Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,12
about swallowed my tongue.
“Upstairs,” Elien said, his voice low and urgent. “You saw . . . you saw what happened with Ray.”
I saw a dead man clutching at him, dragging him forward, jaw hinged unnaturally wide.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry he’s passed away.”
“That’s not what I mean. You saw.” He laid emphasis on the word, the intensity straining his voice. “You saw him grab me.”
Our eyes met. His were hazel, more green than brown, full of tears and a desperate need.
I opened my mouth, thinking of that blue thing that reminded me of a firefly.
The ambulance turned onto the street, sirens blatting.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
His eyes held mine for another moment, and, very clearly, he said, “You cowardly little fucker.” Then he raised his chin and looked away.
ELIEN (7)
Richard came and picked me up. By that time, it was almost night, and the evening breeze off the lake stirred humid heat. Thick clouds massed along the horizon as we drove home, and then we were under the thick canopy of the trees and the darkness was complete, swallowing the sky and the clouds. The whole way home, Richard was Giving Me Space and Offering Unconditional Support, which made me want to open the window, stick my head out, and improvise a reverse guillotine.
When we parked at home, I tried to calculate how much the garage had cost. The house was worth well over a million dollars; Richard hadn’t told me that, but I knew how to use Google. The garage had three bays, and it was insulated and climate controlled. A hundred thousand dollars? It had an apartment above the garage, a kind of efficiency unit—my mind flashed back to Ray’s half-story apartment, the wallpaper with a cameo silhouette, the ticking clock—so maybe a hundred and fifty thousand? A hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a garage. The house where I’d grown up, on the last Zillow estimate, was worth a hundred and fifty-four thousand dollars. Almost exactly the equivalent, the whole house, of Richard’s garage. I wondered if Richard would buy the house if I asked. I wondered what he’d say when I showed up to the closing with a jerry can of gasoline and a book of matches.
“I want you to know,” Richard said with Quiet Understanding, “that I’m ready to talk whenever you are.”
“How much did the garage cost?” I asked.
His hand closed over mine; I shut my eyes, because I knew if I didn’t, I’d end up looking at him.
“Elien, the deputies told me you had an episode. That’s ok. You’re still processing everything that happened to you. You’re still trying to make sense of it. What happened today, finding your friend like that—”
“He wasn’t really a friend, though,” I said, slipping my hand free from Richard’s and getting out of the Lexus. “I just knew him from the support group.”
“Elien,” Richard said as he got out of the car.
“What?” I asked as I headed into the house. “He’s was just some fucked-up loser, and every week, I sat in a circle with him, the whole lot of us just a bunch of fucked-up losers.”
Richard followed me into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, took out a can of La Croix, and popped the top. I took a sip before I realized it was coconut.
“This is disgusting,” I said.
“I know that you’re upset,” Richard said. “You don’t have to talk about it now. You’re allowed to feel whatever you need to feel.”
“Why did you buy this?”
Richard blinked those ready-to-cry eyes.
“I just don’t understand,” I said.
“It hurts when someone we care about takes their own life.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Jesus, you don’t listen to me. I just don’t understand why you would buy something so fucking disgusting.”
Sighing, Richard shook his head. “I understand that you’re upset. But it’s not fair to take your anger out on me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.” Then I pitched the can as hard as I could. It hit one of the upper cabinets, shattering the glass door and then smashing the wineglasses stored inside. “You know what? I guess I am upset. I’m upset you bought that fucking suntan-tasting garbage when I told you I don’t like it.”
“I’ll be upstairs, Elien.”
Sometimes, he looked like such a pathetic old piece of shit. Sometimes, with his shoulders slumped, with his hair thinning, with those iron-gray curls on his arms and the back of his hands, he looked like a ruin that was about to come tumbling down. His