Young Writers Society

The night wove on through the open window, bringing cool night relief and a soft wind tickling the dream catcher. I awoke fresh in the morning and was on the verge of forgetting the incident when I stumbled on a rosehead on my way to retrieve the trash.

I found myself stumbling yet again through the nightmare, and could almost hear the chimes in Belle’s voice, but it was only the dream catcher. . . There was a black object on my lawn, and I walked over to find Abner’s neck-tie. I swept it up along with the roses, chalked them all up to broken memories, and was preparing to throw them in the trash when the phone rang.

“Hi, Memphis.” I grimaced at her volume.

“Hi, I -”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Memphis,” it all came out in a torrent of words. “I’m so sorry. I must’ve been drunk, I said that to myself last night. Me and Abner argued something fierce on the ride home, and then we got in an accident and I cleared my head on the dashboard.” She giggled, a high-pitched tremor that bordered hysteria. “I must’ve been drunk, never been drunk before, but the champagne. . .”

She babbled on and on like a brook. I wondered to what limits my politeness would take me before I hung up the phone.

And then silence, like dropping a stone into a dark well and waiting for it to hit bottom. I could still hear her breathing, hot and heavy, like a freight train, and I wondered if I had made a mistake in picking up the phone.

“Memphis?”

“Where’s Abner?” It came out jolting. I could feel her breaking like shattered glass in my hand as soon as the words left my mouth. I don’t know what devil put them there.

She was sobbing into the phone. The dam had broke and the tears seemed to wash away any civilized reserve.

“Stupid idiot,” she screamed, “stupid, hulking idiot.” I heard the sound of something breaking, and then another. A sudden roar and cacophony all spiced with her helpless, doll-like rage.

Again I repeated hollowly, “where’s Abner?”

“He’s with his woman.”

I let the words wash over me, her rage spraying spittle on my face, and I held the phone away, just in case. . .

I thought of the neck-tie choking the words out of his throat, and like his restraint, he had left it on my front lawn. There were times in high school when I used to meet his monthly “girl.”

“Hi, I’m Leiah,”. . . “charming I’m sure,” and I would shake hands with the impression that I would never see her again. Kept smiling, kept nodding my head. Watching Abner’s hands tighten like a noose around her waist. Yes, he’s with his woman.

“Memphis?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see the point. . .”

“The point of what?” I heard an echo in the past. What is the meaning of this circus? “Belle -”

“The point of what? . . .” hysteria unleashed. “The point of - what - I don’t see the point. . . Memphis. . .”

In my mind, I was already one-hundred-eight miles away pulling into her driveway. An echo an echo an echo in the past. I would not make that mistake again.

“I’m on the way.”

“Where,” a hint of panic in her voice.

“To you -”

She laughed, and as I hung up I could hear the sound of another glass breaking.

* * * * *

I pulled into their driveway around four. Not a stir on the lawn and the lights in the house were off. I smelled gasoline and something akin to stale piss and I wondered foolishly for a second if maybe I had the wrong address.

I crossed the lawn silently, like a wraith, and was standing on the porch in a matter of seconds with my finger on the doorbell, when I paused. . .

A cold blast of air hit me from behind.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

The door finally opened and with it came a squall of deathless, hot air. The porchlight clicked on, and I was face to face with Abner. He had scratch marks on his face, and his eyes were red so I knew he had been crying.

“Memphis?”

There I stood between heaven and hell, the ghost light shining down on me. Cold air piercing me from behind, hot air blasting me from the front, and all I could think of was the black bow tie in my pocket.

“Abner. Belle called.” Not a flicker on his face. “She said you weren’t . . .” The space stretched out into a chasm, and I could feel myself leaning in.

“Belle. . . she’s not. . .” His voice died out. Like a firefly.” He looked beyond me at my car, surveyed his lawn, and then brought his eyes back to rest on my face.

“Memphis -” The porchlight clicked off, and his face stretched out into the darkness. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out hushed. “Don’t believe everything you hear Memphis.”

The door closed softly - mine as well have been a gunshot.

I left the bowtie on the front porch. As I stumbled down the steps through the dark, I again wondered if this was all a nightmare. If I pinched myself I might wake up, and . . .

My car door was open. It was at that moment that I realized I had never intended to stay. If Belle had opened the door I would have fled back to my car after a minute of condolences. Their life: the magic in her voice; the fragility they held like a glass chandelier - it all dashed to pieces on the ground. The light it held danced like pixies on their barren souls. Abner was right to call it a circus. I was merely an observer. Nose pressed against the window pane, too distant to care.

Don’t believe everything you hear Memphis.

The ride home was a dream - stretched to eternity - and as I drove into the light the thought came to me of the beheaded roses. They would not grow anew in the concrete, and the thought saddened me.