Next 2000 words or so...

Continued from where it left off:

"And do you remember what I said to you then?"

The door was open when he awoke. Even without his glasses or contacts, the runs in the varnish on the pine door glistened in the morning sun. You could barely see ten feet on sunny winter mornings when you first walked out of the room. Today was exceptionally hard for the boy given his confoundment.

He wafted through the house in reverse order from the night before. Contacts and a shower first. He was numb to the water, only sure of its heat from the steam. He sat down in his father’s seat to eat the English muffin his mother had toasted and buttered. The was no fire in the wood stove that morning to warm him as he slowly watched the lipids in the butter slosh around the craters of his meal.

He could hear his brother rousing from his slumber, helped on by their mother’s incessant calling of his name. The tan dog came excitedly up to him with the blue handle of leash in her mouth, the chain dragging noisily behind collecting the shards of wood she had peeled from a piece of ash wood he brought in the prior evening. He smiled, and extended his free hand to scratch her left ear while she sat contentedly wagging her tail. She turned toward his mother who had made her way to the back door from their room.

“You shouldn’t be sitting out here in just a towel with wet hair, you’ll catch a cold” she said as she wrapped a blue and purple knit scarf around her face. From the muffled noise he made out “I’m going to go walk Jaime” but there was something else that was drowned out by the sound of his brothers heavy foot fall as he drudged to take his allotted time in the only bathroom. There was no response from the boy as he sat and gazed upon the steel piles which stuck up through the snow that had accumulated on the frozen water of the canal. They and the barren trees were the only contrast amidst the undisturbed snow. He glanced over his left shoulder at the clock on the microwave. He was ahead of schedule. He went back through the kitchen, taking his plate and what had been orange juice with him as he rose, placing them in the sink as he passed to dress himself for school.

His brother opened the door as he pulled the second sock up to his ankle. They didn’t speak; he was numb and his brother understood the gravity of the situation. He pulled the door shut quietly as he left the room to gather his things. Per usual, one of his shoes had gone missing from where he took them off. Jaime had a habit of picking one up to carry around when anyone came into the house, typical behavior for the retriever she was. Sticking out from under the “L” shaped couch in the living room he noticed the lace of the missing shoe. He returned to where the shoe was expected to be in the back room to tie them up. Again he lost himself in the light coming in off the snow only to be pulled back by his brother’s voice.

“Lets go, we’ll be late. . .”

He obeyed. Donning his coat he felt for the keys to the Jeep. The marble keychain was cold to the touch, the grain tangible as he passed his fingers over it. They walked out together, leaving the door unlocked for there was no reason to lock it. Neither of the boys even had a key to the house. Cautiously they planted each step in the existing pock marks. Snow came often enough that it tended to defeat the purpose of shovelling.

The clutch seemed heavier this morning, he leg shaking as he pushed through the long throw. Four high would be sufficient to get through the barricade the town plows left at the end of the driveway. The straight six lunged backwards as he eased his foot from the clutch, confident the torque would get them rolling without the assistance of the accelerator.

As he made the final left onto the road their school was on, he could see a news van up ahead a ways. He glanced to his right as they passed the Channel 7 news van, and he could see the glow of candles in the shadow of the van. They surrounded a crude wooden cross that held up an evergreen wreath that surrounded a picture of her, and a few cards that had been tacked to it. In passing he didn’t slow down, but watched it fade into the distance in the rear view mirror as they continued past the elementary and middle school wings.

Classes continued as they normally would for most of the school. There was an announcement that morning expressing the administration’s grief over the loss. They barely knew who she was, much less he or any of the other students who had recently found out that they would be graduating in the top ten of their class. Grief counselors were available in the library for the rest of the week. No one went.

The seniors took free reign to wander the halls from class to class. Some teachers decided they would go on with their lessons, most just tried to help the young adults cope recanting stories of similar hardships from their own youth. He barely spoke at all that day, his childhood in the poorer sections of Buffalo had conditioned him to adjust and get by on his own. But this was new and confusing. His reply when asked if he was doing alright was “I don’t know. . .” in combination with the narrow gaze of introspection.

