The quiet

Greene was an island located off the coast. Not counting the ferry ride – which came only on good weather days – it was a good ninety minutes away from the nearest inland city. The shore was rocky and unforgiving. Some left, few ever came in.

Noah and Mary Ellen Shepherd moved on the island during July when the weather was good. They had few things. Noah carried his typewriter beneath an arm. Mary Ellen was a beauty. She reminded the townsfolk of what a woman ought to look like. What was most striking was her laugh. It was clear and ringing like the church bell. Not that the Shepherds went to church.

When Mary Ellen had first come to Greene, she had tried to start conversations with some of the women in town. They were all faded, callow girls. When she complimented them on their dresses, they had stared at her as if she spoke another language. Requests for help and recipe advice had likewise gone unacknowledged. Mary Ellen was alone. Noah was no help either. He was busy with his new novel. Fifteen, twenty hours of the day were spent at the typewriter.

It was the quiet that disturbed Mary Ellen. She could already feel what would be an endless winter settle. It crept up in and became real. It was bitter and blue, hungry for warmth. It became her companion. It spoke to her in the voice of a little girl, soft and sweet. It giggled.

“It gets lonely up here,” Mary Ellen said as she hugged her elbows. August brought in endless gray days and cold nights again. “Don’t know how you can stand all this quiet.”

She looked down to see the lost girl, but there was nothing to see. She heard footsteps. Mary Ellen turned and began to follow the sound. She stepped into a puddle of water. It soaked through her heel. Water pooled up from the floor in small, kidney-shaped piles. Footprints. They were clear up the stairs.

The pipes groaned in the ceiling. She could hear water running.

Noah didn’t know how long the water had been running. It could have been hours from the stiffness of his joints as he stood up from the desk chair. It could have been five minutes. Why he was compelled to check on his wife was unknown. He grunted with irritation as feet hit the tiny puddles of water that littered the ground. When he hit the second floor, that was when he saw it. Water rolled from the space between door and floor. It continued to spill over the floorboards and itched towards him. His feet splashed as he opened the bathroom door.

Mary Ellen, wide eyed and mouthed, lay in the bathtub. She was a fish beneath the water. Her hands strangled the lip of the tub. He reached into the water to pull her up. She was lifeless.

That was when he heard it – the sound of the little voice, that girlish cackle.

Weekend portrait

Happy Birthday. You’re thirty now. That means you’ve got to be accountable for your actions. The past decade was a freebee. Everyone knows that and that’s why the bars and clubs are packed with pretty young things on the prowl. You drink too much. You freeze to death outside with a cigarette in hand and miserable look on your face. Behind you, the brick façade is shaking. The open and shut of the door lets music sneak out. You realize that you don’t know what the hell any of the innuendo means. You can guess, but there’s no point in it.

Later, you’ll bring home a girl who’s much too young for you. She talks and talks, but really that’s not why you brought her over. Still, you smile and pour a little juice in your vodka. The vodka is cold and crisp. It’s gone syrupy from a shelf life spent in the freezer. Vapor fills your lungs when you steal a sip before shoving it back into the fridge. It makes your heart hurt. The glasses go warm on your counter.

When you pass out, it’s like the outro to an old cartoon. Black fills the periphery and zooms in. The girl becomes a pinprick of skin. A blink and then she’s gone. You wake up in the morning only to find that she’s cleaned out your wallet and taken your copy of The Great Escape.

You retreat back into bed, draw up the sheets over your head and trick your bruised brain into thinking its night. The muscles pulled taut at temples begin to loosen. Sleep slackens you. The hours pass quickly. You’ve got clothes waiting two blocks down at the cleaner’s. Your refrigerator is empty. Your house is slowly becoming a pit. These are things for tomorrow though. The phone rings in the other room, but you let it go to the answering machine. The voice is cool and impersonal. You have reached…

“Jonathan, its Mom. Just calling to wish you a happy birthday, honey! I’m so proud of you. You’ve really got yourself together…”

A pillow drowns out the maternal pride. You don’t want to hear it and feel the disappointment that comes from being a total sham. You don’t know who you are, but up until now you haven’t had to think about it. Things are different now. You’re older. Everyone’s expecting a little bit of wiser too. You roll over and sleep for another hour.

You’re too old to be out with this crowd, but that doesn’t stop you from pulling on a shirt from the pile and shoving feet into shoes. By the time you leave your apartment, all the buildings around you are closed for the night with their grates drawn. You see your reflection in the glass behind them: a square viewfinder for your nose, your chin, and part of an eye. You’ve been chopped up. You are a sum of your total parts and it’s not looking good, baby.

We are stitched together now.

It is winter and I am curled up in the narrow bed of my girlfriend. Lying close, we are heat-sticky and naked. A scar spreads over her shoulder like a leech. It is from an old boyfriend, she told me. It was a party. He was drunk. The beer bottle shattered before either of them knew what had happened. Twelve stitches. I kissed that scar. I would never be that careless. That scar was before me, but it reminds me of how one day I will be a memory just like it. She has taken a job in London and I have become the old boyfriend.

We promise to write every day, and do. I begin planning a trip to visit her, perhaps even to relocate. There is no money for it, but we write to forget. After awhile, we adjust. That is when our letters become infrequent. There is no desire between us anymore. There is no need to escape. The letters stop.

Years pass and my girlfriend becomes a stranger to me. My memory of her is unreliable. Only goodness remains.

When I am thirty-eight, I meet Holly. She is nothing like my girlfriend. I cannot say exactly how, but I am sure of it. Our memories paint over the old. I cannot seem to remember anything at all about my girlfriend. I propose.

When I am forty, Clarissa is born. Pink plastic has takes over the house. I trip over toys and wipe noses. I become Daddy.

One afternoon, Clarissa and I are left on our own. We play strange made-up games that involve running and bossy commands. She is four and imperious. I have left the morning cartoons to run as background noise and the children's programming fades into the afternoon news report. We are ignorant of this until the sound of explosion rattles us out of our dream. I twist around to see smoke billowing from a subway somewhere. Clarissa yelps and stares. I slap a hand over her eyes but she strains to see between my fingers.

Out of the darkness, a body staggers out. She is limp and pale. Her face is smeared red and black. She falls to her knees and a set of paramedics sweep her up. I know that woman, I realize. Her face is not one to be forgotten, I think while knowing that I have done exactly that. Then, I remember. All the goodness rushes back to me:

Snow gathers on the windowsill of the dorm room. We are pressed chest-to-back. I can feel her heartbeat. The scar on her shoulder is flushed pink. It happened before they knew what hit them.

Clarissa wrenches away and tumbles back against a case. The vase that sits on one shelf topples down. In flight, it shatters. There is blood on Clarissa's shirt. She is stiff with shock. Her eyes are wide and betrayed. How could I be so careless?

Twelve stitches become the scar that sits on my daughter's shoulder.