Accepting
Kim Venkataraman
He put the six-pack and the exact change on the counter. The cashier nodded and took the money. TJ picked up the cans and left the store. No words were spoken, none were needed. The same transaction took place every day, every week, every month. When the price changed and a new amount showed on the register, he’d throw down an extra dollar and bring the exact change the next day. With the beer in an old canvas bag, he walked along the side of the road watching his feet and ignoring the few cars that passed. It’s a walk he makes every day, every week, every month. It’s a silent ritual in a largely silent life.
You’d think that rarely speaking would make for a quiet existence, but rarely speaking to other people doesn’t stop the flow of words in your head. Blocking out your thoughts—not allowing them to drag you to places you don’t want to go—is difficult and distracting, and he didn’t notice the silver sports car until after it had swerved around him, its horn honking long after it had passed. He continued walking, not looking up, not pushing his long hair out of the way, not responding or seeming to react. Seeming as if nothing bothers you is another example of something that’s harder than it looks.
Seven minutes after leaving the variety store, he returned to what he still thought of as the shed, even though it had been his home for almost ten years. With peeling yellow paint, it sat less than ten feet off the road, although overgrown bushes and maple saplings mostly obscured it from view. It had two mismatched windows and a wide, handmade door, and long ago had been his grandfather’s workshop where he’d built wooden boats in his retirement. Hand planers and old-fashioned drills that looked like eggbeaters still hung on the wall behind the workbench. A rusty wood stove provided heat from late fall through the spring, and a hose brought water across the yard from the house. He’d converted the adjoining room where firewood had been stored into an outhouse. The only other changes he’d made were to put a cot in the corner near the stove, and an electric burner which he used to warm up his food.
He put his canvas bag on the workbench and took out a beer. When that was gone, he’d warm up a can of soup, and once he’d eaten, he could drink the others. He buys the soup by the case, and the beer one six-pack at a time. Never more, and nothing stronger. Depending on the season, sometimes after dinner he sits on a wooden chair near the door and looks out over the lawn and the woods, his only company the occasional deer. His mother had always treated the deer as if their appearance was a personal insult. As soon as she spotted a deer in the yard, whether it was in the garden or not, she’d grab the tin pie plate and metal spoon she kept by the back door and run outside, banging and hollering to scare them away.
A long time ago, he used to make fun of her vigilance and the deer’s seeming indifference to her scolding. Then came the years when he listened to her from the shed, the futility of her efforts sounding even more hollow. And then came the time when both his parents were gone, and the unkempt yard and gardens grew up around the house. In the silence of the evening now, he watches the deer make their slow way through the yard. Sometimes they stop and look at him, and he wonders if they’re waiting for some kind of reaction from him. Silently he stares back until they move on.
~ ~ ~
Jay carried the groceries into the kitchen. “I’m back,” he called out to the seemingly empty house, and he began putting the groceries away.
“Hello there.”
Jay was startled at the sound of his father’s voice. “Oh, hi, Dad. I wasn’t sure if you guys were home.”
“Right, right,” he answered seriously as he shuffled slowly into the kitchen.
“What have you been up to…young man?” His father smiled at him eagerly. Jay still wasn’t used to this version of his father, the one where he had shaggy, unbrushed gray hair and acted like a confused old man. He is a confused old man, Jay reminded himself.
“I went to the grocery store, remember, Dad?”
“Right, right-o.” He pulled out a kitchen chair but didn’t sit down.
“Oh, Jay, you’re back,” his mother said, coming into the kitchen. She pushed the chair back under the table. “It’s not time for lunch yet, Bill. Why don’t you read the Journal out on the porch?”
“OK,” Jay’s father answered. When he didn’t move, she patted his arm and turned him toward the door. “You get caught up on the markets and I’ll let you know when lunch is ready.”
“Very good, dear.”
Jay watched him leave the room, and there was something about his stooped shoulders and the way his sweater hung loosely off him that made Jay feel like crying.
He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure where the uh…cereal and all that goes…,” waving his arm at the food on the counter, not looking at his mother’s face.
“Oh, that’s fine, honey. Thanks for going to the store.”
As she opened a cupboard Jay asked, “Mom, I thought you said you didn’t get the Wall Street Journal delivered anymore?”
