Clarity

Photo by Anurag Agnihotri[/add_caption_link]

“So I was going through some boxes in our attic the other day,” Rachel says. “Found a picture of her. She couldn’t have been more than eight, nine years old.”

The wind is funneling through the dense hardwoods catching the length of her dark hair, the strands wavering across her face. With a finger she pulls them back.

“She had old eyes,” she says.

Garner doesn’t look at her, keeps staring out straight ahead at the trees. Christ, she waits until now to tell me? A sharp streak of anger, like a wood splinter underneath a fingernail. Gonna leave it alone, though.

Garner and his wife are sitting on a wrought-iron bench, refurbished recently with a fresh coat of paint. The sun is beaming down in a cloudless sky. The hardwoods stand majestic before them, the oaks, the maples, the pecans, all lush with green. The shaded Bermuda grass beneath them is freshly cut, still moist from the morning dew. Garner inhales the flavors of aged wood and virgin earth, the wind whipping the sweet aroma around them.

“What do you mean, old?” he asks. A bead of sweat has formed on his brow. He tugs uncomfortably at his tie. Always hated ties.

“Don’t know. Wise, maybe? No. Cynical. Like life’s already lied to her too many times.”

She crosses her legs. Her black dress is a little too revealing up top, Garner thinks. Rachel peers down at a small twig by her feet. She gives a little frown, nudging it away with the toe of her high heel. A small glance at her watch.

“Life did lie to her,” Garner says, shading his eyes from the sun.

“Where is your mother?” Rachel asks. “I’ve got yoga at five and the drive’s a bitch.”

“Relax. She’s on her way.”

The light is seeping through the trees, some invisible force that all the leaves in the world can’t stop. Not completely. It comes through, here and there. A patch of grass unwilted, a piece of warm soil untouched, an exposed root snaking into the ground uncut and alive. Little tiny places, alive. But no squirrels bark, no birds chirp. Just the silence is here. Waiting.

“I’d like to go back to the Keys this winter,” Rachel says. “Get my clarity back.” She wiggles her nose and squints her eyes when she says this, always does that with a new thought. Garner thought it was cute when they met. Lots of new thoughts then before comfort got in the way. Now it’s just flipping the switch when you know the bills aren’t paid.

“Clarity,” he whispers.

“Yeah. With a few margaritas.” She opens her phone, new text from god knows who, her fingers speedily replying back. Almost a nervous tic with that thing.

Garner narrows his focus through the dense timber, tries to see the horizon beyond. Creek’s winding around here somewhere. Someplace good where the running water drowns out the static, and nothing remains but a nice flat rock in his hand and a good stretch of riffle it can sail down, skimming over the water’s surface smooth, the sweet laughter of his friend behind him as the rock loses momentum.

***

“Gotta flick your wrist when you throw, monkey butt,” the voice said. Garner turned, bright blue eyes and faded freckles looking up at him.

“S’why you’ll never beat me.”

“Can’t beat that.”

“Can, too.”

Ivey scampered across the sandy bottoms, leaned over and pawed through the shale littered embankment. Her shoulder length blond hair was semi-wet from sweat and creek water, greedy grin on her face. Running back with a choice rock, she shouldered Garner aside. Ivey leaned down close to the water, cocked her arm, Garner watching close and secretly studying her technique. Doesn’t get the chance, though. Her throw was too fast and the rock was skip, skip, skipping across the water in a straight line, twenty feet or better farther than his attempt.

Ivey turned, hits Garner in the chest, laughed.

“Told ya. C’mon, let’s go to the lean-to.”

“Can’t. I got to get home,” Garner said.

“It’s on the way, goober.”

“Only if we walk the dam.”

“I’ll fall.”

“You didn’t last time. Quit being such a girl.”

“Shut up.”

Garner walked along the edge of the embankment, hopped over exposed roots, jumped on half-buried boulders, the dense oaks and wood ferns and buffalo grasses spilling over the edges. He glanced down at the watch he got for his tenth birthday, a real water-proof diver’s watch, the kind the SEALs wear, 5:37 it said. Gonna get in trouble but not much. Not that late. Ivey was right behind him, rocks slipping and muted breathing, little gangly legs churning to keep up.

The rim of the chalky white dam was in sight, the creek deepening beside them. Garner reached the rim and hopped onto it, peered at the creek beginning anew on the other side, fifteen feet down. A persistent trickle seeped down the middle of the old wall, green mosses growing like a beard underneath. The rim was only a few inches wide, but he jogged across, jumping over the slick seepage and was on the other side. Ivey stared at him across the creek, her thin legs shaking a little and reddish from the tickling ferns.

