22. A Life Without You
A Life Without You
Humanity has an outstanding capacity for contempt.
Even with the smiling, the small talk, the how have you beens exchanged because that’s just what you do.
I see it, the way they dislike me, themselves, and hell, even each other.
It is because they find me to be odd today, as I stand better equipped to mask such things.
Or is it the memory of the morose, poorly adjusted kid from before?
Perhaps it’s because of Audrey, perhaps they worry for her.
What my return might mean. She’s one of theirs after all.
Every bit the staple in the community, the way her father was before her, even despite her swearing up and down she’s not.
I suppose I threaten that. Nobody in this town is as dedicated to Audrey as I am; she’ll be fine.
Now that I’m home. I don’t see any of them ensuring her doors are locked and the fridge is filled.
Another beep of the scanner, then another, and another.
The container of strawberries opens up a few spilling out into the bag as it’s hastily shoved inside, the cashier making no move to correct it before piling more on top, smashing and bruising the fruit on the bottom.
I don’t remember the woman in front of me in any genuine sense aside from a blurry face passing me in the halls of school.
A sack of meat and sinew without discernible features.
For the better part, that’s what the people of Swindon, Michigan are and always have been.
Concepts. My attentions are entirely dedicated to the girl across the street; I rarely have time to spare for much else.
“One hundred thirty-six even,” she mumbles.
My eyes dip to her chest, the name tag there. Casey. A smile that barely sinks past the first layer of dead skin cells plastered on my face as I hand over two hundreds. It’d be polite to look away, but I don’t, watching as she fumbles in the register's tray.
“I heard you helped out with the Jordan boy.” A thick, meaty hand slaps down on my back, giving ole Casey a welcome reprieve from her discomfort. “A damn shame that one. Kid was a tank in high school.” It seems the police force is no better at keeping secrets than they were ten years ago.
I twist, the smell of Irish soap nearly enough to identify the man alone. “Coach Henderson, I was wondering if you were still around.”
“Still around and still whipping whiny string beans into shape!” His laugh draws the attention of everyone within a half-mile radius as he all but slams a six-pack of Budweiser down.
His beer belly more pronounced than I remember.
His tanned face is weathered and ruddy, like if Kris Kringle spent too many days drinking in a field instead of tinkering inside a toy shop.
Casey sets my change on the conveyor belt before me instead of simply handing it over. With my bags loaded into the cart and the bill paid, I’m effectively dismissed.
“I don’t recall whining too much,” I prod, because again, that’s just what you do.
Banter, it’s polite. What’s not polite is me slamming the greasy fucks face into the register.
His teeth popping out and skittering across the tile floor.
I’ll never forget the pale and pallid look on Audrey’s face the day he forced her to run the mile, refusing to believe her when she’d said she was sick.
I’d barely gotten her into the foyer of my house before she’d all but collapsed.
I’d yelled for my parents, not giving a damn that they were with a client.
It was the right thing to do. Audrey had a one hundred and three fever and hadn’t had a single sip of water all day.
It was the sickest I’d ever seen her, seen anyone for that matter, before they’re dead, of course.
It was the first night I snuck into her bedroom…
just to check on her. I hadn’t intended to stay, but how could I leave her like that?
Her mother was unreachable, gone, who knows where.
Her dad had the bedside manner of a lamppost, but he’d done the best he could, given her some cold medicine and told her to sleep it off before heading to work.
She needed cool rags, comfort, and water.
I provided all of those things. Braided her hair, helped her to the bathroom, and cleaned her up after the cold medicine had sat wrong on her empty stomach.
I would do anything for Audrey.
Coach Henderson is still droning on about the missed potential for the wrestling team and me when Casey the cashier eventually gets fed up, the fake politeness slipping away quicker than it would take to open her throat to navel. “You’re holding up the line, Bell.”
I smirk. “Of course.”
Coach follows me as I collect my bags, not bothering with one for a six-pack that won’t last the night. What else is there to do on a fall evening in Swindon aside from binge drinking by a fire at somebody else’s house?
He whistles, shoving the cans under his arm to slap me on the back again like he used to when we were kids, despite me now being a full head taller than him.
“Don’t worry about the hens. Your little friend, the Fisher girl, was part-time here when she had her little accident.
Sent them all into a clucking frenzy. They still yap about it. ”
A cold rush washes over me as I pause. My attention finally turning toward him. “What accident?”
He shifts, glancing at the fact that I’ve stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot, blocking traffic. “Poor thing was real twisted up after her dad, you know. Didn’t handle it well.”
“How so?”
“Cut her wrists up real bad. Kid just wanted some attention, she certainly...”
