Before You Go (17 page)

“Jude? Is that you?”

A familiar voice called to him. Jude turned to see Corey’s mother. Mrs. Masterson looked elegant, a tall, thin woman dressed in a gray business suit with matching skirt and jacket over a bright blue blouse. “Oh, Mrs. Masterson. Hi.”

“Jude, I haven’t seen you for ages.” Her eyes scanned the vicinity. “Is your mother with you?”

Jude held a grapefruit in his hand. “No, I’m … my dad’s at the paint store. I’m supposed to pick up some grapefruit and stuff.”

She smiled, glanced at the fruit in Jude’s hand. “Well, that one’s not ripe, it’s too yellow,” she instructed. Mrs. Masterson picked through a few grapefruits, talking as she did so. “You have to look for ones that are more orange in color. Like these. But check for soft spots; you don’t want the fruit that’s been bruised.”

Jude held out a plastic bag and allowed Corey’s mother to select six good ones. He smiled. “Good thing I ran into you.”

“You must be excited about school starting next week,” she said, her smile an act of determination, a choice. “Senior year.”

“Senior year,” Jude echoed.

“Are you all set with college?” It was the question that every adult asked kids his age.

“Not yet,” Jude said. “My grades are good. I’m thinking about Boston, or the city, maybe for music. Applications aren’t due until January. We’ll see where I get accepted.”

“You did very well on your SATs. I remember Corey bragging on you, he was so proud,” she said. Mrs. Masterson lifted her chin after those words, forced her body to stand erect. “There’s time to decide yet, no hurries.” She touched his arm, squeezed. “It’s good to see you, Jude. If you ever want to come around the house, just to visit, you know you’re always welcome. Corey’s accident was hard on everyone, and I worry about his friends, especially you.”

He felt a warm pressure build up behind his eyes, looked away. She was worried about him, this woman who had buried her son. “Thanks, maybe I will,” he answered, even though he knew he’d never make that visit.

“Have you been going to church?” Mrs. Masterson was devoutly religious, never missed a Sunday. Corey and Jude had joked about it many times, since she always insisted on dragging Corey along.

Jude shook his head. “No, I—”

“It’s helped me,” she said.

“I’m glad,” he said, and he was.

She looked gravely into his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Jude faked that answer. Shrugged it off, gave a line, walked away. But this time, he stood there, breathless, his vision gone blurry, eyes moist. Something inside him seemed to break, like a dam giving way. “No,” he admitted, “not really,” his voice tripping over the emotion, the sound scarcely above a whisper.

Her warm, dark hands came to him then—hands that felt soft and infinitely kind—and wrapped around his own hands. “I know, Jude, I can see it in your eyes,” she said. “If you leave your heart open, God will find you.”

They stood together in the fresh-fruit section, surrounded by oranges and bananas, a white teenage boy and a bereft black woman, her hands holding his, tears in both their eyes.

When will we ever stop crying?
he wondered.

“I’m helping my father paint the house,” Jude finally said, shifting on his feet, trying to regain some sort of balance. “And we’re taking down some bushes and that old tree out front.”

“That will brighten up the place,” she replied.

“Yeah, I guess the roots were kind of screwing up the foundation,” he offered, somewhat lamely.

“It’s good to let in the light,” she said. Jude understood that she was speaking in mysteries, not of trees, of things deep and spiritual.

Jude’s cell sounded, an electronic riff from a popular song. He grinned awkwardly, embarrassed. “My dad,” he explained. “He’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”

Mrs. Masterson signaled that she understood. Before parting, she asked, “Is it all right, Jude, if I hug you? Right here in the middle of the supermarket?”

“I wish you would,” he told her, his voice a bleat in the wilderness.

THIRTY-ONE

Jude couldn’t sleep that night. By one thirty, he still lay on his back, mind throbbing with the conviction that everything in his world had gone wrong. He forced himself to retrace his blessings, the people and things he would never wish away. But it didn’t work. Some secret part of him that he dared not confess longed only for annihilation.

The idea of death.