“I don’t want to,” she said.

Garner rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go, dork. Getting late.”

Ivey traced the path with her eyes. She spread her arms, took a careful step on the rim, then another. On the opposite side Garner was pacing. Ivey’s hair was masking her face, focused on making the right move, slow and precise.

“Ivey!” he shouted finally. She looked up in horror, concentration broken. Swayed a little. “C’mon!”

She glared at him. Unsteadily, she took a half-dozen quick steps. Almost to the middle, to the thick moss burping over the edge. She’d been holding her breath, and Ivey exhaled in a quick burst.

Frustrated, Garner stopped pacing and jumped up on a white boulder embedded in the embankment. The shadows of the shrubbery behind him were creeping out onto the riffles.

Just a hop and a few steps. Just like Garner. Not scared.

Garner checked his watch. 6:05. Eighteen oh five if you’re a Navy SEAL. But SEALs wouldn’t be waiting around on a scared girl to get across a little dam. Sun had disappeared underneath the hardwoods across the creek, the soft trickling of water making its way through the bridges, past the town toward the big river. He wondered where that ends. Gulf of Mexico maybe. His dad used to tell him he’d take him down there one day to see it. Used to make all kinds of plans before he went away.

Garner lived in one of the “nice” houses still left in the neighborhood. Old people started dying off. First there was Mr. Sheppard next door. Stayed drunk most days but still kept his yard up and, Garner guessed, had plenty of money stashed away somewhere because he always had his Cadillac detailed once a week, no matter what. Then Mr. Mays, who always wore what looked like to Garner to be a safari hat when he tended his garden. Near as he could tell, that was the only thing cool about him. Then the old couple across the street moved back east to be with their kids. That’s when, according to his grandfather, the “trash” moved in.

It’s okay, though, Garner thought. Ivey and her mom moved into the house across the street when the old couple left. Finally had someone to go to the creek with. When was that? Summer before last, he supposed. Her mom was a little weird, always had her hair up but seemed she did it real fast because little tufts of it stuck out here and there. Always wore a low-cut top, too, and had a tattoo of a blue dolphin on her chest. Every time she answered the door, Garner always studied the dolphin, wondering what other pictures were hiding elsewhere.

The thing that bothered him, though, was the yelling he sometimes heard on the weekends across the street. The window to his room faced the front, and on cool nights he’d open it a little and peer out at the light spilling over the road and across to Ivey’s house. Always some strange car or truck would be out there and music playing and voices. And sometimes those voices would be loud voices and then he’d hear crying and screaming and things crashing. Next day, though, Ivey never said a word. Course, he never asked. Too many frogs to catch and forts to build.

“Scared, Garner.”

He was focused on the dark water below him. He looked up, saw Ivey’s pale face, wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks and eyes wide. Garner jumped to the soggy ground, imagined his mother’s angry calls to him.

“C’mon Ivey, quit being such a chicken. We gotta go!”

With the light disappearing, he caught movement at his feet, his attention turned to the thin swath of darkness underneath the boulder beside him.

Everything happened so fast, like the blur of a boxer’s punch. The snake appeared out of a thin crevice below the boulder, long and black, shiny, a big triangle head. Came out and curled up, hissed.

Garner’s legs went numb; he tried to scream but nothing came out but a low moan, like a dream where everything’s blurry and he’s just a pile of molasses. Something switched on down deep, though, and he jumped back, turned, and was moving. He sprang over exposed roots, old dead limbs from the hardwoods clawed at his arms and legs, saw nothing but hazy forms of brown and green all covered in shadows and only one thing going through his head and that was get to the lean-to. The thick woods leveled out after a while and his feet found the old game trail leading to it.

He stepped in, and there lied his prized friends: an old army canteen with the olive-drab canvas cover, the homemade fish trap he built with his lock-blade Buck and some kite string, a length of camouflage netting he used to keep out the mosquitoes in the summer, an old rusted out lunch box containing fishing hooks, sinkers, line, and bobbers. At the roof of the lean-to, a series of dead branches, straight as he and Ivey could find, were bound together with hemp rope and mud and leaves.

Ivey.

His heart slowed to a normal pace. Garner checked his diving watch: 6:23. Hasn’t it been longer than that? No matter, still late. Mom’s still gonna be mad. Ivey knew the way.