She looked at him, “We don’t.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she went on in her fake cheerful voice, “when are you heading back to New York? I’m sure you need to get back to work, and Diana must be missing you terribly. I love having you here, and I know you said you came to help with your father, but you have a life to go back to.”
“Yeah, well, um…,” he said. “Oh, I’m getting a call.” He pulled his phone from his pocket as he went out the screen door. “Hello, this is Jay,” he said to the silent phone, holding it to his head as he quickly crossed the lawn toward the water.
~ ~ ~
The late-afternoon routine of store, beer, dinner, beer leads to night in the wooden shack, where the sound of cars passing on the road a few feet away intermingles with the nighttime sounds of barking dogs and animals creeping in the yard through the poorly insulated walls. Every morning—whether TJ dreamt about the accident or not—the first moments of waking are filled with a rush of remembering, and the panic and nausea force him to get up and start walking. It takes about a half hour to get to the bridge, and when he gets there he looks out over the span to the mainland. Sometimes he stays for a few minutes, sometimes for most of the morning. But at some point, during his staring and thinking and not thinking, he turns and leaves.
One morning in mid-November he was drinking a cup of black instant coffee after returning from the bridge when he heard a car pull into the dirt driveway. A car door opened and then closed, and footsteps approached. He knew it was Billy from the sound of the engine, not to mention that Billy was the only person that ever came to see him.
“I wouldn’t have to come here if you got a damn phone,” Billy said, as he did every time he stopped by. “How ya been?”
TJ didn’t answer. Every few months they went through the same thing. Ignoring the question, he asked, “What have you got?”
Billy glanced at him. “Right. Starting Friday, I’ve got a couple of days clearing an old concrete retaining wall, then probably a week rebuilding with some beautiful stone. I mean it’s some really amazing Vermont granite with crazy graining. It’s going to be a bitch to piece it with the size of some of the stones, but, man, what you did with the Tucker’s patio wall…I mean it has your name all over it.”
Without meeting Billy’s gaze, he replied, “I’ll work two days, just demo and hauling.”
“But when you see this stone…,” Billy said.
Stepping back inside he said, “Pick me up on Friday.” And he closed the door.
Fucking Billy, TJ thought as he listened to him pull away, always trying so goddamn hard. He realized he’d forgotten to ask who the customer was. That was the main—the only thing—he really ever cared about for any job, and he’d completely forgotten to ask. He’d been working on and off for Billy for the last five years or so. They’d gone to high school together, and whether it was desperation or pity—he assumed it was pity—Billy had offered him work when his lawn mowing business grew into “William’s Lawn Care and Hardscaping.” Nowadays, he was busy year-round with the island’s wealthy summer crowd. TJ worked for Billy every few months, only enough to pay for his groceries and beer. His parents’ house, sitting vacant and slowly rotting, was paid for. The money they left when they died wasn’t much, but it sat in the bank and paid the taxes.
The first time TJ had worked for Billy, they’d cleared a huge field of bittersweet. The day in the sun running the bush hog, and then pulling up root after meandering root, had exhausted him so much that he’d fallen asleep that night without eating. For the first time in years he’d slept through the night without waking. The surprise of opening his eyes when the sun was up, when all thoughts—no matter how black—were more manageable, filled him with such relief that he decided then and there he’d never let himself work with Billy more than a day or two every few months. Earning cash to pay for food was fine, but allowing himself the luxury of a peaceful night was something he didn’t deserve.
~ ~ ~
The nausea Jay felt each time he crossed, or even saw, the bridge to the island still hadn’t gone away. But most afternoons he went for a run—which was getting easier since he hadn’t smoked in the weeks he’d been back—and almost every time he ended up at the overlook. It was like the view of the shallow channel between the island and the mainland and the bridge drew him there. And no matter how beautiful the day was or how brightly the sunlight sparkled on the water, all he could see was the horror of a cloud-filled sunrise and a truck upside down in the water.
What do you call the feeling of horror mixed with hatred? Jay wondered as he stared at the bridge. It was a hatred directed at not only Frankie’s boyfriend, it was a hatred of himself for not doing anything. Not doing anything when Jay learned she was dating him, even though he knew he was no good. And especially not doing anything the night she snuck out to be with him. The accident was her boyfriend’s fault—something he’d never paid for—and it cost Frankie her life. But Jay was also guilty, and for that he knew he’d never forgive himself.