Sweet oblivion.
Jude felt the undertow pulling him, the riptide washing him out. He stared at the ceiling. Water filled his ears; he was drowning again. Jude felt with astonishing certainty that he would die right there in bed if he did not act, did not rise this very second to resist the grip that pulled him deeper into the gloom. He sat up, flicked on a closet bulb, and quickly dressed, baggy shorts and a Radiohead tee. He slipped down the stairs, stepped out into the night, and sniffed autumn’s sweet decay.

He walked aimlessly, or so he imagined, down a desolate street, then another, crossing into an empty playground where swings dangled uselessly. He reclined on a seesaw, arms folded behind his head, invisible to any passing cars. Jude tried to clear his mind, casting away thoughts and images, hoping to stay as empty as the unwritten pages of some tender, forgotten book. He thought of zombies and ghosts, and he thought of the living. Somehow the thoughts hoisted him up, like strong hands yanking on his collar, and he knew there was only this present moment, cast adrift in the here and now. He breathed in, he breathed out. He decided to believe in life.

Jude punched out a message to Becka:
Can i c u?

Would she hear it? Could she possibly be awake? He waited for an answer. None came. He sent a second message:
Now, pls.

It was useless. She must be asleep, the cell off. But Jude was determined. He couldn’t
not
see her. Jude’s body wanted to run, needed to run, and so he ran along the front strips of grass between sidewalk and street, his body energized, heart beating steadily—all the way to Becka’s house, two miles away.

Jude paused outside, gathered small stones from the road. There was a light on upstairs, leaking from the hallway. He tossed pebbles at Becka’s bedroom window. The window shuddered up, a head poked out. “Who are you?”

It was Becka’s brother; Jude recognized him from the band at the bowling alley. Even in the dark, he looked pissed.

“Sorry, I must’ve got the wrong room,” Jude called up in a whisper.

“What?”

“Where’s Becka’s room?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” the brother asked. “I should come down and kick your ass.”

Jude must have appeared like a sad, pathetic figure out there on the lawn, because the brother—Matt, that was his name—finally pointed a finger at the next window. “That’s hers, dickwad.” He slammed the window shut.

More rocks, more anxious waiting. At last Becka pulled the curtains aside, peered out, recognized Jude’s shadow, and signaled for him to wait. A pair of car headlights snaked down the street. Jude retreated behind a tree, an intruder in the night. Becka opened the front door. He stepped from the dark, whistled softly, and she came to him in bathrobe and slippers.

“Jude, what are you doing here?” she asked, slumber still in her voice.

“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been out walking.”

“And now you’re here at three in the morning,” Becka stated.

“I’m sorry, it was stupid; I wasn’t thinking.”

She looked searchingly into his face. Her fingers touched his cheek. “You look like hell.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” he said.

Becka turned to look at the house. She chewed on the corner of her lower lip, deciding. “Wait here,” she instructed. Becka went back into the house and returned minutes later fully dressed, holding a plastic bag and a set of car keys. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Shhh,” she whispered, moving to the car. “I don’t want my parents to hear us. You’ll have to push me out of the driveway.”

She climbed into the driver’s seat and put the Toyota into neutral. Jude lowered his back to the front grill and pushed. The car rolled easily down the incline, banking into the street. “Hurry,” she urged. “Get in.”

Becka turned the key and away they rolled—down the road, around the corner, the two of them hushed in the thrill of their illicit escape, safely away.

She handed him a soda, purloined from the fridge. Jude twisted off the cap. “Where to?” he asked.

“Give me a hit of that first,” she said, reaching for the bottle. Becka took a deep swallow, burped faintly, and giggled. “God, I so love burping.” She laughed and took another sip.

At a stop sign, Becka found something acoustic on the radio, a guy with a guitar. The suburban side streets were ghostly, the town at rest. Jude sat back and watched Becka scan the road with alert, roving eyes. “You’re a good driver,” he said.

“Thanks,” Becka nodded. “Not that I need your approval.” She smacked him playfully on the chest. Jude caught her hand, felt it against his heart, and held it there. After a pause, she pulled her hand away and returned it to the wheel.

“I made you a sandwich,” she said. “You like mustard, right?”

It was real ham, cut from the bone, on a kaiser roll. Jude ate ravenously. “I didn’t realize I was this hungry.”

She glanced at him, satisfied, and turned onto the parkway, the car picking up speed, hurtling toward Jones Beach.

