Heather Graham (12 page)

As George sat there, waiting, his son’s bedroom door cracked open. Scottie, a handsome enough kid, tall, lanky-lean, blue-eyed, with one of those under-shaved-upper-long punk hairdos, slipped out, closing the door to his room behind him. He started then, seeing his father sitting before the Christmas tree.

“Where are you going, Scottie?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out.”

“Nowhere important?”

He shrugged. “With the guys.”

“If it’s nowhere important, maybe you could come with me for just a few minutes.”

“Where?” Scottie asked, his blue eyes quickly shielded as he went on the defensive.

“To see your great-aunt.”

Scottie stiffened, shaking his head. “In that old age home for penguins? No way.”

“It’s a home for retired religious. And I haven’t asked you to go often. Aunt Mary is dying. They’ve just called me. They don’t think she’ll make it to Christmas Day. It would be a nice thing, Scottie, if you were to come with me. She—”

“She raised you, yeah, yeah, I know. Your folks died, she was off in the Peace Corps and came back and forgot about her religious calling until you were brought up. She’s as sweet as mush, a great old lady, yeah, yeah.”

“She’s dying, Scottie.”

“Well, we all die, don’t we?”

George stood up, slipping into his jacket. “Yeah, Scottie, we all die. Some of us sooner than later.”

“Aunt Mary is an old lady. A nun! She must be ready to die, meet her maker.”

“Nobody is old enough to forget about love, Scottie,” George said.

“Call your girlfriend, Dad. Judith will kiss your ass all over and make Aunt Mary feel like she’s dying with friends.”

“You watch your language, son.”

“A fact is a fact, Dad.”

“Scottie—”

“You gonna kick me out of the house? Your one and only son. You gonna throw me out so Judith can come live here?”

His father sighed, shook his head, and left.

In fact, Scottie was damned surprised his father hadn’t already thrown him out so Judith could move in. It was coming, though. He should go live with his mom. He could, except that …

She was never there. His dad’s fault. She was insecure. Trying to find younger men. She didn’t like admitting she had a teenage son. She needed a husband. She couldn’t hold down a job very well because she … she liked to party too much, Scottie admitted. Face it—she was a slut; his old man was a sour-faced dud.

The hell with Aunt Mary. He didn’t need the scent of old people and death. It was Christmas Eve. The guys were waiting. They had big plans for the night.

He started to reach for the door, then hesitated. He was feeling kind of low. He had a joint in his bedroom, under his T-shirts in the top drawer. He’d smoke it all by himself. Merry Christmas to me, Scottie thought.

He went into the bedroom and got out his joint. His dad was gone; he decided he’d have his joint in his dad’s chair along with one of his dad’s beers.

Seconds later he was curled in the upholstered chair in front of the Christmas tree. He popped the top of the beer, and reached for his pack of matches. Lit up the joint, inhaling deeply.

“Ho, ho, no! Merry Christmas!” he said. He wrinkled his nose, catching some of the smoke on its way out.

“Oh, yeah? Bah, humbug to you, young man!” snapped an angry voice. “Punk!”

And suddenly the beer can went flying.

Glistening liquid was pouring over his head in a gold and foam glow.

And his joint, doused, was hanging like a wizened Christmas ornament from his sodden lips. Scottie had been just about to inhale again.

He shrieked instead.

“A
UNT MARY,” GEORGE SAID
gently.

He curled his fingers around hers, staring down at her. Her eyes had been closed; she opened them, acknowledged him. She still had the most beautiful eyes. She’d been the best parent in the world to him, always looking kindly at him with those eyes. What a pity he hadn’t lived up to her hopes for him.

Her lips moved. He couldn’t hear her speak. He bowed lower to try to hear what she was saying.

He heard the rattle of her chest.

Then her voice.

“Help me!”

“It’s George, Aunt Mary. I’m here.”

Her fingers curled around his. Tightly. So tightly that it hurt. And he realized.

She was afraid. So afraid of death. She had been his strength so many times. She had given courage to so many. And now…

She was afraid.

He didn’t know if he had the power to help her or not.

“What the fu—” Scottie Garrity began, leaping up.

“Don’t say it, punk. Don’t even think about saying it!”

