The Light You Cast - 4. Chapter 4

My axe, hammer, and nails took over the daylight hours. Measurements, balance, ropes and roof shingles, sawdust, the smell of fresh cut wood and frozen sap, my numb fingers, the toolbox in my rusted truck bed -- each dominated my waking thoughts and pulled me into presence.

I wished I could have stayed in that zone longer, maybe even forever. But when the sun fell back behind the trees, my body became weary. I put my tools away as poetry welled inside me, a dark insatiable pool that consumed my inner peace. I couldn’t resent it, however. Poetry might have intertwined with my fear and sorrow, but it kept me from drowning in them.

When I finally reached my bedroom and put pen to paper, I could only think about Jonathan. Sometimes I would throw the pen down in frustration and force myself to swallow the black feeling that crept through my veins.

Other times, the words came freely. I didn’t write about Jonathan, exactly. I wrote in the presence of the feeling he gave me. I filled up the margins with words I wasn’t used to seeing on my pages. Words of curiosity and terror formed beneath my pen, rather than hopelessness and death. When my hand ran out of words, welcome darkness enveloped me, and I slept.

On Tuesday night, the phone lines were restored to the Jamesons’ house. When I woke the next morning, I waited in the stairwell until I heard the family’s voices fade. The front door shut, and the deadbolt turned. Engines rumbled in the driveway then faded off into the distance. An unearthly quiet settled over the house, filled with potential energy like a trash bag on the edge of bursting. After enough time passed that no one would reasonably return for forgotten items, I crept up the stairs.

The Jamesons’ phone was a shell-pink relic from the nineties, with a receiver hanging over the top, a keypad below, and a spiral cord connecting the two. Their digital answering machine flashed with dozens unheard messages. I listened to the voices of our neighbors and scrawled down notes for the Jamesons, along with a number of work requests left for me.

I returned their calls one by one, scribbling down times and locations on a yellow lined notepad. Mostly repairs. Shingles, fences, fallen branches. A few requests for grocery deliveries and hauling. I filled up every last minute I could spare. Eventually there wasn’t anything left to schedule. Still, my pen tapped impatiently on the yellow writing pad by the phone.

I could call him again. It would be eleven o’clock in Toronto. Surely he’d be at work, if he was on the schedule today. I clamped down on my tongue between my teeth. Doodled. Scratched at the back of my neck a little too hard. Then, all at once, I found the receiver at my ear, and my fingers pressed the buttons almost against my will.

Light crowded out the corners of my vision as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. I felt like my heart was going to explode in my chest.

“Rayna’s Attic costume shop, Jonathan speaking. What can I do for you?”

My intake of air must have been audible. His voice sounded clear and smooth. Confident. Expectant.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Say something. Emergency lights flashed in my vision. I licked my lips, mouth suddenly dry as a tundra. “Hi,” I managed.

“Is it that the mouth breather again?” I heard a woman say, voice thin with distance. My face flared so hot with shame, Jonathan could probably feel it straight through the line.

“Shh!” Jonathan responded. “Hi,” he replied a moment later, voice decidedly quieter and less certain. “Is this… Is this who I think it is?”

I nodded. As if he could see me. Shielding my eyes against the daylight coming in through the kitchen window, I slumped down on a barstool and leaned my elbows against the tiled counter. “Probably, yeah.”

“Hold on a minute. Let me go upstairs so I can have a little more privacy.” He said the last words as if directed at someone else. I stared down at the tile and waited through a jittery silence that seemed to last hours instead of seconds.

His voice returned after a moment of rustling. My skin prickled and a fluid feeling wormed through my stomach.

“You found the card I left for you,” he said.

“Yeah. I’m glad you did that.” I hesitated, feeling clumsy with my words. “I found your coat. It was hanging in the woods.”

“Oh yeah? It’s probably ruined. I still have yours, too. I kind of left you coatless. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” I took a deep breath and gathered my courage to speak. “Listen. Jonathan, I feel bad about how I handled things.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I did that to you. Sorry I left you like that.”

