making it feel limber and numb. I wanted to take more shots. I wanted to do them with Cellie and Jason. “Where's Cellie?” I asked.

The bonfire lit one side of Jason's face while the other was cast in shadow. It looked as if he was wearing a mask. “I'm sure she'll show up soon.”

“Dance with me,” I said, and without waiting for his consent, I put my arms around his waist and drew him toward me. Even though the song was fast, we moved slowly. Jason held my hips and I pressed my cheek into the blue of his shirt, rubbing my nose against the soft fabric.

Usually I loved the way he smelled, like cinnamon and cigarettes, but that night he smelled like something different, something new, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “You smell funny.”

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, ignoring my observation.

I felt my face light up like a Christmas tree, the excitement and curiosity and tequila eclipsing my concern. “What is it?”

“Come on. I'll show you.” He wove his fingers through mine and led me away from the fire and into the dark. We stole through the night. The streets hummed with the sound of streetlights and the bugs getting zapped in them.

When we turned onto Roman's street, I shook free of his grasp. “I don't want to go back there,” I said.

Behind us fireworks exploded in jets of color over the black arc of the bridge. Iridescent blue, red, yellow, and green sparkled in the sky. I wanted to go back to the party, light a sparkler, and spell out my name, create some indelible proof that I had been there—that I existed at all.

“C'mon, baby. Don't be difficult. I just want to show you something.” Jason reached for my hand again, and because I didn't want to walk all the way back to the party on my own, I allowed myself to be led by him.

We made our way to Roman's house. The neighborhood was quiet and still. Most of the families were out by the bridge or had already turned in for the night. Roman's house was dark. Even the street lamp outside had been extinguished.

I sucked in a breath and came to a stop. It was then I recognized the smell, the one that clung to Jason's shirt and now settled in a cloud around Roman's house. Gasoline. The grass and the wood shingles of the house were wet. It hadn't rained in days.

Laughter, like a child's, came from the back of the house. Jason was already walking up the driveway. “C'mon, baby,” he beckoned. I charged past him, instantly sobering, the warmth of the tequila draining from my body, a profound coldness settling in.

I found Cellie crouched in the backyard, a pile of wadded newspapers and dry grass at her feet. A book of matches was in her hand.

“Don't, Cellie.” She looked up as if I'd startled her. Jason went and stood by her side. “I don't want this,” I said to him. He looked confused, utterly baffled.

“I told you not to tell her,” Cellie said. “She's weak.”

Jason defended me. “Shut up, Cellie,” he said, then to me: “I don't understand, Alice. We did this for you. Do you want him to hurt more kids?”

“He's not hurting any kids. The state took them all away. He'll drink himself to death soon enough, anyway.” I tried to reason.

Jason lowered his gaze and I could barely hear his voice. “What about what he did to us?
To me.
Don't you still see him at night? In your dreams?”

Of course I do,
I wanted to say. I saw Roman's face every night in the plaster of the walls and in the quaking floorboards. But I shook my head. “What he did to us was awful, especially to you. But this isn't the way, Jason. We have to forgive, to forget, to move on. The only power he has now is the power we give to him. You don't want to do this. I know it. This isn't
you.
”

His upper lip curled. “You don't know shit about me.” And in that moment, I didn't. I couldn't recognize the hard lines in his face or the malicious flash in his eyes. Cellie struck her match first, inhaling deeply at the explosion of sulfur. All the bones in her body seemed to relax. She handed the matchbook to Jason, and he struck one as well.

“Please,” I begged.

But they didn't listen. Maybe they couldn't hear my voice above their own anger and sadness. I could feel it coming off of them, radiating in waves, their desire, their strong compulsion to burn something down. Because in their heads they were still fighting him, still locked in that epic mythological battle. Together they held the matches aloft and dropped them.