How to Live Quietly - Twenty-six and Twenty-seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX



Doug pulls into the driveway of the house he used to live in. The front shrubs are wide and overgrown, hovering beside the front steps like a pair of obese men. The lawn is dried out and patchy, overtaken in a few areas by dandelions and crab grass. He turns off his ignition and ponders the ghost of his past, the proud man who used to fertilize the lawn and yank out the weeds. There were so many of them.

“Daddy, look… a present for Mommy!” The dandelions were crumpled like dead spiders in Josh’s sweaty hands. It was sweltering hot and Doug had killed the tractor’s ignition to tend to the bouquet. “Let me get you a cup of water for those. Mom’s going to love them.” He had arranged the withered bouquet in a cup of water and Josh had carried them to the front door, stumbling along the way.

The door has been painted red, Cardinal Red, the same color they had bickered over when they were first married. “I don’t think it’s too loud at all. It’s a confident color and red doors are so welcoming.” Serena was pregnant at the time, one hand protectively spread over the unborn child that would be lost in a few weeks.

“It’s way too bold, Serena. We don’t want to scare people away… Let’s just keep the gray.” He had won the battle…

She opens the door wearing a long sundress, her tanned, freckled skin boasting of leisure, her hair twisted into one long braid that ropes down her shoulder.

…but he may have lost the war.

“I called you twice yesterday.” She wears the necklace from him, always.

“I got tied up at—”

“Justine’s?”

“Anyways…” He waves his hand in an effort to change the subject. “I got here as soon as I could. Did you want to catch up on vacation schedules?”

“Josh has been accused of rape, Doug.”

Rape. The word slaps him in the face. “Wh-what? What are you talking about?”

“Come on in.”

His old home feels like a recurring dream. Beach bags and towels litter the hallway floor. A glass pitcher—a wedding gift from his sister—sits atop the kitchen table, ice cubes and lemon wedges glinting in the sunlight. Beside the sink, pink roses droop over the rim of a Waterford Crystal vase—their seventh year anniversary present. Apparently, Serena was about to throw the flowers away.

“Who accused him of this?”

He sits down at the kitchen table and rubs his wrist. It has become a habit, an odd ritual to remind of him of the night he fell on the slopes—a night that somehow changed the direction of his life. If he hadn’t left Josh that night, he never would have met Lori. If he hadn’t met Lori, he wouldn’t have cheated. If he hadn’t cheated, he may still been married. If he was still married, perhaps Josh wouldn’t be in this situation. Perhaps.

She grabs a clean glass from the dishwasher.

“Alyssa accused me.”

The sound of the dishwasher door squeals shut and Josh is there, wearing a silky nylon tank top and athletic shorts. His hair is damp and he smells of cologne.

“Josh…” he stands to greet him, touches his shoulder. Bari’s daughter? Geez, what’s going on?”

“Help yourself to some ice tea.” She hands each of them a glass.

Josh sits down and rests his elbows on the table. A mild case of acne flecks his jaw line, but fails to spoil his good looks. Serena takes a seat opposite them.

“Mom, I know you wanted the three of us to talk, but if it’s okay with you… I’d sort of like to talk with Dad privately.”

She rests her chin on folded hands and squints, assessing the request.

“Actually, Josh, I think Mom should be here for this. She knows this girl better than I do and besides—”

“No, Doug. It’s fine.” She rises from her chair. “If Josh wants to discuss this, man-to-man, I completely understand. Josh and I have already reviewed what’s happened and, besides, I have a few errands to run. I’ll catch up with you guys in a little while.”

“Are you sure, Serena? This is important.”

“I know it is, Doug… and I trust the two of you to handle it.”

He watches her leave and finds himself in the dream again. Serena is out of character. She used to thrive in working through things together. He was always the rebellious one…


“Bye, Mom.”

“I’ll see you soon, Joshie.” She smiles warmly at her son. “Be truthful, honey… and don’t leave out any details. Your father can handle them.”

Your father can handle them. A dig? A compliment? He speculates, though he hasn’t’ the time to figure it out, to figure her out right now.

“I am telling the truth, Mom.” His eyes lighten in the summer. They are the color of a freshwater river reflected by the sunlight. They settle patiently on his mother’s gaze.

She comes to his side for a quick shoulder hug, “I know you are, honey,” then disappears, leaving behind the aloe scent of her lotion. The garage door rumbles below them, a familiar sound gone sour.

“Alright, Josh. What’s all this about?”