Jay had just come back from another run, one which hadn’t led him to the overlook, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about his sister the whole time. He didn’t understand how for the last ten years when he was in New York, days would often go by when he didn’t think about her. But being on the island, she was constantly on his mind. He walked around the yard, slowly catching his breath. What he should be doing with his fucked-up life, he thought, was figuring out how to make Frankie’s boyfriend pay. Wherever he was, assuming he was still alive, he should pay for what he did. And for the first time in a long time, Jay felt something like clarity. If he did nothing else, he should make TJ pay.
~ ~ ~
Billy picked TJ up just before eight on Friday morning. They rode in silence and it was only as they approached Goodwin Point that he spoke. “Wait, Billy, where are we going?” He could hear how shaky his voice sounded.
“What?” Billy answered distractedly. “Uh, we’re working on demoing that retaining wall…”
“Yeah,” he interrupted, “where?”
“The old cottage at the end of Littleton Road. Why?”
He could feel his heart pounding. It was near the huge homes that spread across the end of the Point, but it wasn’t one of them. He hadn’t been to the far side of the Point for more than ten years, and there was no way in this lifetime he ever would again. Billy pulled down a narrow dirt road and followed it to the end, where there was a small, dilapidated cottage that looked like no one had been inside for years. The fields around the house were overgrown, and they sloped down toward the water. They were on the north side of the island and the view extended across the bay toward the mainland, as well as to Matigaw Island to the northeast and open ocean beyond that.
They soon got to work, taking a sledgehammer to the concrete retaining wall that curved along the edge of the yard near the cottage. It was slow work breaking it into pieces that could be loaded into the wheelbarrow, then brought up and put in the back of Billy’s truck. They’d been working for about an hour when TJ said, “I can’t believe someone’s dropping so much money on stonework for a property this run-down.”
Billy stopped working and let out a little laugh. “Yeah, well one of the Settlers bought it years ago, and I guess they’re finally getting around to fixing it up. I’m guessing this is the first step of what will be a huge renovation.”
He felt himself go cold. “One of the Settlers? Who?” His voice was loud, aggressive he knew, but he couldn’t help it.
Billy looked at him with a puzzled expression. “The Harrisons...”
Without a word, TJ dropped the sledgehammer and walked away. He ignored Billy calling after him, feeling like he was going to be sick as he walked quickly back toward the road. He half-walked, half-ran back to the main road, needing to get off the Point and back to his house. Stupid, stupid, stupid kept repeating in his head and he began to jog up the road, which wasn’t easy with his steel-toed boots and because he was so out of shape. How could he have been so dumb? Of course, it was Frankie’s family’s property. Of course, it was. He’d just gone around a bend in the road, when a car came around the corner behind him. He heard the squeal of the tires as the car braked and swerved around him. He slowed to a walk and tried to catch his breath as the car quickly sped up and drove away.
~ ~ ~
Jay heard the sound of the decanter being opened as he walked downstairs. He looked in the living room, and watched his mother pour scotch into a glass and take a long drink.
“So cocktail hour has started?” he asked with a laugh.
His mother turned to look at him wearily. “I wish it had started about three hours ago.” She closed her eyes and he could see how tired, how sad, she looked.
Jay walked over and poured himself a drink. “Long day?”
She smiled. “Long afternoon. We went to lunch at the club and as we were leaving, your father was convinced he’d missed a board meeting. He managed to yell at most of the waitstaff, and he almost started to cry when he saw Steven Atwood, and he couldn’t tell your father where the meeting was. He’s napping now. I’ll wake him when we’re going to eat.” She closed her eyes again.
“Mom...I’m so sorry.” He touched her arm.
“Oh, Jay,” she said, “it’s just how it is.”
That evening they ate dinner in the kitchen and Jay’s father told a funny story about learning to ski when he was growing up. Jay was struck by how strange it was that at times things could still seem normal, even now. When they finished eating, they went out to the screen porch with their wineglasses and listened to the sound of the waves folding onto the rocky beach below. They sat in silence and after a few minutes, Jay realized that his father had fallen asleep with his head leaning back against the couch. Without looking at his mother, he said softly, “I lost my job.” He wasn’t even sure she’d heard, but he added, “I don’t even care. I hated it.” He let out a loud sigh.