Then a little voice. What if the snake scared her and she fell? She’s scared of heights, like you’re scared of snakes.

The triangle head, the loud hiss.

Ain’t going back.

Then a whimper, almost like a puppy caught in a hole it can’t jump out of.

Ivey was running and breaking twigs, jumped into the lean-to, curled up with her knees to her chest. Garner started to open his mouth to speak, but said nothing.

“You left me,” she said finally, voice muffled.

Taking a quick glance at his watch, Garner scrambled for an answer.

“Couldn’t help…”

“You’re not supposed to leave me.”

The light was almost gone, and Ivey sat opposite Garner, her outline hazy, ghost-like. Garner made out a few long strands of hair lifting sideways with the wind funneling through the looming hardwoods. She doesn’t want to be friends no more, he’s guessing. Might even tell her friends at school about him running scared to get even. Does she have friends at school? Don’t know. Have to get home. Now.

“Sorry,” he said. “We need…”

“Don’t leave me again,” Ivey said.

“We need to go, Ivey. Mom’s gonna come looking for me.”

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, stared directly at him, two little shiny beads beneath the damp hair.

Garner let out a long breath.

“I’m leaving.”

“No!” Ivey started crying, light sobs and sniffing at first, then burying her head, the shiny beads gone beneath her arms.

Garner adjusted uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Ivey grew quiet, then a subtle sniff. Then Garner heard it, at the edge of the woods.

“Garner!”

His mother. He’s in for it now. Probably get told he can’t go to the creek for a week.

Ivey jerked her head up, crawled over to him fast, vaguely reminded him of the snake and that was enough to make him sit back down.

Her frail body hovered over him, her eyes locked close, her cold, wet hair tickled his cheeks. A beam of light briefly streaked through the timber. His mom had the flashlight, then.

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Not that again, Ivey.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You mean it every time. It gets old. Tired of getting in trouble.”

Garner felt her warm breath on his face. Wind picked up, seeped in. The crickets and locusts started to sound off around them and Garner strained an ear, anticipating where his mother was. Ivey was motionless above him, her eyes downward, then directly at him.

“The shop’s got my momma working evenings again,” Ivey whispered. “Don’t get home ‘till eight.”

“Then go home and wait there, dummy.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Why not? Mom’s got a boyfriend, right? Ain’t gonna be there by yourself.”

“Don’t want to.”

The thin bead of light scanned across the side of the lean-to.

“Garner! Where are you?”

He started to get up to shout. With one hand Ivey pushed him back down; with the other she covered his mouth.

“Wait” she whispered.

She leaned in closer.

“He…hurt me last time. Hurt me before that, too.”

Garner shifted his gaze downward.

“Then tell your mom” he said. A pause. “He hit you?”

Her lip started to tremble.

“Tell your mom.”

“I can’t.”

“What if I told my mom?”

Ivey’s eyes widened.

“Don’t you dare, Garner. Don’t say nothing.”

Ivey sat down, scooted next to him with her back against the dugout earth. Flashing lights were more constant. Dead twigs snapping behind them, and beneath the sounds of the crickets and the locusts and the moaning of old oaks swaying with the wind, they heard the voice of Garner’s mother, cursing under heavy breaths.

“Just go” Ivey said quietly.

Garner looked at his watch, pressed on the light. 6:46. Although the wind had picked up, it was muggy and his forehead beaded with sweat. A thin trickle ran down the side of his face. Mom doesn’t know where the lean-to is. Think she’ll find it? Probably not. Just looks like an overgrown bush from the outside and it’s dark besides. It’s only an hour ‘till eight. But it’s dark.

In a quick motion he took his watch off and gave it to her. Ivey didn’t look at it, just hid her face in her arms, curled up.
“I’m coming, Mom!”

***

“Right there, fool, turn in.”

“All right, be cool” Garner said, already four beers in, nervous driving by the occasional cop cars but not nervous enough.

It was a narrow driveway leading up to a parking lot, off-set from the road and bookended by several parking lot attendants directing cars. Garner’s interest was elsewhere, though, with the huge building facing the lot, big letters lit up in flaming red: Whitehorse Saloon.

A man dressed in a black sports coat was holding an orange baton, waving it and getting Garner’s attention and so he pulled by a row of cars and parked. Little Brown Mike was looking out the window back at the Whitehorse, lost in the lights, and the limo pulling up to the front and long legs getting out, striding in. “Dude…” he said under his breath.

