Читать книгу The Object Of Love - Sharon Cullars - Страница 7

Sean stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, stood to walk the few feet to the window. Discount rates didn’t get you much of a room, and at $90 a day, he figured he was good here for only another day or so. Outside, all there was to see was the motel’s parking lot and beyond that an artery leading to the highway. Just past the road sat the overgrown edge of a forest preserve.

He walked back to the bed, sat down again. He couldn’t seem to shake this restlessness, and it wasn’t just Calvin’s death tugging at him. Damn it! Why had she even offered him the chance?

He turned his attention to the television. An old movie was playing, some hackneyed plot about a jailbreak with a then-young Stallone. Guns were blazing, a couple of cars skidded over a bridge, landing in a carnage of warped metal…usually enough to pull him in. Still, nothing was keeping his mind occupied. There were too many things plaguing him. He needed to dull his senses, disconnect.

A couple of years ago, it would have been easy. He would’ve just taken a few hits, zoned out. But that was then. Another lifetime ago. He lay back, arms folded beneath his head, and closed his eyes. And immediately saw her standing there on the porch, lonely and vulnerable. He’d felt her sadness from where he stood, had tried to shield himself from it.

He hadn’t known what to say when she asked why he and Calvin had fallen out. What could he say? He definitely couldn’t tell her the truth. He pushed away the sudden image of Calvin, his face twisted in anger, his fists striking out. He still felt the explosion of cartilage caving, of blood filling his nose, his mouth. Felt the fists come down on him again and again.

He sat up, shook the memory from his head. He didn’t want to remember Calvin that way. Nor did he want to picture him as he had looked in the casket, his usually smooth pallor gray beneath the light brown skin, a gash across his forehead barely hidden with makeup. Calvin had never been that still; it was unnatural. He wanted to remember Cal from the good times, before everything fell apart. He tried to picture his friend running across the basketball court, hovering over the ball, pushing Sean away with an outstretched arm, then bursting forth with lightning strides and landing a perfect shot. There were a million of these memories, and yet he couldn’t seem to hold on to any of them. The only memory that clearly stayed with him were those last words: Stay the fuck out of my life!

And Sean had complied, his pride and anger refusing to let him walk through that gate again. Today had been the first time in nearly six years that he had been in that yard. Nothing had changed much. Mrs. Burnham always planted the same lilies for spring and tended to those overgrown rose bushes. Outside of a new coat of paint for the porch (always white), everything was as it had been the last time he was there. Hidden by the bushes, a familiar haunt for him and Calvin, he half expected Calvin to slam out of the back door, round the corner, and join him in a smoke.

And when he heard the door open today, he had paused, for a second foolishly believing that the power of his mind had called forth the ghost of his boyhood friend. Then he heard her calling out, mistrust in her voice, and had felt like a boy again, afraid to be caught smoking in her backyard. Until he remembered he was no longer a boy. Still, he had gotten rid of the cigarette out of respect.

During the funeral and later at the burial, he had deliberately stayed below the radar, not sure how much she knew, or whether she would even want him there. He hadn’t given condolences, too much of a coward to approach her directly. He only planned to stay long enough to give Calvin his due, then leave and never look back. But on his way out of the cemetery, he saw her collapse, and instinctively had pushed through the crowd to go to her. After he made sure she was all right, his only thought was getting back to the motel. But when he would have made the turn at Oak Park Avenue, he maneuvered the motorcycle down Madison instead, straight to her house. He still couldn’t explain the compulsion. He had paid his respects, and yet he couldn’t leave. As though there was something else he had to do. Or say. At the house, he deliberately blended in with the crowd, watching everyone through a filter that separated him from the bodies milling around. On occasion, he spotted her, but she was always with someone—her mother, or one of her friends. There were a few people around his age; he assumed they were friends of Cal from school. He didn’t recognize any of them. His and Cal’s rift had resulted in different paths, different lives.

He stayed, not sure why. Especially when the room began closing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic. Still, he didn’t leave, but instead sought refuge in the yard for a smoke. And then she had come out.

He had pondered her offer all afternoon. It came at him again and again, even though he constantly pushed it away. He did the plusses and negatives in his head, the usual way he analyzed his situations. There were many reasons why he should take her up on it. He could use the money he would save. And it would only be a few days, if that. And maybe, finally, he could find some peace within himself, make some kind of recompense to his dead friend.

Most of all, he could finally dispel the ghosts from his past, cleanse his spirit.

Besides, his mom would appreciate that he wasn’t staying at some smelly hotel looking out over a parking lot.

Still, there was one overpowering reason why he shouldn’t even think about it. Should stay right where he was.

The screech of a car smashing against a wall at nearly 200 mph, then exploding on impact filled the room from the television, echoing the loneliness that surrounded him.

He sighed, got up, and walked to the closet, pulled out the one suitcase he had packed. And denied to himself that he had made up his mind the moment she asked the question.