“Oh, Jay.”
“And Diana…,” he let the words hang there. “She’s gone too,” he finally added. “I just need to figure out a plan,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “But in the meantime, I can help you out around here. I noticed you could use some firewood. If you get a cord delivered, I can stack it for you, and I can get the dock ready to come out.”
His mother stood and picked up their empty glasses. “Jay, you need to focus on your life, and getting your career back on track. You don’t have to worry about us. There are plenty of people around that we can hire who’d be happy for the work.”
What Jay wanted to ask was, what if I don’t want to go back to a job that I hate, in a city I’m tired of, to the condo I can’t afford? But what he said, sounding more bitter than he’d meant to, was, “Like the long-haired bum that’s always walking everywhere that I’ve almost hit twice since I’ve been back?”
His mother started like she’d been pushed, and she nearly dropped the glasses. Slowly she turned to look at him and swallowed. “You know who that is,” she stated.
“No,” he answered quickly, “I don’t have a clue, but…” Watching his mother’s face, it dawned on him.
It was difficult to get the words out. “No, no.”
She turned away. “Yes.”
~ ~ ~
Later, TJ would think that if he had believed in God, or fate, or anything else that was supposed to ensure some kind of justice, Jay coming to his house would have cemented that belief. The walk back from the Point had taken nearly two hours. His earlier anger—at Billy, at himself—was gone. But in its place was a hollow blackness that felt different from his usual numbness. He got a drink of water and stood in the open doorway. Looking across the yard in the bright afternoon light, he could feel the darkness filling him, surrounding him. It was a bleakness that filled, that was, the entire world.
And he knew that he could no longer keep himself from leaving it. He’d longed for the oblivion of death since the weeks after the accident when he realized that the pain and regret of what happened would never leave him. With that realization had come the decision that he could not—and would not—allow himself either the simple relief of tears, or the promise of forgetting forever that death would bring. Forcing himself to relive the one thing he didn’t want to think about was his true penance. The fact that he couldn’t remember a single thing about it didn’t matter.
But standing in the doorway, he realized that he was done fighting. For a long time, he’d worried that if he decided to let himself die, he’d feel relief or peace. But knowing that the end was in sight brought no feelings of relief. It brought no feelings at all. He heard a car pull into the driveway, and thinking it was Billy coming back to give him a hard time about leaving the work site, he closed the door with no intention of answering it. He heard footsteps and then without warning, the door was flung open. And there, just a few feet away, was Frankie’s brother.
TJ started to speak, then stopped. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say.
Jay glared at him, breathing heavily as if he’d just run all the way there. “You fucking asshole.”
TJ just looked at him.
Jay stepped up into the small room, and involuntarily TJ took a step back. “You fucking killed her, and you’ve been here the whole time?” He spat out the words and took another step.
TJ forced himself to look at him.
“What, you have nothing to say? You killed her and walked away!” Jay grabbed the chair and threw it against the bench. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“Yes,” TJ said softly.
Jay froze. “What?”
“Yes, you should.”
Jay’s surprise was quickly replaced by the vivid image of his hands circling TJ’s neck. Squeezing, crushing until he wasn’t any more. And then suddenly TJ began sobbing. With his eyes closed and head leaning back he cried and gasped for air, tears streaming down his face.
“So, she lost everything, and you get to feel sorry for yourself?” Jay turned away, not wanting to look at TJ’s contorted face. “How could you have let it happen?”
“I don’t know!” TJ nearly screamed. “I don’t remember anything,” he added. “Why can’t I?” he hollered, and Jay turned back to look at him.
“Why did it happen?” TJ asked, his voice pleading.
“They found the deer you hit…,” Jay said.
“But why did she die? Why wasn’t it me?” TJ panted like he was hyperventilating.
“I don’t fucking know.” As soon as Jay spoke, he knew that while the words didn’t come close to touching the bewilderment or the rage they’d all felt for the last ten years, maybe the truth was also that simple.
“I don’t fucking know,” he said one more time.
“I can’t accept that,” TJ said, continuing to cry.
After a moment Jay responded. “Well, maybe we don’t have a choice.” He walked out leaving the door open behind him, and as he went back to his car, he could hear TJ sobbing.