Little Brown Mike. Garner and the boys back in Lubbock started calling him that to differentiate between him and a white kid living on the same dorm room floor. Mike just laughed it off at first, called them punks more for the insinuation of the shortness of his height than his race. Heard it so often, though, he owned it now, even signing his name “LBM” on the floor activity sheets.

Lingering smoke and arcane rock music, the smell of cologne and perfume, waitresses in fishnet stockings with big eyes and precursory smiles carrying phosphorous tubes of alcohol and plastic mugs of beer. The loud hum underneath it all of light whispering voices and replying incoherence.

Garner and Mike shuffled through, found a table in a back corner. A waitress approached them, an older one, the night’s fatigue on her face. Wore a French maid costume and high heels. Gotta hurt wearing those things all night, thought Garner, and then wondered quietly why such a clear thought would come to him in all the haze.

“Shots?” she asked.

Garner inspected the bright blues, reds, oranges, and yellows. He shrugged, picked up a yellow and handed a red to Mike.

“A toast to your rich daddy buying a round,” Garner said.

“Amen, brother.”

Another old rock song cranked up, a screeching voice and the high whine of the electric guitar. Smoke shot out in bellowing gusts from the floor of the center stage and through the clouds strutted a woman wearing black leather pants and a bikini top, high heels lined with faux diamonds, long black hair, big white smile and spinning around.

“Hey Monkey Butt.”

Garner turned in the direction of the voice, his chest heavy. Standing by the table across from him, long blonde hair partially obscuring her face, blue eyes looking back through the light strands. She wore a g-string with a barb-wire tattoo around her left arm.

They stared at each other for only a second, but it lingered, music and voices and everything fading to some quiet corner.

“Ivey?”

She reached out and took his hand, gestured with her eyes to follow. Little Brown Mike, riveted to center stage, only then noticed Garner get up, saw the gorgeous, tall blonde standing over him.

“Go get ‘em, bro!” he yelled, quickly focusing back on the show.

She led Garner through the crowd, her hand warm, soft; her perfume trailing behind her. Garner studied her features, long legs striding quickly, tan, athletic arms. Even without the heels, bet she’s almost as tall as I am, he thought. Somewhere, far away, the deejay’s voice, music, crowds and laughter, merged and foggy. Ivey. My best friend Ivey. She turned quickly, a glance, a nervous smile.

She went up a flight of stairs to the private balcony. A series of couches lined the dark walls, groups of men sitting on them with their drinks, women in various stages of undress parading around. Ivey walked to an empty corner, turned to him, her face inches away.

For a few moments they were silent, hands locked. Still cloudy from the beers and the shot, Garner’s mind searched for something, anything.

“You’re still the same” she said.

Garner’s hand wandered up her forearm, a hint of damp glitter on her chest.

“Thanks. Have grown a little, you know.”

She smiled.

“No, not about that. Saw you and just wanted to go play at the creek again.”

“Maybe it’s you who hasn’t changed.”

And then a flash of something in her eyes and Garner couldn’t quite make it out, silently cursed himself for being too drunk to read her.

“Your mom still at the old place?” she asked, cocking her head to one side, pulling back her hair with a fluid wave of her hand.

“Yeah, loves that old house too much. Don’t think she’ll ever move. Yours?”

She took his hand again, caressed his palm.

“Yes. Living there by herself with that new dog of hers. Quit her job at the body shop long time ago. Does some kind of transcription work now.”

Her eyes dropped.

“I guess,” she said. “Haven’t talked to her in a few months.”

A flurry of questions came to Garner’s mind, but he singularly denied himself asking them. A wave of pain creased through, like he’s jumped over some fence only to turn around and see a few new strands of barb wire over it, knowing he can’t go back. Bitch of it was, he saw fine through the chain link.

Ivey watched him, her brow furrowed in concentration. Garner started to say something, but Ivey quickly brought her hand up, touching his lips with her finger. Garner ran his hand up her arm. It was delicate smooth, a light bronze; he brought her hand down and, in the smoky haze, studied it.

She wore three bracelets on her wrist, two thin gold bands and one of florescent orange. Underneath these was a thin strap of a wristwatch and he slowly turned her hand over and his heart plunged.

His diver’s watch. Faded. The hands no longer working.

Garner met her stare, the color gone from his face. Ivey gave him a sad smile.

“It helps” she said.

The alcohol in Garner’s stomach churned. Looking back, the men are laughing inaudibly, business suits and slicked back hair and oxfords, the women turning and twisting in front of them with cartoonish smiles and high heels. Room started moving with them. He licked his lips, reverted his attention back to her. His knees were shaking.

