Grandview, p.19
Grandview, page 19
“Not my problem,” she said aloud as she left the room.
Heather was blown away by how difficult it was to choose her outfit. After emptying her entire wardrobe, her affections came to rest on a pair of jeans, and a simple pullover blouse. There was no need to be fancy, and since she did not yet know how she would be accomplishing her goal, it was best to choose clothing that offered minimal impediment to physical activity. The paramedics, firemen, or whoever ended up disposing of her body surely would not care what she was wearing. She ripped off the gold anklet given her by Patricia and threw it, not caring to see where it landed. She left the room as she had the kitchen, pleased to know she would never tidy her bedroom (or any other room) again.
On her way out, she stopped by the kitchen, kicked over the trash can, and pushed over the kitchen table. She opened the fridge and pulled the racks out, scattering food everywhere. She opened the cabinets and pulled stacks of Villeroy & Boch onto the floor, where most of it shattered. She then realized she was laughing, laughing so hard tears fell from her eyes and mixed with the shards of porcelain and bone china on the floor.
This is the most fun I’ve had in years, she thought, surveying the room. God, I should have done this so long ago. She grabbed her keys from the hook by the light switch, removed the necessary fob, and threw the rest into the chaotic mess on the floor. She didn’t need keys anymore, not to this house, and not to her old house in Orange County. Soon she wouldn’t need the fob she placed in the pocket of her jeans. I’ll have to remember, she thought, to leave it in the car. She didn’t want to go to her death with something uncomfortably poking at her thigh.
In the garage she found her car waiting. The car, her faithful ES350, she would not punish. Unlike Patricia, that two-faced hag whore, her bumbling old Lexus had never done anything but serve her dependably. Its reward would be its own survival. Her wedding cabinet, however, could not be left intact. The centuries-old, exquisite specimen of high-envy chinoiserie leaning against the garage wall was immensely valuable, which only added to Heather’s satisfaction at the thought of its destruction. She remembered the despair with which she had watched it descend from the box truck yesterday, held steady on the lift gate by two men.
Well, James could go fuck himself, and this fucking cabinet simply could not belong to anyone else ever. It took all of her strength to pull it over, and once it was on the ground she attacked it with her father’s old drywall hammer. Hole after splintered hole appeared in the back of the cabinet, and through those holes she saw white silk and sparkling jewelry. At the sight of these things she searched for and found a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches. But as the sweet-smelling stream made contact with the cabinet, she came to her senses and closed the lid of the can. The homes of her neighbors, and all the animals, and the trees; none of these she wished any harm. Damn, she thought, that was close, but still it made her laugh. It was just so damned funny.
Chapter 48: Nostalghia
After Roisin fell asleep, the Walsh/O’Brien soirée split into two parts: Esme holding Roisin and everyone else. Sean repeatedly left to take calls, but his absence impacted no one. Leticia and Robert spent their whole energy maintaining the attention of their niece and nephew. Robert, in his new capacity, was an immediate favorite of the O’Brien children, and Roisin, when she wasn’t asleep, constantly vied for his attention by shouting her new, proprietary version of “Uncle Robert,” which sounded like “Um-Mburr.” During the years to come, she would call him by this title and never by anything else. Every so often someone would say, “When did she start calling you that?” Robert would reply, “I don’t know. She just always has.”
The twins were having the time of their lives climbing onto and jumping off of the basin of the water fountain. The Walshes, under the cotton candy influence of their mutually agreed-upon plan to have children together, could not get enough of how high they jumped and how well they landed. The children drew the attention of passersby, most of whom smiled warmly and made some small comment. The only person openly disdainful of her frolicking siblings was Roisin, because they were being too loud. Esme, knowing Roisin’s propensity to utterly lose all cool when tired (and her inconsolability once piqued) resolved to do whatever was needed to keep her asleep and to give the twins opportunity to spend time with Tia and Uncle. They could just as well have gone home, since Roisin would sleep in the car, but the twins were having such a good time.
Esme texted Leticia and Robert that she was going to find a quiet place to sit with Roisin. She did not know where Sean was, but for the time being it was unimportant, and she was glad he was gone. Since the nightmare discovery of her husband’s infidelity, she saw him through a different filter and noticed things that had eluded her before. For example, she noticed that when Sean was present, the twins were less likely to jump and laugh. Also, as long as he was off somewhere pretending to work, she appeared more like the mother she was and less like a nanny or concubine.
She walked through the area past shops both closed and open and enjoyed the sun on her face. Having come to terms with many things, she found herself enjoying simple activities more. A little rest, a little sunshine, or a flash of kindness from some caring person were the rewards she lived for. Holding Roisin, walking on her two healthy legs, Esme was content to simply be. Padre celestial, she prayed, ayúdame. Her life had not turned out to be anything like Sean had promised.
Looking back now, she wished she could know if he meant it back then. If she could only know that he had meant it once, she could do this forever. He cheated. She almost could not forgive him. But that young man, if truly he did love her, she could hold no wrong against. And she believed he did. He had loved her. He had loved her truly, and therefore it was impossible that some vestige of that love did not remain. The sunlight was so warm. It felt incredible, but Roisin needed shade.
