End of the Road (2 page)

“
Don’t worry, Jack,” he
said. “We’ll get you home. We just have to take a slight detour
first.”

I shrugged. “If you’re a serial killer,
you’d probably get more pleasure from killing someone who gives a
shit about living.”

He laughed. “I’m not a serial killer, I
promise.”

We rode through town until we came to a road
on the south side, near the college.

“
I know this road,” I
said.

“
I thought you would,” he
said.

“
Why are we
here?”

“
You’ll see.”

He drove to the house at the end of the road
and stopped in the middle of the street. The house’s driveway was
packed with cars. I could hear music thumping inside. All the
lights were on, so I could see several people through the windows,
standing around the living room.

“
Looks like they’re having
a party,” the bartender said.

“
Yeah,” I said. “College
kids rent most of these houses.”

“
I know,” he said. “There’s
something special about this house, though, right?”

My heart was pounding like it was desperate
to get out of my chest. “It’s where Becca lived during her freshmen
year of college,” I said quietly. “This was her home during the
party years. It was before I met her, but I’ve heard all the
stories.”

“
Not
all
the stories, Jack,” he said. “Go
inside.”

“
No,” I said. “This house
has no meaning for me. I told you, she lived here before we met.
That was over fourteen years ago. Nobody who lives there now would
know her. What possible reason would I have to go
inside?”

He placed a hand on my
shoulder. “Trust me, Jack. Go inside.
Right
now
.”

“
Why the hell not,” I said
as I opened the door. “Let’s go. It’s not like I have anybody
waiting for me at home.”

Because Becca’s dead.

I was learning to hate my own mind for the
constant reminders.

“
I’ll stay here in 2013,”
he said. “I hated ’98. The music was just too damn
pretentious.”

“
Huh?”

He laughed again. “Just go inside.”

Still quite drunk, I staggered toward the
front door. As I got closer, I could hear people inside. Laughing,
talking, singing.

They were happy.

It’s like they lived in a different world. A
world where Becca wasn’t dead.

But Becca is dead.

When I got to the top of
the porch steps, I stopped. My feet
and
my heart.

I heard Becca’s voice.

No you didn’t, idiot.
Becca’s dead
.

The voice was young and happy and innocent,
but it was unmistakably Becca’s voice.

Becca!

Is!

Dead!

On the other side of the
door, Becca laughed.
Oh my God, she
laughed.
My heart filled with joy and
despair.

“
Okay, okay,” I heard her
say with a slur. She was clearly drunk. “A dare’s a dare. I’ll kiss
the next person who walks through that door.”

“
And it can’t be a peck,”
someone else said. “It has to be a real kiss.”

“
I don’t half-ass my
dares,” Becca said. “It’ll be real.”

In that moment, I understood everything. I
ran to the door and pulled it open.

There she was. Younger than I’d ever seen
her. Beautiful. Vibrant.

Alive
.

“
A dare’s a dare,” she
said.

She grabbed me by the shirt collar, pulled
me to her, and pressed her lips against mine.

The young Becca
kissed
exactly
like
the Becca I knew.

Soft, but strong.

And absolutely bursting with passion.

For that brief moment, my joy vanquished my
sorrow.

Becca was alive again.

I was alive again.

The kiss lasted about ten seconds.

It also lasted forever.

When eternity ended, our lips parted. She
winked at me and said, “Welcome to the party. I’m Becca. I’m also
very drunk.” She turned to her friends and said, “How was
that?”

“
Weak,” a girl said. “There
was no tongue.”

“
Tongue is for horny
teenagers,” she said. “Anybody who understands kissing knows that.”
She looked around the room. “Okay, my turn. Tom! Truth or
dare?”

My world was
spinning.
Oh shit
,
I thought.
I’m going to pass
out.

Without really thinking, I turned around and
staggered back outside, desperate for air. As soon as I stepped on
the porch again, I was assaulted by silence.

No music. No laughing.

Nothing.

I spun around. The house was dark. The
driveway was empty. I looked at the street.

The bartender and his truck were gone.

It took me about three hours to walk back to
the bar. When I finally got there, the building was completely
dark. As I got closer, I noticed the sign above the door was
missing. I walked to the window and looked inside.

Empty.

No tables, no bar, nothing. Just four walls,
a ceiling, a floor, and dust.

I stared inside that empty building for at
least an hour. By the time I finally wandered home, morning had
come. Before I entered our apartment, I stopped and looked at the
sky. The morning sun was just starting to peek over the apartment
building.

Beautiful,
I thought.

It was the first time I’d noticed beauty in
over a month.

I watched the sun rise for a few more
minutes, then went inside and flopped down on my couch. I was
asleep almost instantly.

While I slept, Becca came to me in a dream.
I don’t remember where we were or what we were doing. The only
thing I remember is Becca.

She was smiling.

“
I was right,” she said.
“I
knew
I
remembered kissing you. My first was your last.”

“
Who was that bartender?” I
asked.

She just shrugged.

“
I don’t guess it matters,”
I said.

“
No,” she said. “It doesn’t
really matter. He was just a delivery driver. The gift came from
somewhere else.”

“
Where?”

“
Stop questioning,” she
said. “Damn. Just
appreciate
.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

“
I love you, Jack,” she
said. “Note the tense.”

“
Present, not past,” I
said.

She winked.

“
I love you too,
Becca.”

The next day, I started cleaning the
apartment. I hadn’t really cleaned in over a month, so the place
was a disaster. Honestly, I hadn’t done much of anything in over a
month. I started cleaning because I knew the time for nothing had
passed.

It was time to start living again.