“Yeah. That was pretty rough. But I’ve got a thick skin, Ethan. I can survive a little disappointment.”

“You were right about me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. I should have hung up right then before I said something else I’d regret, but I couldn’t make myself do it.

“I never doubted it,” he said. “ I owe you an apology, too. I’m sure it wasn’t easy getting blindsided out of the blue like that. I’m sorry for doing that to you."

His voice felt too cathartic. It soothed me in a way I’d never been able to achieve alone. I thought about the first time I’d met him, so long ago. He’d been small for a twelve-year-old, but he had fire in his eyes and a sharp wit. He'd grown a lot since then, but I imagined his personality hadn't changed.

“Are you mad at me for what I did to your dad?”

“No, not for that. He would have killed me that day, Ethan. I came out as gay at school, and when he found out, he couldn’t handle it. Did you know he broke eight ribs with that fire poker? If I hadn’t wrapped my arms around my skull he would have bashed it straight in. Broke my arm in three places, too.”

The blood drained from my face. “Still. I’d understand if you were mad at me.”

“Oh, I was mad at you. I was hurt and angry and confused for a long time. But not for what you think. You ran away, Ethan. I realize that I only knew you for what, six months? But I got attached to you. You were always so gentle and kind. I never heard you raise your voice once. You wouldn’t even kill a damn spider, you’d always set them free outside.

“Then all of a sudden you were shouting and your eyes were bloodshot, and you were bashing his head in like something out of a horror movie. I couldn’t piece together the person I knew with the person who ended my father’s life. But I didn’t care. I was scared and I wanted you to stay with me. It hurt so much when you left. Worse than the broken bones.”

His side of the story made me ache inside so deeply that I had to retreat. I swallowed, forced myself to breathe. Scattered images of my frozen lake tried to piece themselves together in my mind, but they crumbled to pieces and fell down into my chest. Something tickled my face. I scratched at my cheek and got my fingers wet. A strangled sound escaped through my swollen throat.

“Ugh," Jonathan said. "God, look at me. I’m crying all over myself. Listen. Ethan. Like I said in the car, I told everyone that I killed him. The police stopped suspecting you. They aren’t coming after you and you don’t have to run.”

“No,” I said. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How so?”

I took a long and trembling breath. The next words I said made me feel something I called the “corpse,” a dissonance between my body and my mind so uncomfortable that my body felt decayed, dead, buried. Disgust riddled through me like graveworms.

“I killed someone else. Right before I came to live with you.”

The world around me changed quality as the words escaped. The air felt lighter, and my vision spun. I’d let the truth slip out.

“Jesus fucking christ, Ethan,” he breathed.

“Yeah.”

“Who was it?” he asked.

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

“So how many people have you killed?” He whispered the question fiercely.

“Two…”

“Just two. Okay. Breathe, Jonathan. We can work with this.”

Despite everything, hearing him talk to himself made the corner of my mouth twitch with the tiniest of smiles.

“Listen,” he said. “I can’t really afford another trip out to Alberta, but I still want to help you. Have you ever been to Toronto?”

“No. I’m not really a big city person.”

“Would you consider it?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I just have to save a little more money.”

“I can help you out once you get here. Just get here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

A bird made a loud squawking sound in the background, which made me curious, but now didn't feel like the right time for casual questions.

“I am going to be a shitty employee today," he said. "My hands are shaking.”

I let out a small laugh. Mine were shaking, too. I realized I was pressing the receiver to my ear hard enough for it to hurt. When I let up the pressure, blood flowed back into my ear and it throbbed.

“Listen. I have to go back to work. It’s kind of busy and Rayna’s probably drowning out there.”

“Okay."

“Call me again when you’re ready to visit. Okay?”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Ethan.”

“Bye, Jonathan.”

It felt lonely, once the silence was back. I set the phone down, but I didn’t really want to. I wanted to crawl into the phone line and curl up inside it, so I could hear him at work, talking to his customers.

Eventually I snapped out of it. If I wanted to see him again so badly, I had work to do and money to make.