She sat on a short, bonded wall beneath a tree and relaxed. She texted Sean, not expecting him to answer, and tried to picture that night long ago in Solana Beach. She remembered he was so self-conscious and kept smoothing his hair. He kept staring at her throughout the night, and everyone in that room knew Sean O’Brien was positively smitten with Esme Garcia. What had happened to that Sean and that Esme? They’re still here, Esme thought, in my mind. Not even Sean can take that away from me.
Chapter 49: Emissary
Heather stopped at a red light. Next to her was a young couple in what looked like a rented convertible Mustang with Nevada plates. Judging him by his hair, he was military, and judging by her body language this was their first date. The girl’s hair was close to undone. She wants you to put the top up, she thought, you ludicrous fool. The tinny, stock audio system struggled to represent Kendrick Lamar’s “Humble,” a song she had enjoyed to the point of over-listening. If I ever hear that song again, I’ll kill myself. This thought was so funny to Heather that she almost had one of her laughing fits, but the light turned green and the Mustang pulled away, taking the song with it.
Driving was tedious, because she had to keep her eyes open for the best opportunity, and it kept her attention divided. Why she had not just done it at the house she could not explain, and she considered returning there, but she knew she wouldn’t. That house was the worst place in the world to die. Eventually, she settled on walking in front of the train. She felt bad for whomever was driving it, but she also figured that anyone choosing to become a train engineer had it coming. She would select an out of the way spot so no children would see and make it easy for law enforcement to rope the place off when she was finished. Satisfied with her decision, she drove up Vulcan looking for the right spot.
She knew it was the right spot the instant she passed it. It was just perfect in every way. At the first opportunity she fearlessly executed a highly illegal u-turn and smiled when the tires chirped. Getting pulled over was meaningless. Tickets were meaningless. All that mattered was the sovereign purpose of her heart, which was to stop itself from beating. Before getting out of the car, she decided to watch one train go by, to get a feel for it, and decide where to stand. A train did pass, but it was moving slowly. If she was going to do this, it had to be moving faster so the driver would not have enough distance to stop.
She parked on some dirt and waited. Along came a second train, which was moving faster than the first. Not that one, she thought, but one like it. She felt the slightest pressure in her gut and considered using the restroom beforehand, but decided it was too risky. Besides, she thought, a little excrement won’t mean shit to those who clean me up. This witticism amused her, but she did not laugh. To laugh was to be alive.
Finally, in the distance she heard it coming. This one, she knew, was her very own. This train was special. It carried people and luggage like any other, but Heather knew its secret. To get a seat on this train, all you needed was a little paper ticket. You could purchase one at the machine, and most everyone had money enough for that. But to ride under this train required a different kind of ticket, the kind that cost everything.
She exited her car, leaving the fob in the cup holder where it could be easily seen. The train was in sight now, and the timing was perfect. A quick look around, and Heather saw no one. With great dignity, she walked forward, right-together, left-together, right-together, left-together, all the way down into the trough until she stood partially concealed beside the tracks like Joan of Arc in a holding cell.
Chapter 50: Bridegroom
In times of great duress, people often missed important details. Heather had not noticed her sister-in-law’s profile, small and still, through the chain-link fence dividing the tracks from the shops on the other side. The approaching train, the illuminated clouds, and the tall bushes surrounding her shone out in radiant technicolor, but Esme she could not see. Neither did Esme notice Heather, for her eyes were closed. The gleeful exclamations of her children, emanating from no particular direction, interpenetrated the songs of unseen birds, proffering an excellent soundtrack to her rose-colored trip down memory lane.
Here, Heather thought, and now. There had never been anything else. Alberto was a figment of her imagination. Patricia did not exist. Jason, James, and all the rest, they were all nothing. She tried and could not remember what Jason looked like. She tried to remember any of them and could not. Only Sean, her little brother, seemed actually and really real. Him she could see, hiding in the space between the hedgerow and the red brick pedestal of the gazebo. She had been sent by Connie to fetch him for tea. He had had an accident. His corduroy pants were soaked with urine, and he was shaking with fear, absolutely helpless to improve his situation.
The garden hose was Heather’s idea. Knowing full well the potential extent of Connie’s vindictive wrath, she made her brother stand in front of her while she sprayed his midsection until he was dripping wet. It was very cold, and she told him to shiver and to cry as hard as he could. At first he had trouble with the crying part, but she described to him in detail the beating she would soon receive, and that did the trick. Then, at her command, he ran to Connie with a somewhat plausible, manufactured accusation against his sister, which resulted in the laceration of Heather’s skin and Connie’s dismissal from the household. Ironically, those scars were now hard to find, but Heather could still point to the very spot where Sean applied his rosebud lips to her temple as she lay facedown on the mattress in the boathouse.