“I’ve got to go.”

He pulled away, began to walk toward the stairs, innards in chaos. Legs wobbly and sluggish. Thoughts from all directions. He reached the stairs, took a step down.

“Garner. Please.”

Ivey was standing over him. Blonde hair partially hiding her face. Light blue eyes lit up. Lost.

Bringing his hands up to hers, she put the watch in them, folded his fingers around it. She leaned down, kissed him softly above his lips.

“Don’t forget me” she said.

***

“Looking at my calendar today,” Sherry says. “Looks like y’all are coming up on the big ten. Anything special planned?”

Rachel narrows her eyes, a plastic smile.

“Might go down to Florida, just talking about that.”

Where we’ll say all of three words to each other, Garner thinks. Something along the lines of “see you later.” Christ. Ten years.

“Beautiful down there, I hear” Sherry says.

There’s a lull in the conversation as they make their way up the concrete path, leading up to a series of steps with an imposing doorway staring down at them. They walk up the steps, Garner taking his mother’s arm. Her breathing is constricted, her body tense. Rachel opens the thick, wooden door, and the cool air hits them. Sanitized and old.

It’s a huge room, furnished with plush sofas lining the walls and almost ominous paintings of stately old men and women with small brass plaques underneath them. Hallways run in front of them and to the right, sporadic chairs of polished wood and end tables with pictures and flowers adorning them. The occasional cluster of people pass, neatly dressed, hushed tones.

“Third one on the right” Sherry whispers, gesturing for them to follow. Garner’s chest tightens, his mind desperately wanting to drift off to a better place. A better time. The smell of the hallway is almost overwhelming. Not unpleasant in itself. Everything it’s associated with, he supposes. He steals a glance at Rachel and in that moment he catches her looking at her watch. He had never tasted hate before, but then he thinks he just took a nibble off it.

It’s a room, just like all the rest they peeked in as they passed, looking like a miniature version of the front foyer. Not wanting to look at one side, Garner focuses on the old woman sitting alone opposite it. Her short hair is pure gray, contrasting sharply with the black dress she wears. She sits leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, looking all the world to Garner like a baseball manager that knows her team is down by five in the ninth. Deep creases surround her eyes, her once pretty face a series of crevices, like breaks on the open plains. She looks up and Garner recognizes her at once.

***

She rises and walks feebly towards them, gently embraces him and says simply, “thank you.” Rachel offers her hand and she takes it, managing a smile and then hugging Sherry. Garner notices his mother’s eyes growing moist.

They begin to whisper and Garner hears the word “heroin” and so quietly distances himself. Not able to look straight ahead, Garner focuses on the subdued carpeting of the small room and walks forward. Like I’m somewhere else, he thinks. Like I’m sitting on some cloud watching this fool below me.

The casket then. The long white dress. Flowing blonde hair. He runs a finger along her arm, now a milky white. The bumps of the track marks.

Hand trembling, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a diver’s watch, mechanically twisting the small metallic knob and watching the dead hour hand roll up. Eight o’clock, it says.

Placing the watch inside her hand, he leans down and kisses her forehead, the cold, chalky skin cooling his lips.

“Safe now.”

Absently hiding his eyes, Garner walks briskly out of the room, striding through the hall and to the front door, opening it and feeling the humid, warm breeze on his face and looking out at the wrought iron bench in the manicured lawn.

Knees are trembling, feet balancing precariously. Fading light and all alone. A snake twisting on the water’s surface, delicate ripples distorting her vague image. A quick jump and you can do it. Past the moss and you’re on the other side. Don’t think about the snake. Don’t think about the dark or the hard rocks if you fall. Stretch out your arms. Let it all go.

Ivey. My beautiful Ivey.

Garner senses Rachel walk slowly up behind him. He’s looking out at the hardwoods, the broken trail underneath them working its way in, past the thick timbers and into the dense greens, meeting up with the creek beyond. Someplace out of sight, but there all right. Waiting.

He turns his head slightly, words coming from far-off.

“I’m tired of clarity.”

***
Mike Hancock is a former hunting guide and commercial fisherman. He spent seven years guiding elk, deer, and bear hunters in Montana, Idaho, Wyoming and New Mexico. Prior to that he was a deckhand for two seasons aboard a factory trawler in Dutch Harbor, Alaska. Now living in Dallas, Texas, he is a high school English teacher and freelance writer. He holds a B.A. in English Literature and a M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University.