Lighthouse Nights

13

jules accepted the bottle, blocked the spout with her tongue, and faked a swig. “there are a few things i’d like to do tonight if it’s okay with you.”

gabe took the bottle and two more gulps. “sure.”

“emma and i had a plan before she took things into her own hands. we were gonna throw away anything sentimental. it was her idea, but i’d like to honor it.”

“let’s do it.” at the dune grass grill, gabe’s eyes were transparent with clarity and focus. now his forehead sagged like a bulldog and his eyes watched the floor as if he was counting dust mites.

jules knew the look well; reality was sinking in. “i’d also like to write a note,” she said.

gabe sucked the tip of the wine bottle and popped it from his lips. “yeah.”

“you okay?” she asked.

he nodded, then lifted the bottle again.

outside, trevor's trunk slammed.

*  *  *

no more parents. no more fuck-ups. no more funerals or dinners or cry-baby ramblings; tonight was the night and if jules couldn’t finish the job, trevor would.

he lumbered from the trunk to the hood, dragging the empty garbage bags across the pavement as if they contained severed limbs from a chainsaw massacre.

PATIENCE was a dismembered virtue; stripped of its relevance at the exact moment THE BOY called TREVOR'S GIRL ‘gorgeous.’ no more waiting in the car. no more music from a dead girl’s ipod. no more mr. nice guy.

he paced instead; through branches and weeds and thorns that lined the driveway’s edge and tugged his jeans. a sagging twig looped between his hair and the walkie-talkie headband and nearly pulled it off. trevor snapped off the stick and readjusted the device against his ear. 

his eyes never blinked; never left the window where flashing lights would signal the release of kinetic anger.

over the headset: “you know what, sarah? i’m glad you came.”

“shh. i’m glad i’m here.”

trevor balled his fist and punched the jagged trunk of a tree. flesh tore from his knuckles and stuck with blood to the bark. he hit it again.

and again.

and again.

*  *  *

six vintage coke bottles, one collection of rocks, one digital slr camera with six lenses, ten filters and a case, seven multifaceted die with numbers instead of dots, two mint-condition star trek action figures.

BAG NUMBER ONE was double-bagged. gabe yanked the built-in ribbon and tied a bow.

edgar sensed the evening’s dread. he hopped and fluttered from bar to perch to bar and cussed unintelligible phrases at jules.

one cd player/alarm clock, one wii video-game system with thirteen games and a controller, twenty-five dvds, eight bluray disks, and one bluray player. triple-bagged and tied.

gabe tore his drawings from the magnetic display board and jules nearly leapt from the couch. she held her composure and watched the boy crumple and discard his art into BAG NUMBER THREE.

ten sketchbooks, two journals, one iphone, one wallet. from the bathroom, jules heard the snapping magnets of a medicine cabinet and the nostalgic rattle of pills. after gabe released seven orange bottles into the shiny depths of the bag and went back to work, she fished them out and scanned the labels: adderall. prozac. ritalin. zoloft.