“It’s just been insane, Dad.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I was over this girl Emily’s house last week and—”

“Who is Emily?”

“She’s one of Alyssa’s friends.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“So Eric and I were in the pool with the girls… just having a good time shooting hoops. It was at night so the lights surrounding the pool were on. You could hear the crickets and a few bullfrogs from a nearby pond. It was, like, the perfect night, you know?”

“Sounds like a typical summer night in August. I remember nights like that when I was your age. What happened next?”

“So then Emily and Alyssa start giggling at the corner of the pool and we’re like, ‘What’s so funny?’ He jiggles the ice in his glass. “You know how girls do that? They act sort of... I don’t know, weird.”

Doug chuckles. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Girls can be weird, alright. So what was the secret?”

He puts his glass down and folds his hands. “Oh… that would be the decision to remove their bikini tops and chuck them onto the basketball net.”

Doug sighs and shakes his head. Having been a teenager himself, he can discern the direction of the night and he knows there’s nothing promising that’ll come out of it. “Okay…” he closes his eyes briefly. “I’ve got the picture. Two topless, giggling girls in the pool…”

Josh frames his face with his hands, as though using a scuba diving mask. “One of them, Dad, being Alyssa… Have you seen her recently?”

“N-no… not recently.”

“But you’ve seen her before… the green-eyed brunette that belongs on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”

“She’s a pretty girl, Josh. I realize that… but just remember,” he taps his chest, “real beauty comes from within.”

“Seriously, Dad?”

“The chick is hot. Alright. I get it,” he says with his hands. “Tell me the rest.”

Josh takes a sip of ice tea. “So one giggle leads to the next until we’re all playing strip basketball and we all, of course, end up naked, which is pretty much the whole point of the game.”

He rubs his lids, wishing he could, somehow, use psychic powers to erase the hormonal periods of Josh’s future. “Sex is a beautiful connection, Josh, meant to be shared with the one woman you love. You know that!”

An awkward pause simmers between them. Josh gazes through his half-empty glass, then into Doug’s eyes. “So, eight years ago, before you and Mom divorced, you slept with that detective… because you loved her?”

“For heaven’s sakes, Josh…” he snaps from his chair. “We’re not talking about me, here.”

“No, Dad… we’re not talking about you. But if you’re going to preach to me on sex and love—”

He paces around the kitchen table. “Then I damn well better practice what I preach. I gotcha, Josh. I’m flawed, too. We all are.” He sits back down. “Did you fool around in the pool or in the house?”

“In the house.”

“Did you have intercourse or oral sex?”

“Both.”

The front door opens. Quick errand, Doug thinks, eyeing his watch, listening to the pattering of Serena’s footsteps through the hallway.

“Did she protest at any point during sex?”

Josh is about to answer when his eyes widen in horror and he raises his arms instinctively to block his face while Doug—sensing the intruder before he actually sees him—launches himself from his chair, the sound of the gunshot owning the room, the details of his former kitchen spinning in and out of focus. He feels suddenly light-headed, deaf, and the world around him moves in slow motion. He cradles his son’s head on his lap. His light eyes have turned to stone. The agonizing howl that spills from him is thick and wrong, like the color of Josh’s blood-smeared yellow tank top.

His body lies limp when Doug, nearly paralyzed, faces the killer…

Bari, Serena’s boyfriend.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



The dress was purchased three years ago. She runs her fingers along its laced sleeve, recalling the day she bought it at a boutique in Nantucket for the wake of her best friend’s grandfather. The small gesture is tiring, a work of sheer exhaustion, and she must lie down again. The dress drops onto the floor like spilled black coffee. She deserts it and collapses onto her bed.

Her body aches as her mind forces her to remember what happened… Is this real?

Her son’s eyes are lighter in the summer. Doug used to compare them to the greenish brown of a fresh water stream. She cocoons herself under the covers to be alone, to better picture his eyes in her mind. It is too dark. She throws back the covers and sits up. Her throat is dry. Water would be good. She reaches for the glass of water at the nightstand. Her hand fumbles with the straw. A straw? This is wrong. She doesn’t drink from a straw. Her mother, she knows, has placed it there to offer an easier means to drink; one less thing to worry about.

She plucks the straw from the glass and tosses it like a cigarette butt onto the floor. Then she curls back into a fetal position and prays for mercy. If only she could fall asleep. Sleep would be a blessing… but to never wake, she thinks, would be heavenly. She’s always wanted to die in her sleep. Why not now?