When the time came to confront her destiny, Heather surmounted the earthen mound on which ran the tracks. It was surprisingly easy to do. It seemed at each step, the very ground itself produced level places for her to set her feet, and she did not slip once. She was aware the train was sounding its horn and hissing loudly, but she couldn’t hear the sounds directly. It was like listening to music from another room. Both she and her brother were known for being relatively sensitive to loud noises, and it seemed funny to her that now, closer than ever to these distasteful sounds, she did not feel the need to cover her ears.
She stood atop a railroad tie and faced the oncoming train. Time itself had slowed down, and understanding this she tried to be patient with her steely executioner. Still, she wished it would hurry. A few paces from the tracks on her right side, a loose spike just lay there, rusting. It looked hot to the touch, and she considered quickly grabbing it to see if that were true. But she could not jeopardize her position. She tried to look back at the face of the locomotive but could not bring herself to do it, despite the fact that whoever looked down on her from the driver’s compartment windshields would likely testify, “At the last moment, she turned her head.”
The lifeless aridity composing her field of vision provided only two points of contrast: the railroad spike and a moth, or something dark moving around at the furthest horizon of her peripheral sight. The ground rumbled beneath her, intimate and closing. The moth-squiggle then moved quickly, flailing about, drawing Heather’s attention. That moth, she thought, moves like a person falling. She turned her head to look, not minding the train, which was inevitable. It really was a person, and that person had fallen. While Heather watched, the figure began to move and then she saw two figures. One, a baby, sat under a tree on the cement, waving its arms.
The baby was further away than the fallen person, who Heather now saw was a woman with dark hair in a dark dress struggling to her feet. Once on her feet, the woman tried to run, but it was obvious she was in severe pain. She ran straight at Heather, favoring one leg and, like the baby, waving her hands. She appeared to be screaming out words, but her voice could not be heard.
Heather then recognized the woman as Esme. This realization did not affect Heather very much. She was surprised, but unmoved. What the hell is my sister-in-law doing here? she thought. How bizarre. In truth, had Esme not fallen, sprained her ankle, and hit her head, if she had been able to reach Heather in time, she could not have saved her. She could have died with her, tugging ineffectively at Heather’s arm. But Heather’s athletic frame, coupled to an absolute fidelity of purpose, could not have been relocated that way, not by two Esmes.
What saved Heather’s life was that Esme fell again, very hard. With her eyes fixed on Heather, she did not see the open place ahead where a huge chunk of sidewalk had sunken down after recent, heavy rains. Already seriously injured, she reached with her good leg for ground that was not there, tumbled into and over the shallow hole, and broke her collarbone.
While this was happening, Heather did not understand that Esme’s frantic behavior stemmed from an effort to stop her committing suicide by train. And if she had understood it, this would not have softened but galvanized Heather’s resolve. The woman called Heather O’Brien was now intellectually unreachable and could no longer be persuaded to spare herself. In her mind she was already dead. It was dyed in the wool. What prompted Heather to take that first step was little more than social etiquette, bolstered with the smallest efficacious measure of human empathy. Composed and without haste, she trotted down off the track toward Esme, dodging obliteration by a margin so close all the witnesses east of the tracks were convinced she had been killed.
Esme could not be raised, though Heather pulled with all her might. With each tug Esme screamed out, only to fall back down and lay there, whimpering. Heather thought she was trying to say something, but her words made no sense. That, and the baby was also screaming somewhere in the distance. Suddenly, she was powerfully shoved from behind and sent sprawling. Everyone is going crazy, she thought, I should have just stayed where I was. She sat up, dazed, and saw Sean kneeling down by Esme, blubbering like a child. My own brother, she thought. He pushed me.
And then Robert was there, and Leticia was there, and policemen and all manner of people were there. She even thought she saw the twins at a distance, but then they disappeared and she didn’t see them again. Everyone kept asking her questions, but they weren’t listening to her answers. She tried to tell them she wasn’t injured, but they insisted she lie down on a stretcher, and reluctantly she complied. They were the professionals after all.
Part Six
Chapter 51: Epilogue
Or
What Happened with Robert and Letty
Leticia sat at her kitchen table, putting the final touches on the gift table decorations. When finished, she stood back and admired her creation. On a carved, wooden lily pad (which came out nicer than expected) stood three large, ceramic frogs. One was a bride, one was a groom, and one was a little pastor in a clerical collar. All three of them were so cute. The pastor-frog’s right eye was a tad wonky, but it had an endearing effect. The bride and groom faced the pastor beneath a wedding arch fashioned out of wire. The arch was painted green and hung with real flowers. After so much time had passed, she could hardly believe today was the day of the wedding. Soon, the sun would rise, and from that moment she would be constantly busy, so in the pre-dawn quiet she allowed herself to lay down and rest on the couch. She thought there was little chance she would fall asleep, but she set a timer anyway.
The timer went off, and Leticia opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and was pleased to remember the coffee in the outside fridge. Anticipating the business of the day, she had started a pot of cold brew the night before. She did the math, and the timing was just right, so she went and got it and poured both herself and Robert a tall glass. He’s probably still in bed, she thought. He was. His face lit up when he saw what she was carrying, and he put down his iPad and reached for the coffee like a paid actor shooting an ad campaign promoting cold brew coffee.