Kim Venkataraman
He put the six-pack and the exact change on the counter. The cashier nodded and took the money. TJ picked up the cans and left the store. No words were spoken, none were needed. The same transaction took place every day, every week, every month. When the price changed and a new amount showed on the register, he’d throw down an extra dollar and bring the exact change the next day. With the beer in an old canvas bag, he walked along the side of the road watching his feet and ignoring the few cars that passed. It’s a walk he makes every day, every week, every month. It’s a silent ritual in a largely silent life.
You’d think that rarely speaking would make for a quiet existence, but rarely speaking to other people doesn’t stop the flow of words in your head. Blocking out your thoughts—not allowing them to drag you to places you don’t want to go—is difficult and distracting, and he didn’t notice the silver sports car until after it had swerved around him, its horn honking long after it had passed. He continued walking, not looking up, not pushing his long hair out of the way, not responding or seeming to react. Seeming as if nothing bothers you is another example of something that’s harder than it looks.
Seven minutes after leaving the variety store, he returned to what he still thought of as the shed, even though it had been his home for almost ten years. With peeling yellow paint, it sat less than ten feet off the road, although overgrown bushes and maple saplings mostly obscured it from view. It had two mismatched windows and a wide, handmade door, and long ago had been his grandfather’s workshop where he’d built wooden boats in his retirement. Hand planers and old-fashioned drills that looked like eggbeaters still hung on the wall behind the workbench. A rusty wood stove provided heat from late fall through the spring, and a hose brought water across the yard from the house. He’d converted the adjoining room where firewood had been stored into an outhouse. The only other changes he’d made were to put a cot in the corner near the stove, and an electric burner which he used to warm up his food.
He put his canvas bag on the workbench and took out a beer. When that was gone, he’d warm up a can of soup, and once he’d eaten, he could drink the others. He buys the soup by the case, and the beer one six-pack at a time. Never more, and nothing stronger. Depending on the season, sometimes after dinner he sits on a wooden chair near the door and looks out over the lawn and the woods, his only company the occasional deer. His mother had always treated the deer as if their appearance was a personal insult. As soon as she spotted a deer in the yard, whether it was in the garden or not, she’d grab the tin pie plate and metal spoon she kept by the back door and run outside, banging and hollering to scare them away.
A long time ago, he used to make fun of her vigilance and the deer’s seeming indifference to her scolding. Then came the years when he listened to her from the shed, the futility of her efforts sounding even more hollow. And then came the time when both his parents were gone, and the unkempt yard and gardens grew up around the house. In the silence of the evening now, he watches the deer make their slow way through the yard. Sometimes they stop and look at him, and he wonders if they’re waiting for some kind of reaction from him. Silently he stares back until they move on.
~ ~ ~
Jay carried the groceries into the kitchen. “I’m back,” he called out to the seemingly empty house, and he began putting the groceries away.
“Hello there.”
Jay was startled at the sound of his father’s voice. “Oh, hi, Dad. I wasn’t sure if you guys were home.”
“Right, right,” he answered seriously as he shuffled slowly into the kitchen.
“What have you been up to…young man?” His father smiled at him eagerly. Jay still wasn’t used to this version of his father, the one where he had shaggy, unbrushed gray hair and acted like a confused old man. He is a confused old man, Jay reminded himself.
“I went to the grocery store, remember, Dad?”
“Right, right-o.” He pulled out a kitchen chair but didn’t sit down.
“Oh, Jay, you’re back,” his mother said, coming into the kitchen. She pushed the chair back under the table. “It’s not time for lunch yet, Bill. Why don’t you read the Journal out on the porch?”
“OK,” Jay’s father answered. When he didn’t move, she patted his arm and turned him toward the door. “You get caught up on the markets and I’ll let you know when lunch is ready.”
“Very good, dear.”
Jay watched him leave the room, and there was something about his stooped shoulders and the way his sweater hung loosely off him that made Jay feel like crying.
He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure where the uh…cereal and all that goes…,” waving his arm at the food on the counter, not looking at his mother’s face.
“Oh, that’s fine, honey. Thanks for going to the store.”
As she opened a cupboard Jay asked, “Mom, I thought you said you didn’t get the Wall Street Journal delivered anymore?”