What is eternity? Who is God?

Joshua’s name means God Rescues. Fuck God and his glory and the angels. Who did this? She wraps her arms around her waist, as though to squeeze away the pain rippling through her.

“Serena, the limo is waiting outside, sweetheart. I’ll help you dress.”

Her mother, Evelyn Day, has driven in from the city. It takes four hours with no traffic. It takes four hours with no traffic. Her mind has become a mirror to her thoughts. It doubles them. On the express train it’s less. On the express train it’s less.


“I’ve got it, Mom.” Her legs are made of iron. Carefully, she lifts them off of the bed to stand.

“I’ll get your dress, honey.”

I’ll get your dress, honey.


“Okay… I need my black pantyhose… They’re in my top drawer.” The words come surprisingly easy. They fool her for a moment. Was there a time when everyday language was just that—everyday language? When each syllable uttered did not hurt?

“I’ll get your pantyhose, too.”

Evelyn is suited in pink, a tiny suit for a tiny woman. Her grey hair grazes her chin and she wears peach lipstick. She is a sophisticated grandmother. She is a sophisticated grandmother.

A yelp escapes her. She presses her fingers against her upper lip and the ruse is over. “I can’t do this, Mom. Please, just go for me. I want to stay home.”

Evelyn sits on the edge of the bed, the nylon tights spread across her lap. A carnation sits in her jacket pocket. Graduation Ceremony, Grade Six, fourth row. She and Doug had put their differences aside and sat next to each other, holding carnations.

“Stay home?” Evelyn touches her leg. “You think it’s acceptable for you to abandon your son right now? He is with you, Serena! If this was the end of a losing football game, and Josh fumbled, you’d be there to coach him during that quiet ride home.” The wrinkles surrounding her mouth seem to weep. “You’d know just what to say…” she wipes away her own tear, “Be there for him today.”

She rips a swath of tissues from a cardboard box on her nightstand and blows her nose. “Oh, come on, Mom… This is so different.”

“God wanted him, honey! He wanted him. And Josh is with Him right now, probably catching the winning pass!”

She stares at her mother. Evelyn Day is a pillar of strength, a survivor. “I’m trying, Mom… I really am.” But Serena cannot buy into her wisdom, not right now… Maybe not ever.

“Josh would do the same for you.” She slides her hand along Serena’s jaw. “He’s with you, my love… Don’t let him down.”

Don’t let him down. The words echo through her as she stands in her bedroom—her sudden living hell—dressed in a long cotton night shirt. The windows of her room are slightly ajar and she can hear the birds chirp and sing. They don’t mind being in Hell because they are oblivious. She rushes over to the windows and slams them shut. Then she kneels, forehead on folded hands, and feigns a prayer. There is nothing to pray about because there is no one to pray to.

She is a sinner—to trust Bari, the overprotective father, her ex-boyfriend. God punishes those who deserve to be punished and she has been chosen. It is the only thing she is sure of right now. That and the strange image that swirls through her head like the smoke of a deadly fire.

Josh’s limp body, the numb eyes, opened. The blood stains. One more kiss, one more hug. Just wake up. Please, just wake up and stop it… Stop it, Josh! Stop pretending. Stop making me worry sick about you!

She walks back into her closet. There, she picks up the black dress off the floor and begins to put it on.



* * *



The Harriet B. Wilson Funeral Home is exceptionally crowded. Magnificent floral arrangements surround the room where Josh lies still in a closed wooden casket draped with his football shirt, number eighty-six. The line of guests in attendance is an endless stream of sorrow, one that she and Doug have received in line (with their families) for two hours now.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Davis.”

Josh’s friends are the hardest to confront.

“I don’t know how to do this, you know…” Corey Simmons, number twelve on Josh’s football team, towers over her. He presses a row of sturdy fingers to his lips but fails to defend an outburst of tears. She outstretches her arms to hug him and he bends down slightly to meet her halfway. They embrace for a painful moment before she straightens to face him, their arms still connected. “I don’t know how to do this, either, honey.”

“He was such a good person, you know.” He wipes his nose. “We’ll all miss him.”

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to us,” Doug says.

Doug is managing better now, she thinks. Prior to entering the funeral home, the two of them had spent a few minutes in her car, where he had seemed numb—his posture wooden, eyes cool. This, she understood; she, too, had taken a mild tranquilizer in order to cope.

It was the conversation that had worried her.

“You think the reporters are satisfied?” His gaze adrift, the question slipped from him listlessly.

