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R HOME OPINION FEATURE COLUMNIST- Ray Collins GUEST AUTHOR SHORT STORIES NOVEL IN PROGRESS.... R| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | QUOTES SUNDRY TOPICS |
The first time they were alone together after it happened, while sitting in his father’s car on the banks of the North Platte River, she shrugged her coat open and unbuttoned her blouse and placed his arms around her bare waist and said she wanted to make him feel better. “I thought they’d never let us be together again as long as we lived,” she said. From memory he knew her skin felt smooth and cool and pliant. Just now, he couldn’t feel anything. His hands were numb from the cold. The heater in the car didn’t work. But he could feel her breath fluttering in warm waves against his neck. The gold chain around her neck winked in the blue, winter moonlight with every pulse of her heart – the necklace he’d given her for her sixteenth birthday only a month ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “I’m going to off myself,” he said. “Oh, Jeez, not again. Stop it. I won’t listen.” She slid out of his numbed grasp and across the seat. “Okay, don’t listen. But I am.” “Liar.” He could see the soft, red, inner side of her protruding lower lip. He only wanted to be honest with her. “I don’t deserve to live.” “That’s crap.” “Truth.” “How can you say such a thing? You deserve to live as much as anybody else.” “Exactly.” “Don’t go there again. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. Why can’t you get over it?” “They’re suing.” “Who?” “The kid’s parents. They’re suing my parents.” “They can’t.” “They are. I heard Mom and Dad talking. They’re scared. Afraid they’ll lose everything - the house, their retirement, my college money - and all because of me.” “It wasn’t your fault.” “Doesn’t matter.” She sighed, relenting, moving close enough to lean against his shoulder. Her hair smelled like peaches -- like July. He’d miss summers. Through his sweater he felt her heart pounding, unrepentantly alive, pumping blood through her veins in circuitous, speedway laps – contained, continuous, never-ending. She would be burdened for years with that precarious life -- never knowing the moment or circumstances of her own death. For a moment he felt superior. “How?” she asked. “How will you do it?” “Why do you want to know?” “Because.” “Because why?” “Because I want to know how serious you are, okay? Because I don’t believe you. So tell me. How’re you going to do it? Huh? Take pills or use a knife or hang yourself or what? What?” He leaned his head back against the driver’s seat until he could see the full moon rising above the cracked, vinyl dashboard. He’d thought about death incessantly since it happened. Final. Beckoning. Untroubled. A month ago he believed he couldn’t die. Now he could hold death in his hands. Give it. Accept it. “A gun. What do you think?” “What do I think? What do you care? If you’re going to kill yourself, what do you care what I think?” “You’re the one who asked.” “Thanks for sharing.” “I have a gun.” “Yeah, I know that. So?” “In the trunk.” “In this car? Now?” “Loaded.” She stretched a leg across his lap, straddling him, her back pressed into the steering wheel until they were nose to nose. “I don’t want you to talk like this. Stop it. Now.” Grabbing the lapels of his coat she pulled him up to meet her mouth. Her hands and lips moved in familiar, arousing patterns. The same movements that distracted him the night it happened – that stole his concentration at the wrong moment. How many times had he asked her not to do that when he was driving? “Please,” she said so softly he barely heard her. “I can’t.” “Don’t you love me?” “You know I do,” he said, but it was reflex. He wasn’t sure anymore. “If you kill yourself I won’t be able to go on living.” “Why? I’m not killing you.” “You might as well.” “Get a grip.” Slowly he untangled her arms and legs. “This has nothing to do with you.” She started to cry. Silently at first, choking back her sobs as the first teardrops slid down her cheeks. He knew he wouldn’t be able to comfort her. He didn’t want to. Her tears made his decision real. Already she mourned him. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “Truth?” “Why would I lie? Don’t you want to live to see your son?” “It’s a boy?” “Or your daughter. You’d have to stay alive to see.” “Why? What baby needs a father who’s a killer?” “It was an accident. Why can’t you get it straight? It’s done, it’s over. Nothing we do from now on will ever change that. You can’t help an accident.” “I might have.” “How?” “I don’t know. I should’ve seen him.” “It was dark.” “If I’d been driving slower…” “You skidded on ice.” “Maybe if I’d been by myself. If I hadn’t been…distracted.” He wanted her to admit it. To share the blame. Maybe if he wasn’t so alone in all of this. “It was an accident.” “Does that make it better for you? To think we couldn’t have done anything different to stop it? Tell me. Does it?” He flicked the keys that dangled from the ignition, making them swing wildly, irrationally. “Tell me the truth. Are you pregnant?” “You don’t believe me.” Her voice quavered and cracked. She sniffed. He couldn’t stop from reaching out to brush her long, dark hair away from her face where it stuck in the traces of her tears. Her cheek flamed hot against his hand. She was blushing. She couldn’t keep from blushing when she lied. “Are you?” “Yes.” “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.” But he didn’t. He placed the tip of his index finger on her chin, running it slowly down her neck to the lace-edged top of her bra where he paused before continuing the trail to the bottom of her blouse. He began to redo the buttons with clumsy fingers. She didn’t move. After buttoning the last one, he pulled her coat over her shoulders. “I better take you home,” he said. “No.” “It’s getting late.” “It’s eleven. Since when is that late?” “I’m tired.” “I’m not going to leave you alone.” “I’ll be okay.” He started the engine and adjusted the rear view mirror. She grabbed his hand as he moved to shift the car into reverse and held it tightly. He could feel each of her fingernails distinctly and separately in his palm. “Promise me you won’t do anything. At least not tonight.” He looked at her. She was pretty. A fact he knew but had forgotten. Grasping her hand tightly in return, he leaned sideways and kissed her the way she liked to be kissed – long and slow and tender with gentle nibbles on her lower lip. “Promise me,” she said as he pulled back. “Sure,” he said. He could promise her a night. This girl who might have had his baby, but who wouldn’t now because everything had gone wrong -- or rather accidental as she insisted. It didn’t matter which. “Sure,” he said again. “I promise.” |