In 1945 Ardeth Bey makes a painful journey to America to remember a lost friend. Fourth in Fate's Boundary series, following "Photographs on the Mantel." I think there'll be one more after this. Please review :)
Ye be warned: This story is sad, tragic, and unfair. I know. It's life.
A House or a Grave
Tragedy follows some men wherever they go. Once I thought such lives were woven of fate. I can no longer believe that. I cannot believe that any god would plan such a fate for good men. I cannot believe that people who gave so much to others would not even get to keep those bits of themselves they had saved. I cannot believe that fate would be so much like Hell.
It has taken me weeks to get here, and in the space between I've had too much time to think. I've been thinking a lot about Evy. It's amazing how memories can leap out at you from the distance of a decade, and how some details are lost the moment they pass you by. I remember the little mouse who ventured into the desert, and the confidence of the woman who emerged from it. I had always felt privileged, somehow, to have known her, to have seen her become what she did. Half of it was the admiration of a distant observer, the other half was simply the love of a friend.
Mostly I remember how she was with the people she loved. Any contemplation of Evy inevitably leads to thinking about her family. I had never seen two people so in love; I had never seen a sister so dedicated to a sibling; I had never seen a mother so determined to protect her child. In all things I cannot help but almost deify the dead woman's actions, though I know she was just a mortal like the rest of us. She was just Evelyn, but that was enough.
The house looks fairly large from the outside. The requisite porch swing looks sadly abandoned, as if no one ever sits in it. This house that Evelyn never saw has housed her family for nearly a decade now. I don't think they'll ever go back to London, or Egypt for that matter; even if health were not a consideration. Rick told me once that it was both a comfort and a torture to live in a house she never graced. I know what he meant now, looking at the bright little whitewashed face. No memories to torment you in lonely moments, but at the same time everything that ever made you happy lies on a different continent, whether it be a house or a grave. If Evelyn lived here, the porch swing wouldn't look so sad.
The screen door screeches as it opens and shuts, and a girl stands on the porch. She is tall and fair-skinned, unremarkable in appearance except for her height and the bright brown eyes that dominate her features. She sees me and pauses for a second. "Can I help you, sir?" she asks, and I can hear a determination in her voice that reminds me of Evy.
"You must be Samantha."
Her brown eyes narrow to slits. "Yes. How do you know my name?"
"I'm an old friend of the family's. The last time I saw Alex, he showed me a picture of you, and spoke of nothing else."
Her expression softens somewhat. "You knew Alex?"
"Since he was a baby."
"Are you..." She tilts her head, recognition settling in. "You're Mr. Bey, aren't you?"
"Yes."
She skips down the porch steps, holding out her hand. "I've heard so much about you, I, I understand..." Her eyes dim, she looks down. "I understand the O'Connells have owed you their lives many times over."
"It's very kind of you to look in on my friends."
She smiles. It is a sad smile, but it is not one of regret. "They have always taken care of me. It's the least I can do. Where did you...see him? Alex, I mean? When you said you talked to him?" Her eyes flash with memories, and I can suddenly see the girl Alex loved. I can see him in her eyes, and he'll always be there, just as he resides in all our hearts.
"In Tunisia, briefly," I say. "He kept a picture of you, and had all your letters."
She nods just slightly. "I've heard the stories...about you. I know that if... If not for you I might never have known Alex. Thank you for that. Thank you so much." She kisses me on the cheek, moves past me toward the gate. "Mr. O'Connell is inside. Goodbye, Mr. Bey."
"Goodbye, Samantha." I turn my attention to the porch again. She didn't mention Jonathan directly. When was the last time I saw him? Years, probably. He wasn't the man I'd once known, back when it all happened, and I can't imagine who he is now. In his letters he still sounds like himself, but in writing that is easy to feign.
The door is propped open, so I let myself in without knocking. "Hello?" I call, adjusting my eyes to the dimness of the front room. "Rick? Hello?"
"Back here," someone hollers, and I follow the sound through the house to the back, and another porch.
Rick sits on another bench, and it takes me a moment to recognize him. His hair is going gray, but he is almost fifty now (I am past that age myself), so that is to be expected. He seems thinner, almost malnourished, but when he sees me his eyes light up like they always did. He doesn't get up, but his handshake is still surprisingly firm. "Good to see you," he says, and I know he means it. "We wondered when you'd show up."
He shifts on the bench so I can sit, too. "How are you feeling?" I ask him, and he shrugs.
"It's a good day. What about you? What have you been up to? Saving the world, and all that?"
"Not so much anymore. Where's Jonathan?"
"Store. He'll be back in a while. I don't get out much anymore, I..." He looks down at his hands, preparing to say something. "I'm sick."
"I know...Jonathan wrote me."
"I'm dying." He shakes his head, a remote gesture, cut off. "That's what they tell me. I find it hard to care."
"How long has it been, now, since... Alex..."
Rick pauses, looks to the sky, though I think he knows exactly what the answer is. "Two years," he says, "one month, six days. They send a whole damn squad to tell you, you know. They show up on your porch and the only thing they can tell you is that your child might be dead. Might be. And two years later he still might be. Two years."
"I'm sorry I couldn't get here earlier."
"You're just in time." He motions toward the yard, to the trees. "We're leaving. We're going back."
"Is that...I mean, does the cancer..."
He smiles, still that far-off look in his eye. "Maybe just barely. I'm tough."
It strikes me as funny, then--here we are, two men of so few words, talking about life and death as though it weren't a matter of any consequence. I cannot decide what he is feeling...is this denial, or acceptance? There was a time when he would have told me, but he will not now; time and space have built a gap too wide to bridge with a years-too-late sympathy visit. "Samantha is lovely."
"You met her?" He smiles, brought a little bit down to earth. The girl who might have been his daughter, had life been more kind. "She doesn't have any family left down here, except her brother, David. He and Alex went to school together."
"What does David do now?"
He looks down again, and I've asked the wrong question. "He sits at home and lets his wife and sister wait on him. He was...wounded, badly, in the war. He can't walk anymore."
After a moment I change the subject again. "When are you leaving?"
"Two weeks. We still own that old apartment in Cairo. Jonathan and I decided to give the house to Samantha. Alex...would have liked that."
"Are you sure that travel is... the best thing, for you, right now?"
Before he says anything, I can see the answer in his look. The way he looks at this yard, at this life, without her. "I want to go. I don't want to die here, so far away..." He trails off, and for a moment I panic, thinking something is wrong. "Did you ever see the cemetery?" he says at last. "I can't remember if you ever..."
"Yes." I sit back in the chair. There is nothing wrong with him at the moment, other than the injustice of a thousand broken hearts. "I was at the funeral."
"Right. I forgot." Rick tugs at the blanket that covers his legs. "I don't really remember much from that day. Is that strange? It's like this...blank."
I shrug. What can you say? "It was a long time ago. You probably...blocked it out, or something."
"Or something," he says with a chuckle. "Old age must be claiming you, too."
"We're not old. We're just...tired."
"Yeah." We are silent for a while, but eventually he continues. "I'm tired, and I want to go home."
He doesn't mean inside; he doesn't mean here, in America. I know without having to ask. This house is nothing. He left his home in Egypt, at her grave, and in Tunisia, with the memory of his child.
A moment more passes. Then Rick stands, slowly, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. "Let's go into the house."
I follow him inside and pray, silently, that my friend will find what he seeks.
~*~*~*~