There was nothing there; nothing at all but a voice. And Scottie, standing there and dripping, was suddenly slammed in the shoulder. “You snot-nosed little good-for-nothing! Everybody blaming everything on their parents these days, everybody dysfunctional. Well, kid, you’ve been loved as much as a man can love his child. You’ve—”

“Who the hell are you?” Scottie cried out, frightened. “Where the hell are you?” He stared at the sodden joint. “What the hell did they put in this shit?” he said, incredulous, his voice suddenly cracking.

“You just said it, kid,” the voice told him a little more quietly, a little more gently.

Then, to Scottie’s amazement, there was a man standing in front of him. Wearing a trenchcoat, as if it were cold outside instead of a perfect seventy-five degrees. He was a good-looking guy, not young, not old, maybe thirty-something.

Scottie gaped, froze, and fell back into his chair without even knowing that he moved. He tried to work his mouth.

“There’s LSD in Dad’s beer?” he said hopefully.

The man shook his head impatiently. “Listen to me, kid, and listen good, because you’re not even on my list, and my time is limited. So you’ve had a few bad times. Your mom and your dad couldn’t make it anymore. You’re a big boy now, and what you do with yourself in the years to come is pretty much going to make or break your life. It would be great if I had some real time. Time to point out the way your dad took you to Little League, soccer; gave you guitar lessons, hung out, took the team for pizza and ice cream. All that little stuff. A couple of days wouldn’t hurt, since it seems you’ve been nurturing that chip on your shoulder for years.”

“I haven’t got a chip on my—” Scottie began.

But suddenly, he did. It was brick, huge, dusty, moldy, sitting on his right shoulder.

He shrieked, leaping up. The brick chip crashed on the floor. The pieces lay there, then disappeared.

He looked at his visitor again.

“How’d you do that?”

The man shrugged. “Power of suggestion. I’m getting pretty good at it. But that’s beside the point. I told you, I haven’t got a lot of time. You’re going to have to listen to me and believe what I say.”

“But who—”

“It doesn’t matter who I am; what matters is what I’m going to tell you. It’s something not everybody gets a chance to hear. There is a heaven, Scottie, and certainly a hell, maybe several of each, I’m not quite sure of that yet. Heaven is on earth, just the same as hell. Hell can be the absence of love, and on that score, Scottie, you’ve cast yourself right into the pits. You aren’t a real criminal—not yet—though stealing cash out of Salvation Army pots like you and the guys were planning on doing tonight could throw your ass in jail for some real time.”

“How could you possible know—”

“Oh, come on, Scottie! You haven’t figured out by now that I’m not from here?”

“But—”

“You’ve got one shot, Scottie. Listen to me tonight, and mend your ways. Got it?”

“But—” Scottie broke off with another shriek. The man in front of him appeared to erupt in flames, to lift his arms as if he were a fiery demon, reaching out for Scottie.

“No! Wait!” Scottie cried, falling to the floor, covering his head with his hands and his arms. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m not that bad, honest to God. I don’t want to go to hell. Please, God, help me…”

There was no answer. He looked up at last. There was no one there. No one with him.

He breathed in quickly, exhaled. Felt like a fool. Looked around. Stared at the wet joint on the ground again, assuring himself that he must have gotten some bad stuff.

If only he could be sure…

But he couldn’t. Shaking, he stood up. He needed a shower. And then…

He touched his face, stunned to discover that he was crying. He’d been scared. So scared. More scared than he’d ever been. He was going to take a shower. And then he was going to find his dad. Because, though he’d never realized it before, he’d never been scared when his dad had been with him. Never.

Despite her blindness, Rowenna had learned to use a phone with ease. Joshua, she thought, would have said it was because she was a typical woman, capable of chattering all day on the damned thing.

Now she discovered that she couldn’t punch in the number. It wasn’t because she didn’t know the number. She did. When he’d left Florida, he’d gone up to live near his folks, just outside of Richmond. He’d gotten work at the university there. She’d had to dial him frequently enough for a while. Jeremy had still been alive; there had been the paperwork of the divorce. She knew the number.

On the third try, she pushed all the right buttons. The phone began to ring.