She looked at him, “We don’t.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she went on in her fake cheerful voice, “when are you heading back to New York? I’m sure you need to get back to work, and Diana must be missing you terribly. I love having you here, and I know you said you came to help with your father, but you have a life to go back to.”
“Yeah, well, um…,” he said. “Oh, I’m getting a call.” He pulled his phone from his pocket as he went out the screen door. “Hello, this is Jay,” he said to the silent phone, holding it to his head as he quickly crossed the lawn toward the water.
~ ~ ~
The late-afternoon routine of store, beer, dinner, beer leads to night in the wooden shack, where the sound of cars passing on the road a few feet away intermingles with the nighttime sounds of barking dogs and animals creeping in the yard through the poorly insulated walls. Every morning—whether TJ dreamt about the accident or not—the first moments of waking are filled with a rush of remembering, and the panic and nausea force him to get up and start walking. It takes about a half hour to get to the bridge, and when he gets there he looks out over the span to the mainland. Sometimes he stays for a few minutes, sometimes for most of the morning. But at some point, during his staring and thinking and not thinking, he turns and leaves.
One morning in mid-November he was drinking a cup of black instant coffee after returning from the bridge when he heard a car pull into the dirt driveway. A car door opened and then closed, and footsteps approached. He knew it was Billy from the sound of the engine, not to mention that Billy was the only person that ever came to see him.
“I wouldn’t have to come here if you got a damn phone,” Billy said, as he did every time he stopped by. “How ya been?”
TJ didn’t answer. Every few months they went through the same thing. Ignoring the question, he asked, “What have you got?”
Billy glanced at him. “Right. Starting Friday, I’ve got a couple of days clearing an old concrete retaining wall, then probably a week rebuilding with some beautiful stone. I mean it’s some really amazing Vermont granite with crazy graining. It’s going to be a bitch to piece it with the size of some of the stones, but, man, what you did with the Tucker’s patio wall…I mean it has your name all over it.”
Without meeting Billy’s gaze, he replied, “I’ll work two days, just demo and hauling.”
“But when you see this stone…,” Billy said.
Stepping back inside he said, “Pick me up on Friday.” And he closed the door.
Fucking Billy, TJ thought as he listened to him pull away, always trying so goddamn hard. He realized he’d forgotten to ask who the customer was. That was the main—the only thing—he really ever cared about for any job, and he’d completely forgotten to ask. He’d been working on and off for Billy for the last five years or so. They’d gone to high school together, and whether it was desperation or pity—he assumed it was pity—Billy had offered him work when his lawn mowing business grew into “William’s Lawn Care and Hardscaping.” Nowadays, he was busy year-round with the island’s wealthy summer crowd. TJ worked for Billy every few months, only enough to pay for his groceries and beer. His parents’ house, sitting vacant and slowly rotting, was paid for. The money they left when they died wasn’t much, but it sat in the bank and paid the taxes.
The first time TJ had worked for Billy, they’d cleared a huge field of bittersweet. The day in the sun running the bush hog, and then pulling up root after meandering root, had exhausted him so much that he’d fallen asleep that night without eating. For the first time in years he’d slept through the night without waking. The surprise of opening his eyes when the sun was up, when all thoughts—no matter how black—were more manageable, filled him with such relief that he decided then and there he’d never let himself work with Billy more than a day or two every few months. Earning cash to pay for food was fine, but allowing himself the luxury of a peaceful night was something he didn’t deserve.
~ ~ ~
The nausea Jay felt each time he crossed, or even saw, the bridge to the island still hadn’t gone away. But most afternoons he went for a run—which was getting easier since he hadn’t smoked in the weeks he’d been back—and almost every time he ended up at the overlook. It was like the view of the shallow channel between the island and the mainland and the bridge drew him there. And no matter how beautiful the day was or how brightly the sunlight sparkled on the water, all he could see was the horror of a cloud-filled sunrise and a truck upside down in the water.
What do you call the feeling of horror mixed with hatred? Jay wondered as he stared at the bridge. It was a hatred directed at not only Frankie’s boyfriend, it was a hatred of himself for not doing anything. Not doing anything when Jay learned she was dating him, even though he knew he was no good. And especially not doing anything the night she snuck out to be with him. The accident was her boyfriend’s fault—something he’d never paid for—and it cost Frankie her life. But Jay was also guilty, and for that he knew he’d never forgive himself.
