But it’s nothing like the shock on your face. The bullet whizzes past your ear, and I bet it makes a whistling sound, doesn’t it? I bet it feels like fire where it nicks your skin—only a millimeter or two but hot enough to send you staggering. One foot lurches back, but there’s nowhere for it to go. Your other boot connects with the rooftop’s rim, and your weight tumbles backward. Your ass hangs over the highway.
You teeter on the edge for what feels like forever. Long enough for you to lift a hand to your ear and come away with blood. Long enough for me to lower the weapon and step back. Long enough for you to open your goddamn mouth and tell me you’re sorry.
And then, just like that, you’re gone.
BETH
Four months later
I arrive twenty-seven minutes into the Sunday service, halfway through a hymn that sounds more like a rock ballad. A good forty singers are lined up across the back of the stage in bright purple robes, their expressions glorious on the twin LED screens above their heads. The Reverend sings along at the far end, tapping a tambourine in time on his knee. Their faces, their entire bodily beings radiate joy, as do those of the people around me, a full house of people swaying to the music. What did Martina call it? Happy-clappy, though now that I’ve seen it for myself, I’d sooner call it euphoric. Enough that nobody notices when I slip into an upper row seat.
Not that anyone here would recognize me, now that my hair is back to its original color, the deep mahogany God originally intended. A couple more months and it’ll touch my shoulders. Then again, maybe I’ll leave it like this, in a bob just long enough I can tuck a curl behind my ears. Now that I’ve gotten used to it being short, I rather like the freedom of fresh air on my neck. Sure beats the weight of hair, or the feel of Marcus’s hand on it. And a woman at the airport yesterday said the haircut suited me, that it was sassy. I don’t feel sassy quite yet, but I’m getting there.
Is it weird that I still hear his voice? It’s annoying, certainly, and maybe a little crazy, but sometimes I’ll be going about my day, heating up a can of soup for lunch or brushing my teeth before bed, and he’ll bitch about how I’m doing it all wrong. “Put the cap on the tube. You’re making a mess. And lay off the ice cream. You’re looking a little hippy.”
You you you. Bad bad bad.
But I’m not the same Emma he pushed around for all those years. Now I do what I couldn’t when he was still here: I ignore him. I let him go on and on and I act like I don’t hear a thing. I read a book, take a long bubble bath, bake brownies and eat half the pan. This will not be his lasting legacy, this ability to take up space rent-free in my head, making me feel shitty about myself. If Marcus talks and I pretend not to hear, is he really there?
The music fades, and the congregation sinks into their seats.
The Reverend steps to the podium, and I wish I could say his sermon was about something relevant. Forgiveness or new beginnings, maybe, or the many reasons why good people do bad things and still get to go to Heaven. But I suppose that would be too convenient, much too serendipitous, and real life doesn’t come tied up with a pretty bow. He preaches about the greatness of God, and I listen for a while before my mind starts to wander.
It’s been four months since Marcus tumbled off that rooftop, four months since the police slapped handcuffs on my wrists and carted me downtown. I told them everything, and still they threw the book at me. They charged me with falsifying my identity, with fraud, with unlawful possession of not one but two stolen weapons. They even threatened me with second-degree murder for a while, until my attorney pointed out both guns were empty. The bullet Clyde gave me was never found, but the residue was, up both of my arms, my shirt, my face and Bozo-the-Clown hair.
And then the Atlanta police received a call from Chief Eubanks. He told them that when Sabine’s body floated up from the darkness, she brought along an unequivocal clue: