Lighthouse Nights

19

the second time jules saw gabe, he caught her staring from across the catwalk. their connection was brief and his expression absolute: GO AWAY. when she ignored the implied threat, he folded his pencil in his sketchbook and left.

the third time, jules found him beneath the lamb-tail clouds of a developing storm, plodding a journal entry from the roof of his van.

she approached the boy from behind and took the opportunity to study his transformation. his arms were built—not as large as trevor’s, but large nonetheless—and his left bicep sported a puffy pink callus bloating the matted ink of a fresh tattoo that only he could have designed; an image torn from a sketchbook and handed to an artist who’s needle skills matched gabe’s ability with a pen. the embroidery depicted the silhouette of a girl with arms and fingers outstretched like a nailed depiction of christ. though the face was in shadow, jules knew it was her. 

below the image, block letters recalled her whispered sacrilege: “sometimes life is’t worth the pain. I’M GOING FOR A SWIM.”

apparently, gabe had been watching from an eye in the back of his obsidian hair. “i need to find a new place to work,” he said.

“i’m sorry i keep bothering you, john.”

no reply.

(the voice in her head screamed so loudly that she wondered if the boy heard it too: turn around and LOOK AT ME!) jules shuffled closer and spoke softly. “looks like it might storm.”

“yeah,” he said.

“i don’t have a car yet...”

“fascinating,” he said.

“do you think you could give me a lift?”

“damnit,” he said and slammed the pencil into the journal’s crease. “look, sweetheart. you’re cute and all, but i’m not interested in—”

“neither am i. do you wanna hang out, or not?”

*  *  *

the exterior of gabe’s house had been embalmed and preserved exactly as jules remembered it. the only noticeable change was the shortening of the surrounding trees; branches severed and trimmed, heaped on the ground, bequeathing the limbs a thousand yellow stumps in place of leaves. the job was recent; rope still draped the highest branches and a boxy red wood chipper was parked beside the garage. jules assumed the workers had abandoned their post with early indications of rain. the work-in-progress already made the house seem taller.

the interior of the home was also clinically sealed. mahogany surfaces were still spotless. nautical accents were still tasteless. 

jules vaguely recalled the vast sunroom from the evening gabe pulled her through the glass sliding door and down the back steps on their way to the boat. the room was prettier in the overcast daylight with large window screens, soft yellow trim, and cream wicker furniture. outside, rain pattered the bayou and swayed the cattail brush. drops thumped the sunroom roof, culminated at the ledge, and created a drizzling shroud for the lounging couple.

“maybe we could go to your room for a while?” she suggested.

“i’m fine here,” gabe said. his body spanned both wicker arms of the love seat. detached, he sipped a beer and doodled (again) in his journal.

jules sat on the opposite wall in a matching chair. her beer’s aluminum tab was already cracked and open, but the drink remained untouched on the table beside her. out of habit, she erected a modest boredom-tower next to the can; cork coasters, a grisham novel, a paperweight in the shape of an anchor, a chewed pen... and a lace doily on top.