She was an idiot; what was she doing? There was no one in her house; she’d imagined the voices. She was losing it. Suicide was crazy, right? Yes, it was. And sometimes maybe a person reached a point where he or she did pull the trigger—or reach out for help. Unconsciously, she must have wanted help…

Two rings, three rings…

Now this was insanity. Suicide was less crazy. Joshua had surely gone on with his life by now. It was Christmas Eve. Why would he be home? He was a handsome man, intelligent, quick witted. Sincere. In a world where so much was lip service. Why hadn’t she seen what was inside of him when she still had the power to see? She’d had to become blind and nearly dead to have any kind of vision at all.

Four rings, five rings…

Maybe he had a woman at his house. Maybe he was engaged. Maybe he’d remarried. Maybe he was in bed with someone even as she let the phone ring and ring…

Her hands were shaking. She started to hang up the receiver.

“No! No, let it go!”

Well, she hadn’t imagined the voices in her house. The woman was back. She curled Rowenna’s free hand around a glass. “Brandy. I warmed it and threw in a touch of cinnamon. It looked so good I went with it myself. Cheers!”

“He’s not answering. This is stupid—”

“Let it ring a few more times.”

“No, it’s—”

“Hello?” It was a deep masculine voice at the other end of the wire.

Joshua. Rowenna tried to breathe, tried to talk. She lifted her glass, slopping brandy. She managed to swallow some. It was good. Warming.

“Hello?”

Another sip.

“Hello? Hello?” Annoyance slipping into his voice.

“Talk!” Commanded her visitor. “I won’t disturb you. I’ll be back in the kitchen.”

“Hello?”

He was going to hang up soon. Great. All she’d managed to do so far was make him angry.

“Is anybody there?”

“Jo-Joshua?”

Silence. “Rowenna?”

“I…” She twirled the phone cord in her fingers. “I—yes.”

“Are you all right?” Anxiety laced his voice.

She could almost see his face. She longed to see it. “I’m fine, thank you.”

She heard an audible sigh of relief, but then nothing more.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? I know it’s Christmas Eve and all…”

“No.”

“If you’re entertaining someone—”

“Rowenna, it’s not a bad time.”

“Oh. Good.”

Silence again. Where did she go from here?

“You’re absolutely sure you’re not busy?”

“Rowenna, I’m free.”

She inhaled, exhaled. Tears suddenly streamed down her cheeks. “Joshua, I’m so sorry!”

“For what?”

“For everything. Oh, my God, for everything. For blaming you for Jeremy, for blaming me for Jeremy, for not being good enough for Jeremy, for being too good to him, for forgetting, for expecting too much, for not expecting enough. I’m just so sorry for everything I’ve done—”

“Rowenna, Rowenna, calm down, you’re scaring me! Are you sure you’re all right.”

“Of course, I’m all right. No, I’m not. I’m blind, but I’ve learned to live with it. I’m all right, I’m not all right—”

“Rowenna, I’m coming down. I don’t know how long it will take me to get a flight, but I’ll be on the first plane I can beg, borrow, or steal my way onto, okay?”

“No, no, you don’t have to—”

“You need help.”

“I can’t expect you, after what I’ve done to you—”

“Rowenna, I want to. You hurt me, yes. I didn’t do so well by you either.”

“Would you really come here now, for me?”

“Of course. Are you going to be all right until I get there?”

“I’ll be fine.” She’d been blind, she thought silently, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t see.

“I’m going to hang up to call the airlines. If I can’t get a plane soon enough, I’ll get in my car and drive straight through, but I’ll try to get a flight and be there by tonight. All right?”

She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her.

“Rowenna?” Anxiously.

“Joshua, you must have Christmas plans. A new life. I can’t expect you to come here. I just had to tell you I was sorry. That I could finally forgive myself and you, and could hope you would forgive me.”

“Ro, you loved our baby. There’s nothing to forgive in that.”

“Joshua … thank you so much.”

He was quiet for only a second.

“I love you, Rowenna. I have since I met you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Again, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find her voice. Her eyes stung furiously.

“Oh, God!” she whispered.
“
I love you, too.”

“Hold tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She hung up the receiver, sitting back. Her fingers touched the gun. She pulled them away quickly. She couldn’t believe what she had been contemplating.

She started as the phone began to ring again. She stared at it, hesitating, afraid again. It was going to be Joshua. Telling her that it wouldn’t work, that he couldn’t come. He’d made a mistake.