Dignity - a novel - 11. Chapter 11: Orange Ribbon

PART TWO: Depression; Acceptance; the Beyond

Chapter 11: Orange Ribbon

I switched on the gas fireplace before I plopped down on the sofa. There is already a nasty chill in the air, and it's only the beginning of October, so I guess this winter is going to be a long one.

My stupid little bro must have left the TV on, 'cause the lame 9 PM local news is blaring.

'Oh shit!' I think. Jack's image is plastered on the screen (again, LOL!). I scramble for the remote half-buried in the sofa cushion next to me, and turn the volume down.

The African American anchorwoman is chattering away with a painted-on grin. She looks like some clown, and she doesn't even know! – like an over-primed and made-up bobblehead.

"Our crisp autumn forecast is up next, but first," her face does a fake-ass change of mood, and slips on a frown. "Today marks the four-month anniversary of the disappearance of Jack Shaw, the 'Leukemia Kid,' as some people are calling him…"

While she blathers, footage rolls: a shot out of a moving car window showing various trees around town, all tied with huge orange ribbons and bows, and wooden stakes forced into the ground with poster board signs. These 'wanted signs' are covered in see-through plastic. Underneath are pix of Jack and hokey slogans, like: 'Come Home Soon!,' and 'Have you seen meeeee…? :-('

These frenetic shots calm down to a steady walking view that is approaching Jack's house in the daytime. The camera dude slows to focus on an area at the corner of the lawn closest to the sidewalk, and lingers on the pole of the stop sign there. Here he pans across a mass of orange flowers, candles and stuffed animals, and then there are the cards; a pool of them around the post like a slowly moldering mass of 'well-wishes.' This is Jack's memorial, and I hope he's never forced to see it, either in person, or on the news.

The anchorwoman drones in her 'deeply concerned' voice:

"There was a candlelight vigil…"

Now the shot changes to nighttime. A crowd is gathered around Jack's front door. Mrs. Shaw, with Jack's brother and sister, are standing next to Principal Voorhies. The people facing them are all holding lit candles, and each and every one is shown wearing a looped orange ribbon pinned over their hearts – funny thing is, from amongst this crowd, I recognize no one whom Jack or I would actually know well enough to call 'friend.' Ironic, huh.

"…At the vigil, the boy's principal, Edwin Voorhies, presented a check for $1,218.33..."

She shoots an ersatz laugh to her fellow anchor, while the video shows Voorhies, with an oversized check in his hands. He is handing it off to Mrs. Shaw. WTF! Is this some screwball winners' sweepstake crap I'm watching! Anyway, the anchorwoman asks the other guy – who also suddenly looks 'concerned.'

"…And, why the odd dollar amount, you ask?"

She waited for no reply, but immediately chirps:

"Because..."

Her head rotates like an owl to re-find her camera.

"...With that contribution in place, the 'Let's Recover Jack Shaw Fund' now stands at a cool one million dollars! Anyone who can – "

I click the TV off in disgust.

I sit there in some sort of media shell-shock. I mean, w h a t – t h e – f u c k! Then my mind drifts over the images I saw. Sure the trees have been ringed with 'hope' for months now, and they are starting to tatter. The same is clear on Mrs. Shaw's face. I trust Jack is right, and that 'this' is still easier on her than the other option. Hamish and Christie, on the other hand, looked odd. I don’t think I know how to describe it; there was a certain look of mild annoyance, like – it seems hard to fathom – they had better stuff to do. IDK.

I dig out my phone, but I just hold it. The light from the screen taunts me. It seems to want to know what I intend to do now.

Jack has been drifting along. He tells me he's all right, and I believe him as far I can let myself, but he must be hurting. Damn him; why is his spirit so strong, when I know his body must be betraying that will to live? Oh, Jack…

I fumble with the phone, and debate what I'll text to 'Sean.'

I heave a big powerless sigh, and let my phone fall limp into my lap.

˚˚˚˚˚

There is faint knocking at the front door.

Weird. Who would knock, and not use the doorbell?

I assume I am the only one in the house who can hear it, so I get up from the couch, and walk out to the front hall. I peek through the door curtain by moving it aside an inch.

Oh God…

I swallow down my sudden panic; instead, I reach and turn on the hall lights.

Oh Fuck…

I switch on the porch lights, take a deep breath, and open the door.

"Um, hi guys."

The two on the other side look at each other in a quick moment of tense silence.

"Can we come in?" Christie asks, and is pretty short on any attempt at courtesy.

"I think my parents – "

Hamish cuts me off. "We're here to speak with you." He also has an equal lack of patience and warmth in his voice for me.

"Family room," I tell them.

Once we are settled – me on the couch again, and them sitting on-edge in the pair of armchairs – I think I should 'head them off at the pass,' LOL, so I start with: "Saw you guys on TV…"

Christie snaps at me. "Stop it."

"What?"

She grows shrill. "Stop the bullshit. Tell the police where Jack is."