Don’t get me wrong, I
wasn’t naïve about it. I hadn’t found
happily ever after
. I knew full well
it wouldn’t be easy. My grief hadn’t vanished. My heart was still
broken, but something
had
changed. I felt sadness instead of despair. In a
weird way, I actually felt optimistic.

I’ll get through
this,
I thought. Becca was gone and, yes,
that was almost unbearable.

Almost, but not quite.

Becca’s not dead. Not really.

That was the day I stopped hating my inner
voice.

Since then, I’ve had good days and bad. Some
days are harder than others. Birthdays, anniversaries, things like
that. But when the hard days come, I get through them. One day at a
time, baby steps, take comfort in your friends, a million other
clichés. Truth is, I usually get through the worst days by thinking
about the night that bartender promised to give me a ride home but
instead took me to 1998.

I don’t know how long the grief will last.
Probably forever. There are some wounds time just doesn’t heal. But
I’ll manage. I’ll keep moving. Eventually, I’ll find happiness
again. It’ll be a different kind of happiness, but that’s okay.
Honestly, I have no idea what tomorrow has waiting for me, but no
matter what it is, I know one thing…

I’ll never forget that first and last kiss
at the old party house at the end of the road.

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Chapter 2

A Touch of Cold

By Robert Thomas

The sun streaks through the dirty pane as
the new day finally starts. The light exposes the blue and white
cigarette smoke hanging in the stale air. I rub my eyes as the
light intrudes. The four walls are beginning to close in on me.
I’ve been here too long.

I reach for another ‘Lucky’, the pack lying
in the glass tray on my desk within easy reach. I twirl it in my
hand wondering if I really want another. What the hell, I thought.
I swipe the match across the well-worn spot on my desk as the head
flares to life and lights the end. The smoke slides into my mouth
easily. I pull it down into my lungs and let it slip out through my
nose. It feels good, my nose open again as my head cold had finally
passed.

I lean back, my old wooden chair creaking
beneath me. The wooden slats dig into my button-down in the same
place they always have. Twenty years I’ve spent sitting in this
rickety old thing. I’m not sure why it never has crashed beneath my
fat butt. As I lay my arms down, the leather armrests hit in just
the right spot. That’s why I love this chair so much. I spin and
look through the streaky grime on the glass and out into the new
day. All I can see is the last two floors of the brick building
across the street. That, and another gray sky in this crappy town.
It doesn’t feel like the first day of spring in Chicago. Too
cold.

I blow another cloud into the room, the
smoke lingering with nowhere to go. At least in the summer I can
switch on an oscillating fan. I look at the old black one sitting
off in the corner, the dust and cobwebs thick on its porcelain
coating. I could get up and turn it on, but that would require
effort, something I clearly don’t seem to have today.

Perhaps a drink would make me feel better
and soothe the scratch still lingering in my throat. A shot of
bourbon at 7:42 in the morning. Nothing like the life of a single
man; an old single man. Old at the age of forty-two it seems. I
turn back around in my seat and lean forward, pulling the lower
drawer straight out. I hear the bottle roll in the bottom and note
a hollow tap of glass against the wood. I suppose most would keep
files in this drawer but the only files I need have Beam written on
the label. I sigh as I feel the weight of the bottle in my hand and
as it clears the drawer my eye confirms what I suspect; nearly, but
not quite empty. Just enough for a few good shots or a highball.
That should do the trick. A highball wouldn’t burn so much.

I shuffle through my drawers for a mixer;
nothin’. I’m about to give up until I see a half-empty bottle of
club soda sitting on the hulking bureau across my office. I roll
another cloud into the air knowing the mix is what I really want.
Without another thought I push my bulky frame off my chair and hear
it roll into the wall. There’s been a lot of damage to that plaster
over the years. I grab the soda after just a few quick steps. The
bottle’s cool, just like the temperature in my office. As I
straighten I can see down the dingy hallway all the way to the
front doors.

As I look around the corner I see Doris’
seat empty. Another thirty before she comes in, I imagine. She’s a
sweetheart, that one. Too bad her husband is a mook. I’d sooner
jump in front of a street car than loan him a dollar. Treats her
like dirt. If times were different I’d show her the high life, and
put his feet in a nice pair of cement shoes. I can smell her
perfume from here. What I wouldn’t give to take that dame out for a
spin.

Looking around my sparse office I chuckle at
the notion. I barely have two nickels to rub together and pay her a
paltry sum to boot. They’d have a right nice place if that lug
could hold a job. Imagine, in the middle of a world war the man
can’t hold a job in the civilian world. Most guys are fightin’ and
dyin’ half a world away and he’s living the easy life.

The front door opens and the cold wind
enters along with Doris, the flurries lingering a moment before she
can get the door shut. She turns, stomping her feet on the rug to
get winter’s crust off her shoes, her coat flapping as she begins
to walk down the hall to shake off the snow, she smiles that big
smile that melts my heart as her eyes lift to meet mine.

“
Morning. Didn’t expect to
see you here this early.” I look away and down at the floor.
Sometimes I think she can see my heart and into my soul. I must
keep that door shut. “Coffee?”

“
You’re not making coffee
with that soda bottle in your hand,” she says, shooting a knowing
look my way.

“
Hey, a guy can change.”
The smirk that washes across her face lifts my heart and I lay the
club soda on the desk behind me. The new electric coffee pot is
soon bubbling away and the smell fills our small office.

“
Best thing I’ve seen
invented in years,” I say as I turn the corner back into her small
space. I nearly drop my cup as I see her bent over at the waist
showing those long gams. The hot java slips into my mouth and I
feel the warmth in my chest. “No more tin pots on a stove.” I turn
around quickly, not wanting to stare. “I’ll be in my
office.”