Jay had just come back from another run, one which hadn’t led him to the overlook, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about his sister the whole time. He didn’t understand how for the last ten years when he was in New York, days would often go by when he didn’t think about her. But being on the island, she was constantly on his mind. He walked around the yard, slowly catching his breath. What he should be doing with his fucked-up life, he thought, was figuring out how to make Frankie’s boyfriend pay. Wherever he was, assuming he was still alive, he should pay for what he did. And for the first time in a long time, Jay felt something like clarity. If he did nothing else, he should make TJ pay.
~ ~ ~
Billy picked TJ up just before eight on Friday morning. They rode in silence and it was only as they approached Goodwin Point that he spoke. “Wait, Billy, where are we going?” He could hear how shaky his voice sounded.
“What?” Billy answered distractedly. “Uh, we’re working on demoing that retaining wall…”
“Yeah,” he interrupted, “where?”
“The old cottage at the end of Littleton Road. Why?”
He could feel his heart pounding. It was near the huge homes that spread across the end of the Point, but it wasn’t one of them. He hadn’t been to the far side of the Point for more than ten years, and there was no way in this lifetime he ever would again. Billy pulled down a narrow dirt road and followed it to the end, where there was a small, dilapidated cottage that looked like no one had been inside for years. The fields around the house were overgrown, and they sloped down toward the water. They were on the north side of the island and the view extended across the bay toward the mainland, as well as to Matigaw Island to the northeast and open ocean beyond that.
They soon got to work, taking a sledgehammer to the concrete retaining wall that curved along the edge of the yard near the cottage. It was slow work breaking it into pieces that could be loaded into the wheelbarrow, then brought up and put in the back of Billy’s truck. They’d been working for about an hour when TJ said, “I can’t believe someone’s dropping so much money on stonework for a property this run-down.”
Billy stopped working and let out a little laugh. “Yeah, well one of the Settlers bought it years ago, and I guess they’re finally getting around to fixing it up. I’m guessing this is the first step of what will be a huge renovation.”
He felt himself go cold. “One of the Settlers? Who?” His voice was loud, aggressive he knew, but he couldn’t help it.
Billy looked at him with a puzzled expression. “The Harrisons...”
Without a word, TJ dropped the sledgehammer and walked away. He ignored Billy calling after him, feeling like he was going to be sick as he walked quickly back toward the road. He half-walked, half-ran back to the main road, needing to get off the Point and back to his house. Stupid, stupid, stupid kept repeating in his head and he began to jog up the road, which wasn’t easy with his steel-toed boots and because he was so out of shape. How could he have been so dumb? Of course, it was Frankie’s family’s property. Of course, it was. He’d just gone around a bend in the road, when a car came around the corner behind him. He heard the squeal of the tires as the car braked and swerved around him. He slowed to a walk and tried to catch his breath as the car quickly sped up and drove away.
~ ~ ~
Jay heard the sound of the decanter being opened as he walked downstairs. He looked in the living room, and watched his mother pour scotch into a glass and take a long drink.
“So cocktail hour has started?” he asked with a laugh.
His mother turned to look at him wearily. “I wish it had started about three hours ago.” She closed her eyes and he could see how tired, how sad, she looked.
Jay walked over and poured himself a drink. “Long day?”
She smiled. “Long afternoon. We went to lunch at the club and as we were leaving, your father was convinced he’d missed a board meeting. He managed to yell at most of the waitstaff, and he almost started to cry when he saw Steven Atwood, and he couldn’t tell your father where the meeting was. He’s napping now. I’ll wake him when we’re going to eat.” She closed her eyes again.
“Mom...I’m so sorry.” He touched her arm.
“Oh, Jay,” she said, “it’s just how it is.”
That evening they ate dinner in the kitchen and Jay’s father told a funny story about learning to ski when he was growing up. Jay was struck by how strange it was that at times things could still seem normal, even now. When they finished eating, they went out to the screen porch with their wineglasses and listened to the sound of the waves folding onto the rocky beach below. They sat in silence and after a few minutes, Jay realized that his father had fallen asleep with his head leaning back against the couch. Without looking at his mother, he said softly, “I lost my job.” He wasn’t even sure she’d heard, but he added, “I don’t even care. I hated it.” He let out a loud sigh.