THIRTY-TWO

Becka led the way through the dark, down the long West End beach toward the ocean. Jude smelled the briny air, tasted seaweed on his tongue before the ocean’s hum had even reached his ears. His vision limited to shades of gray and black, Jude sensed something in the distance that couldn’t be seen, something vast and mysterious called the Atlantic. There was another world across it, and even greater mysteries beyond. He reached out for Becka’s hand. They walked barefoot and together to land’s end.

They found a lifeguard stand and climbed to the high, wide seat. “Okay, I’m listening,” she said with a new edge to her voice. “Talk to me, Jude. What’s going on?”

Jude didn’t know where to begin. His mind was like that restless ocean out there, thoughts churning.

“I’ve been thinking about my sister a lot,” Jude said. “It’s weird, you’d think after Corey—I don’t know.”

Becka glanced at him, watched the ocean, waited.

Jude sighed, frustrated. Not sure what he wanted to say or what had carried them to this moment in time, on the beach, under the stars. “I helped carry her casket,” he said.

“Your sister’s?”

“I guess my parents thought it was poetic or whatever, I don’t know. I remember that I told them I wanted to do it, but it wasn’t true. I just felt like I should.”

“You were nine years old,” Becka said, “and you carried a casket?”

“I didn’t do it by myself,” Jude said, “I had help—my father, some uncles, my parents’ friends. All I really remember was how heavy it was,” Jude continued, staring into the ocean. “I didn’t expect that part. She was only, like, forty pounds, but the coffin weighed so much. All I could think about was the awful weight of that box. With each step, I knew I would carry her like that forever.”

The surf pounded in broken waves. Becka squeezed Jude’s knee, her face in shadow.

“The memories usually come in colors,” Jude continued. “I’ll see a certain shade of yellow, maybe, and I’ll picture her in that pretty little sundress she used to wear; or green, and I’ll remember her eyes, like yours almost, Beck, and how they shined when she laughed. I can feel her slipping away, like an echo dying in the distance.”

He paused. “I’m the boy who let her drown.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Becka said. “You never should have been put in that position.”

Jude nodded. “I know that. In my head, I get it. But—”

“You have to forgive that boy,” Becka said.

Jude shook his head.

“You were just a kid,” she insisted.

Headlights appeared along the beach, a four-wheel jeep rolling down the shore.

“Security patrol,” Jude said. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Quick, jump down,” Becka said. They leaped to the sand. There were a couple of long, seafaring rowboats tied facedown to the stand. “Let’s hide.”

They squeezed between the two boats, huddled close together. Jude peered out from underneath, watching the lights bounce closer, closer, until turning away toward the parking lot.

They lingered in the black womb of the boat’s overturned belly, waiting for the coast to clear, an electric closeness between them. Becka found his mouth, and they kissed, and time seemed to disappear.

*   *   *

“He’ll find my car,” Becka realized, standing to brush the sand off her arms and legs. “We should go.”

Jude glanced to the east. The sky was softening, turning pinkish, foreshadowing sunrise. He clawed sand from his hair. “Are we going to be all right?”

Becka lifted her shoulders, let them drop. She didn’t know, and so couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he said.

Becka nodded, looked at her feet. “You really hurt me, Jude.”

He swallowed those words, each one like a stone in his stomach. “I want to try to make it right.”

“Sometimes I feel like I fell in love with a stranger,” Becka confessed. “I can’t be hurt like that again, Jude—not by you, not by any boy. I deserve better.”

Jude didn’t answer. He knew that he couldn’t undo the hurt, couldn’t black out the stars above, was helpless to uncrash the car. He touched her slender waist, wrapped an arm around her back, squeezed.

Becka trembled slightly, hugged Jude in return. “We’ll see what happens, okay? But you have to tell me one thing,” she said. “Tell me it’s over with that girl.”

“It’s over,” Jude replied. “It never started.”

“You embarrassed me.”

“Nothing happened,” Jude said.

“Nothing?”

Jude looked from Becka to the distance beyond. Then back to her again: “Nothing that meant anything.”

Becka pulled the hair from her face. “I think I could love you, Jude. But I’ve got all kinds of warning bells going off in my head.”