My entire body seems to lock into position, the buzzing of the hornets in my head deafening, drowning out whatever comes from his mouth next. I don’t know if he finishes or not, only barely registering he calls out that he’ll see me at the funeral as I turn and walk toward my car.
I’ve worked on my fair share of suicides, overdoses, gunshot wounds, hanging, carbon monoxide…
wrist cutting. The girls always cut their wrists.
I don’t try to picture Audrey like them, nude and cold on my table, wounds trailing up their pale arms. I don’t try to think about if I could do it, if I could…
work on her. If I could part with what was left when it was time to put her in the ground.
No.
No, I couldn’t.
Not a fucking chance.
Time slips, and I’m barely hanging onto a singular shred of my self-control as I pull into the alterations shop. Everything in me is screaming to get back to Audrey. An irrational, overwhelming need to check on her, to see the scars for myself.
How had I missed them?
Why hadn’t she fucking said something?
Why would she?
I left.
The idea of her having died while I continued on living is enough to sour any appetite I had.
The bell to the warm shopfront dings, but activity inside goes on as if it hadn’t.
There’s something distinctly nostalgic about it.
The smells, the carpet, and the walls unchanged after years away.
It was one of the few places Audrey and I could go without the weird kid she’d made a best friend of, drawing an annoying number of whispers and attention.
Something that rarely bothered her at all but annoyed me to all hell and back, simply for the fact that everyone kept looking at Audrey.
“Oh, Gideon!” Mrs. Johnson coos from behind the counter, rushing out to grip my arms in her small hands. “How is Audrey? I tried calling the house to check on her as soon as we heard about Bryan, but I couldn’t get through.”
You couldn’t get through because I left the phone off the hook; Audrey needs rest more than condolences.
“She’s hanging in there, but as you can imagine, she won’t make it in—"
“Oh no, of course not. My lord, that sweet girl. I am so glad she has her best friend back to help her through this awful heartbreak—”
“Ah, enough, Loranne. You hated the boy for her,” Mr. Johnson chimes in, his friends all nursing, no doubt, their third pot of coffee this afternoon.
“Well, be that as it may, a blessing in disguise is still a loss to some.”
I hike a brow, suppressing a smirk at her harshness.
Her wrinkled blue eyes cast me a loaded look.
“Oh, don’t you look at me that way, Gideon Bell.
That boy was a terror upon women, and I won’t pretend otherwise like the rest of these morons.
It is sad, of course; I’m not a monster, but our Audrey deserves better.
” She gives me a knowing smile as she squeezes my arms before letting go. “Right?”
“Of course.”
“Here, let me run into the back for your suit, and I’ll grab some cookies so you can get home to her.”
No sooner than she breezes from the room, my pager lets out a rapid ding and buzz as one of Mr. Johnson’s friends, a man older than dirt I can’t remember the name of, slams a newspaper on the table. The headline immediately grabbing my attention.
MARIONETTIST STILL AT LARGE.
I nearly roll my eyes at the name as I jerk out the small device.
346
I ignore it like the rest.
Another page rings through the small shop, my attention snagged before I can read it again.
“Sixteen dead. What kind of sick bastard turns human beings into a thing like that? I heard he dresses them up, dyes their hair and all that crap.”
“Hey Gideon, you work up that way, right? What idiots are running the police force down there? Something like that wouldn’t fly ‘round here!”
“You think he has an inside guy?” Another one pipes up.
My teeth score my inner cheek, keeping my expression perfectly natural if not a little grave. Not too hard considering what I just learned about my girl. “I’m familiar. Of course, there’s a lot I can’t discuss.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve worked on ‘em,” Mr. Johnson adds, his voice uncharacteristically muted.
I just nod. “Nearly every one.”
“What kind of twisted luck is that? In a city so big? You’d think after seven years, they’d have gotten the asshole by now.”
Luck has nothing to do with it, though. It’s meticulous planning, attention to detail, city lines, and timing out foot traffic.
Of course, I need to work on them; letting someone else examine my handiwork every time would be far too risky this far in.
That’s why in recent years I’ve endeavored to stop.
Sixteen is a big number for a single state, even if they haven’t found my most recent addition.
“Enough of all this! If I have to listen to another thing about death, murder, and dying today, I’ll gray my hair by sundown,” Mrs. Johnson scolds us, all but shoving a sack of cookies and a garment bag into my arms. Smartly, nobody dares to point out that her hair is already gray.
“No offense to your line of work, Gideon. It’s a selfless thing you do. ”
I’ve always liked Mrs. Johnson. As much as I like anyone, at least.
I smile down at her. “Thank you. I’ll have Audrey call when she’s feeling up to it.”