There was a section of one of the hallways that some teachers had covered with a large roll of paper. Long tracts and missives in colored marker spread out over the sheet like wildflowers, reminiscing about the events they had or hadn’t shared. During the middle of the day he pulled the black pen from his pocket and scrawled:

I will miss you.
-Michael

He didn’t have the frame of mind to rationalize much else, but what he wrote he meant. He paced backwards to the opposing wall and slunk down to the floor in order to pour over the musings of his peers, lamenting that their friendship had only begun to grow this year. And now, she was gone. It was Thursday, the wake would be on Saturday, a private funeral on Sunday.

The day ended shortly after it had started, those prolonged moments of thought were lost to some other place he would never be able to get back to again. You can’t ever get back to those places in your head, but you never forget you were there either.

The two of them had arrived later than usual that day, and had to park in the rear of the lot. He walked his way past the older model Saturns and Pontiacs by himself. His brother would catch the bus later as only Varsity practices were cancelled today. His breath was thick amidst the cold air in the Jeep. The radio stayed off. Occasionally he had to rub some warmth back into his knuckles, the leather on the steering wheel was frigid.

He was approaching 50 when the crucifix came into view. The candles had gone out, but he could see the bouquets of flowers now that the news van had left. The undulating scars in the snow to the side of the road also became visible, as well as bits of debris that stood up further back. Again, he didn’t slow down as he passed, but now his mind was ablaze subconsciously processing the events of the past twenty-four hours. He was doing 90 when he remembered he had to turn, and muscled the brake while quickly descending through the gears to help him slow down. Still, he wasn’t thinking. But now he was awake and keenly aware of the seconds being lost to the white noise of the soft top billowing in the wind.

The snow at the end of the driveway was heavy and crunched loudly as the tires cut their way to a resting place. He didn’t bother with the footprints he followed earlier; his feet were growing heavy. Snow was making its way up his jeans as he trode toward the back door dragging his feet, he was unphased by the cold as he crossed the murderous crystals.

His bag and books stayed in the back seat, it would be some time before he would return to them. The broken concrete steps at the back of the house were an arduous ascent, as was opening the door for water had been running down the frame throughout the day and now froze the way in shut.

He took his keys from his pocket and began to chip away at the barrier, knowing he only needed a small crack in the facade to free the door. He was careful not to let the door swing open wildly; the spring was broken and it would smash into the adjacent window if it opened completely.

The air in the house was thick with smoke. To his left in the wood stove were the remnants of a failed attempt at starting a fire. The metal screen still lay face down, the fourteen inch knife with the black and green resin handle his father had paid $600 for was lodged in a piece of wood that the now cold kindling had been cut from.

Now, the weight of death crushed him as his mind caught up to the present. He collapsed under its weight to his hands and knees and stared at the pool of salt water collecting between his thumbs. The resulting clamour drew the dog from the couch across the room and she inquisitively sniffed as the sobbing mass before her, only to top and glance through the hall at the bedroom door opening.

“What the fuck you crying for boy?”
“A friend of mine is dead. . . “
“So?! That’s no excuse to cry like a little pussy! I had plenty of friends die when I was your age. . .”

He looked up. His eyes were hot, and bloodshot more so than the man whose eyes he bored in to. He hoisted his body up, pushed his shoulders back and asked calmly

“And how many of your friends deserved it?”

“Yes” he replied tersely, “I remember.”

“Well. . . I would like to apologize for what I said that day, and I hope that you can forgive me.”

He had been looking out over his father’s shoulder at the Pacific. Just above the deep purple scar on his father’s left shoulder, you could see the reflection of the sun start to appear between the paisley curtains. Shifting only his gaze, he met his father’s eyes and halfheartedly said:

“Yea.” and walked out of the room.