With restless fervor, I put all my energy into roof and fence repairs. I rose well before dawn each morning and worked until I couldn’t see. By the time Friday rolled around, I’d saved another three hundred dollars.

*****

All the actors but one somberly left the stage, and the lights went out except a dim spotlight on Michael. He paced back and forth across the stage. It looked as if he was pacing back and forth under the light of the moon.

“Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.”

It was closing night: the third act, second scene of Hamlet. I knew the lines well enough; I’d heard him practicing for months. But Michael did not simply read the lines. He oscillated between melancholic contemplation, giddiness and rage in both his words and gestures. I found myself watching so intently that my eyes burned, my heart echoing in my chest.

Mrs. Fidler sat to my right, her bony hands twisting together every time Michael spoke. On my left was Mrs. Jameson, clasping her husband’s hand. Mr. Jameson’s eyes were rimmed with red, and every now and then he wiped at them. I could sense his pride, and something of his guilt as well. To his left sat Leah, who fidgeted and sighed throughout the entire play.

As the curtains closed on the scene, I wondered about the parallels between the play and our own lives. Hamlet would confront his mother, enraged and disgusted by her marriage to his uncle, his father’s killer. Michael would confront his own mother, and perhaps he’d be angry at her too, for moving out into the wilderness where it was harder to escape his father’s dramatic mood swings. But beyond this, all the grief and death in this play, the senselessness of it all, hit close to home.

*****

The next day, I came home before dark for the first time all week. As I pulled up into the driveway, I could see Leah in the backyard. She was slamming her fists onto the body of a snowman. She glanced up at me, her brow drawn into a deep scowl, then she returned to pummeling the snowman.

Something bad had happened. All I could think about was my suitcase. That, and my money. It was time for me to go.

I was so preoccupied that I didn’t hear them fighting when I walked in the door. I didn’t see anything until it was right in front of my face.

“Stop, Jack! Stop!”

I froze in the entry, staring at the scene in the kitchen. Two chairs had toppled, the table askew, candlesticks and tablecloth on the floor.

Mrs. Jameson was trying to pull her husband off of her son, but he shoved her back. She stumbled over her feet into the living room and tumbled onto the hardwood floor.

Then Mr. Jameson had Michael by the collar, up against the wall, shaking him, slamming him, slapping him across the face. Sweat dampened their skin, hair messy and loose, red marks on their arms and faces.

“You’re done being a part of this family?” Mr. Jameson bellowed. “How could you say that after everything I’ve done for you? You wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for me!”

I couldn’t move past the china cabinet. They didn’t even notice I was there, frozen still. Michael’s duffel bag was laid out in front of me on the living room floor. The drawstring had come open, a few shirts spilled out over the carpet. Mrs. Jameson pushed herself back up onto her feet and hovered nervously.

“You think you’re gonna make me stay here by beating me into it?” Michael yelled. “You’re such a fucking loser!”

“What about your sister, huh?! You’re just going to leave Leah behind with a loser like me?”

Mr. Jameson gave Michael another shake against the wall, but then his arms weakened, and Michael slid down to his feet. The man shrunk inwards, eyes growing sad. “I could do better than this, I could be a better father, but you have to give me a chance, you can't just run away from your own family.”

That’s when a dangerous spark entered Michael’s eyes. The boy reached for the nearest thing he could get - a heavy platter on the countertop - and hit his father across the chest with a cry of anger. It cracked against the man’s chin and collarbone, and when it fell to the floor, it didn’t even break. I just rolled aside and settled on the linoleum.

“Jack! Don’t you-” Mrs. Jameson lunged at her husband, but his fist landed, cracking Michael across the eye. The boy’s head thudded against the wall and his body sagged, knees going slack. Jack fought through Mrs. Jameson’s grasping hands to pull his son up by the collar and slam his back against the wall.

The world went into slow motion when I saw the blood smeared over Michael’s face. The boy’s eyes rolled back. Mr. Jameson had knocked him out cold and didn’t show any sign of letting up. My heart slammed into my chest, my vision flashing white.