“I think we did the right thing. We honored Josh by saying how blessed we feel to have known such an amazing boy, while asking for prayers and time alone to heal.”

“How blessed we feel...” He repeated the phrase and stared at her skeptically. “You feel blessed, Serena?”

A pause wedged its way between them. “I needed to get them off of our backs. It’s hard to crawl out of bed, let alone be followed, Doug.”

“How did Bari know Josh was home again?”

“Please, Doug… I can’t go through with this right now. It was his time.

“So his time, then, was determined by the psychotic that you—”

“Don’t you dare go there.”

The discussion had ended there.

“I’m Natalie, one of Josh’s friends.” The friend before her now is slender, wearing high heels and jasmine scented perfume. A fleck of diamond studs her perfect nose. Serena recalls seeing her at the football field with a huddle of friends, sipping hot chocolate and gossiping. Doing what kids her age ought to be doing. She hadn’t known her name then, just her face.

“We all loved him. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you for coming, Natalie.” She tents the girl’s small cold hands with her own and glances at Doug. Remember her? We used to see her at the football field when life was good. Married or divorced; life was good then. We just didn’t know it, or refused to see it.


“My great-grandson died fifteen years ago in a car accident.” An elderly man with a commanding voice punctuates the thought. Suited classically (vest and all), he squeezes her father’s hand. “When I heard about this tragedy, I had to stop by and say I’m sorry.” He palms his chest. “I know what this feels like.” His voice begins to crack.

“Thank you for coming, Sir.” Her father, a stoic man, chokes back tears. “I’m sorry about your grandson.”

The patriarch points a feeble index finger to the ceiling. “You’ll be with him again… when the good Lord is ready to have you...”

I’m ready now. Have me now, she thinks.

* * *

The pictures on display have been a hit. Friends and relatives peruse her son’s journey through a short life: Josh, as a toddler, sitting on Doug’s shoulders to watch a parade; Josh, as a preschooler, showing off a painting, his grin toothless; Josh, as a nine-year-old, at the top of Cannon Mountain, hours before he was abducted… his first tragedy… or was it hers alone?

Your son’s a pro… What is he, about nine?


She had won the battle. Roth is locked up for life, ironically, not due to the kidnapping charges, but for the murder of his own mother. Josh is safe now. Candlelight from the wall sconces casts a lavender glow over a room gone quiet. The guests have left. She has been granted a few more minutes to be alone with her son, to say good-bye. She lowers her head upon his casket.


“When you were born, there was a nurse named Rebecca who would help me to take care of you.” She uses the fleshy part of her hand to wipe away tears. “As if it were yesterday, I can remember her wheeling you away to the nursery… the room felt so quiet, so lonely and different without you, Josh.”

She struggles on. “I had only known you for a few hours then… but you were good from the start. Never gave me a hard time, one of those sweet kids who breaks your heart a little bit each day because you know that you can spend your whole life trying to protect him, trying to bottle his joy and happiness but you just can’t.”

She adjusts her wet hands. “I used to wish that I could fill a watering can with a lifetime of goodness and just rain all over you, you know… but things happen.” She wipes her eyes again. “I don’t know exactly how I’m going to live through this quietly, Josh, but I do know this…” She rests her forehead on folded hands, “Child of mine, you are with me. We will always be together. But you need to promise me that, in heaven… where you are now… you’ll be full of love every single day. Visit me every now and then so I know that you’re keeping your promise.” She lifts her chin to the ceiling.

“Show me a sign… I’ll know it’s you. And as far as my end of the bargain goes… in honor of you, my good child, I promise to live the rest of my days fully, just the way you’d want me to. I will continue to snowboard…” more tears escape, “and jog and teach. I will not give up on myself.”

She runs soft fingers over the top of the casket and whispers her want a second time. Show me a sign… I’ll know it’s you. Then she rises, approaches the entry way leading to the exit, and takes one last look at where she came from. “We will always be together, Josh. I love you, my child.” She kisses her palm and steadies it in the air, as though balancing a feather.

Then she leaves him.

The sound of her footsteps, right, then left again, right, then left again, take her to the back of the building, where she notices a narrow ray of light lining the bottom edge of the Ladies Room door. Someone is inside. She leans closer and can hear the muffled noises of the late visitor. Out of curiosity, and because she has to go, she knocks lightly.

“Hello?”

The toilet flushes and, within seconds, the door opens to reveal an unexpected visitor: Alyssa Galica.