“Oh, Jay.”
“And Diana…,” he let the words hang there. “She’s gone too,” he finally added. “I just need to figure out a plan,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “But in the meantime, I can help you out around here. I noticed you could use some firewood. If you get a cord delivered, I can stack it for you, and I can get the dock ready to come out.”
His mother stood and picked up their empty glasses. “Jay, you need to focus on your life, and getting your career back on track. You don’t have to worry about us. There are plenty of people around that we can hire who’d be happy for the work.”
What Jay wanted to ask was, what if I don’t want to go back to a job that I hate, in a city I’m tired of, to the condo I can’t afford? But what he said, sounding more bitter than he’d meant to, was, “Like the long-haired bum that’s always walking everywhere that I’ve almost hit twice since I’ve been back?”
His mother started like she’d been pushed, and she nearly dropped the glasses. Slowly she turned to look at him and swallowed. “You know who that is,” she stated.
“No,” he answered quickly, “I don’t have a clue, but…” Watching his mother’s face, it dawned on him.
It was difficult to get the words out. “No, no.”
She turned away. “Yes.”
~ ~ ~
Later, TJ would think that if he had believed in God, or fate, or anything else that was supposed to ensure some kind of justice, Jay coming to his house would have cemented that belief. The walk back from the Point had taken nearly two hours. His earlier anger—at Billy, at himself—was gone. But in its place was a hollow blackness that felt different from his usual numbness. He got a drink of water and stood in the open doorway. Looking across the yard in the bright afternoon light, he could feel the darkness filling him, surrounding him. It was a bleakness that filled, that was, the entire world.
And he knew that he could no longer keep himself from leaving it. He’d longed for the oblivion of death since the weeks after the accident when he realized that the pain and regret of what happened would never leave him. With that realization had come the decision that he could not—and would not—allow himself either the simple relief of tears, or the promise of forgetting forever that death would bring. Forcing himself to relive the one thing he didn’t want to think about was his true penance. The fact that he couldn’t remember a single thing about it didn’t matter.
But standing in the doorway, he realized that he was done fighting. For a long time, he’d worried that if he decided to let himself die, he’d feel relief or peace. But knowing that the end was in sight brought no feelings of relief. It brought no feelings at all. He heard a car pull into the driveway, and thinking it was Billy coming back to give him a hard time about leaving the work site, he closed the door with no intention of answering it. He heard footsteps and then without warning, the door was flung open. And there, just a few feet away, was Frankie’s brother.
TJ started to speak, then stopped. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say.
Jay glared at him, breathing heavily as if he’d just run all the way there. “You fucking asshole.”
TJ just looked at him.
Jay stepped up into the small room, and involuntarily TJ took a step back. “You fucking killed her, and you’ve been here the whole time?” He spat out the words and took another step.
TJ forced himself to look at him.
“What, you have nothing to say? You killed her and walked away!” Jay grabbed the chair and threw it against the bench. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“Yes,” TJ said softly.
Jay froze. “What?”
“Yes, you should.”
Jay’s surprise was quickly replaced by the vivid image of his hands circling TJ’s neck. Squeezing, crushing until he wasn’t any more. And then suddenly TJ began sobbing. With his eyes closed and head leaning back he cried and gasped for air, tears streaming down his face.
“So, she lost everything, and you get to feel sorry for yourself?” Jay turned away, not wanting to look at TJ’s contorted face. “How could you have let it happen?”
“I don’t know!” TJ nearly screamed. “I don’t remember anything,” he added. “Why can’t I?” he hollered, and Jay turned back to look at him.
“Why did it happen?” TJ asked, his voice pleading.
“They found the deer you hit…,” Jay said.
“But why did she die? Why wasn’t it me?” TJ panted like he was hyperventilating.
“I don’t fucking know.” As soon as Jay spoke, he knew that while the words didn’t come close to touching the bewilderment or the rage they’d all felt for the last ten years, maybe the truth was also that simple.
“I don’t fucking know,” he said one more time.
“I can’t accept that,” TJ said, continuing to cry.
After a moment Jay responded. “Well, maybe we don’t have a choice.” He walked out leaving the door open behind him, and as he went back to his car, he could hear TJ sobbing.