It’s not your business. He’ll be fine. Just leave!

I wanted to listen to the voice in my head, but my body moved of its own accord. Another person was taking over the controls. Rage swept through me, a wave of heat so heavy and dark that my consciousness nearly went with it. But something remained. Something ugly and careless and cruel.

My vision came to me in bursts and snaps. First I ripped Mr. Jameson off of his son. Then I had him on the ground. His face distorted under my fists. I hit him until he was still.

“Michael, go get in my truck,” I heard myself bark. I was pinning Mr. Jameson to the floor by his neck. My fist throbbed. Blood caked over my knuckles. The man wasn’t moving, but I could feel his pulse throb under my thumb.

“Stop! Please, this is crazy, just stop!” Mrs. Jameson sobbed. Michael had come around, but he was still slumped on the floor. He stared at me like a deer in the headlights.

“I said, get in my truck. Now!”

He scrambled up and ran out the front door.

It took all my strength to lift my hand from Mr. Jameson’s neck. My handprint was white on his skin until the blood flowed back and made it turn red. Every bone in my body wanted to kill him. Disgust seeped from every pore; my heart felt like a sick black knot.

I stood.

“Get Michael’s bag and put it in the back of my truck,” I told Mrs. Jameson. I don’t know what I looked like, but Mrs. Jameson had terror in her eyes. She obeyed my order with a nod of her tear-streaked face and began shoving clothes back into the duffel bag.

I ran down to the basement, threw a few extra things in my suitcase, and tore back up to find Leah next to her father in the kitchen, staring at me with eyes so large she looked like an owl.

“Did you kill him?” she asked. I could only shake my head. God, I hoped not. I dared to glance down at him. His face looked like ground beef, but he was breathing.

“Leah, your brother and I have to leave now,” I said unsteadily. “If your father ever ever hurts you, I want you to run. Go to Mrs. Fidler’s. She’ll help you. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.

“Tell me you understand. If he ever hurts you, run to Mrs. Fidler. Or tell your teacher, or anyone. Just get out. Tell me.”

“Okay,” she said. “I will.”

I was going to leave right then, but the way she was looking at me, I felt I had to say something else. “I won’t forget you, Leah. I won’t forget you cared. I’ll write to you, I promise.”

Then I left, because if I stayed any longer I would never be able to force myself out the door.

*****

“I’m driving to the train station in Edmonton,” I told Michael as I turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered for a moment before it began to rumble loudly. “I can drop you off somewhere. Just tell me where.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. His lip was swollen and cracked. There was still blood smeared across his purpling cheek, his nose scuffed and red.

“Well you can’t very well stay here, can you? Where were you planning to run off to?”

“Jared’s house.”

“And where’s that?”

“Close to town.”

From the corner of my eye I could see Mrs. Jameson watching us out the window. I started backing out.

“Your mom will come looking for you, you know.” I warned. “Does she know where Jared’s house is?”

“No. I haven’t even been there once. And I wasn’t planning to stay there long. He said he’d take me to Vancouver. He’s getting an apartment there.”

“He’s getting an apartment?" I asked. "How do you know this guy?”

“From drama class. He’s the director’s assistant.”

“How old is he?”

Michael didn‘t say anything for a minute, but eventually he came out with it. “Thirty-two.”

“And you trust this guy?” I asked.

Michael shrugged. Then, he said into his coat, “Can I just go with you?”

I gave him a sidelong glance, thoughts turning over and over in my head. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Don’t care.”

“Toronto. Train ticket’s over four hundred dollars and I can’t take a flight.”

“I have some money. Not that much. But some.”

“How much?”

“A hundred fifty.”

I thought over the money I had in my coffee can. Even with Michael’s small sum added in, there wouldn’t be enough for both the train tickets. We’d have to stretch whatever money I could get out of the truck.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll make it work.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Sorry you have to be stuck with me.”

With a sigh, I turned onto the main road. This was going to be a long night.