"I don’t know…"

Hamish smacks the coffee table. "Don’t be selfish. This has gone on long enough. Start thinking of other people for a change."

Wow. They're making it easy for me to resist; when did boorish behavior ever win a war?

"Look," Christie calms down a bit. "You don’t know what it's like." She glances at her brother for quick reassurance. He nods, I guess giving her license to lay it all out. "Jack is our mom's favorite. After…" she falters. "…After – what happened with our dad – Jack got sick for the first time, and well, she couldn't go on…"

Hamish finishes for her. "We lost our mother. She became Jack's mom; his nurse; his support network; her world – we were left on our own. We were just kids, and we felt lucky if we got a 'Have a nice day at school' before she rushed off to spend the whole day with Jack in the hospital."

Fuck, they're gonna make me cry.

"And," Christie's ire suddenly flashes back into full view. "Jack hurt our mom real bad by forcing his queerness down her throat when he was still at such a young age. She didn't need that, not at all! It was embarrassing for us too."

"True," Hamish said as if that were the proof of Jack's malicious intentions; as if the boy in question had ever wanted to hurt anyone.

"Wait." I am fucking mad. "What does that have to do with anything!?" I sigh. "It's like at age 12, he found out that he has blue eyes, and he told his mom about it. So f-in what?"

"Well, whatever," Hamish is pissy. "The point is, that self-centered, selfish and ungrateful boy has taken a lot from us already, and it kills us to see our mom go through this."

"She needs closure," Christie confirms. "She needs to bury him."

I sit fully upright on the sofa cushions. Folding my arms, I tell them plainly, "He's not dead yet."

The two lose the tension in their faces. A glance passes between them, and then settles on me. Hamish says, "So – you do know where he is."

I stand and point at the door.

"I'm not saying I do, but the truth is – you're never going to find him. Never."

˚˚˚˚˚

After I closed the front door on them, and immediately extinguished the porch light so they stumbled down the steps, I came back into the family room.

I was so angry. I fumed awhile by pacing back and forth before the TV. If I could, I would have kicked that boob-tube into the hallway, and out the front door to follow Jack's asshole siblings.

Now, I stop dead. Maybe, more like, I am stopped dead in my tracks by a thought. Like the slow but constant ticking of the second hand, we all rotate around the dial of our face of time; tick, tick, tick, and maybe in that slow progress from a moment that seems indistinguishable from the previous, or from the one to follow, we all inextricably move on whether we know it or not. Jack too is moving on, but who is there for him? Who is able to love him; tick, tick, tick.

I stumble over to the couch and collapse on it. I slide my butt forward on the cushion, and let my back slouch at a painful angle onto the back seat. My neck is pinged, and that pinch feels good; makes me feel that I am connected to my body again. I look up and try not to cry. Instead, I count the stupid black dots that litter the ugly ceiling tiles like mold on blue cheese. My mouth murmurs without my brain knowing it, "It's such a fake-ass world – just leave him alone."

My hand falls to my side and brushes against something hard, the TV remote, maybe. I glance over – no – it's my phone.

I pick it up, fumble with the screen, and tap the picture icon. I scan through the ones I've received, and find the image on my mind.

It is the first pic that Jack sent to me from L.A. He sits on the sand and holds out his arm to take an early-morning selfie. His blue-green hair is swept to the side, and although he looks tired, he also seems happier than I remember him in the last few weeks we were together in Ohio. He told me that he 'felt it' coming back, and then he had to undergo that terrible lumbar puncture to test his spinal fluid, and do it without any anesthesia. I shiver to think of it. I never want to go through that even once, but almost unimaginably, he used to have to get poked like that every six months. That's the way they test to see if his leukemia is out of remission or not.

Oh fuck. He does not want me to pity him, but I am a human being, and goddamn it Jack, I feel sorry for you. Why the hell else would I do all this?

But now I must consider what to do with this picture of a goofy but contented-looking kid on a SoCal beach somewhere. What if the police, or the FBI, get a search warrant? What if Hamish and Christie go all Hawaii 5-0 on my ass, and insist the cops find out if I know more than I have admitted through a court order.

I slide my fingertip across the screen and pull up the delete option.

Shit, shit, shit. Now I'm worried that the Man can find this and know 'Sean' is the key to finding Jack. I want to delete it for his own good, but maybe, I can't. So, I feel selfish too. I want to keep Jack, but I know I can't hold on to him forever!

I leave it alone. I'll think about a way to save it someplace 'safe' before I recycle Jack's pic, as it may be the last one of him I ever see.

Instead, I pull up Sean's number to text him. What to type..? What to tell him…yes, what do I want to tell him..?

I type:

Hang in there, kid. Im holding down things here, cuz, I luv yu

I hit 'send,' and let the thing fall on my stomach. I watch it until the light winks out.

I pull in a big lungful of air, and let it out slowly. I feel my hand absent-mindedly go up to the lapel of my jacket. I stroke the orange ribbon that is pinned there, and finally, I can let myself start to cry.