JACK FORBES - SHORT-STORIES

Jack Forbes is an Australian writer, based in Melbourne. He holds a BA from Monash University, and is currently undertaking a Masters of Teaching. His fiction has appeared in Australian-based international journal 'Tincture', the James Cook University's literary journal, 'LiNQ', and the blogs Anti-Heroin Chic and Eunoia Review. 

​

Addy’s Eye
​

​That time after day and right before dark, that’s my favourite. The magic hour, I think it’s called. Dusk is nearly gone, night’s almost here. Sit on my back porch with Murphy and a thin cigar and a cold beer and watch the world turn bluish. A navy kind of blue. Everything looks like it’ll sink. No noise. Even if there is noise, it’s softer somehow. And the moon’s all smoky bright. The circle of light around it like a halo against a big blue nothing of sky. Tonight, I stare at it a lot longer than usual. I don’t know why. Probably because it’s reminding me of Addy’s eye, her last seeing eye, before it shut tight for good.
            She’s inside, Addy. I’ll admit I’m a little too shaken to head back in. The air’s cool, and the paddock beyond our yard lays still in the deep blue. I can just see it. The wind ripples through the tips of the grass.
            I check my watch and see I’ve been out here a good 20 minutes. I wonder if Addy’s gone cold yet, but I think back to when my mother died, when I watched her go, and how it took some time before she stiffed up in a chill. I feel rushed, but remind myself Addy’s not going anywhere.
            Addy’s passing was a long time coming. You prepare yourself for that. You know it’ll happen. But you have to tell yourself every damn day. What you can’t prepare yourself for is deterioration. Watching the body break down. First, she lost all strength. Then she was up in bed just losing body. Seemed like she was thinner every time I walked into the room. Then once the body’s lost itself, the mind goes. All the drugs in her system – I know they keep her out of pain, but watching her get angry for no reason, or talk to an invisible man, or the slackjawed drawls about crazy stuff – it just eats me up inside. Her last proper words to me were: Don’t let Murphy pay the gas bill. Murphy’s our damn stupid greyhound who can’t even chew up the bills, let alone pay them. When I think back on those words it’s kind of funny-sad. But what got me was Addy’s eye. Her mind, the rest of the body, all dissolving into death, except that eye. The left one was all covered with crap, but her right eye, a beautiful sea blue, was the last real, good-looking item she had left. Watching that eye weaken, swim up and down, and then finally close tight as if it was screwed shut, that was it. Then when it didn’t open again… Age is a bitch and cancer’s its evil brother. No, nobody knows how to deal with deterioration.
            I’m rubbing my knees thinking I should call John. It’s sinful I’ve waited this long to tell him. Well, I needed a couple of minutes. A good 20 minutes. I check the watch again and see it’s been 40 now. Time flies, in more ways than one.
            I finally get some courage and go back inside. Everything’s the way I left it. Lamp’s on. Bedroom door open ajar. I push the door open and there’s Murphy curled at Addy’s feet. He lifts his head and those are the saddest set of dog eyes I ever saw. I tell him Mama’s gone and he knows it. My mother always told me dogs were aware of death. And they were good with kids. They knew how to handle kids and they could sense death. Well, I’m no kid, but I sure wish I was one. Because that’ll mean I didn’t meet Addy yet. I still had all those years to go. And then I’d grow up and meet her, and we’d court, marry and have all those long, long years together. Years so long but looking back on them now they pass by in seconds.
            The phone rings and it jolts me like electricity. I stand, go out to get it. I answer Hello, and it’s John’s voice on the other end.
            How’s it going? he asks.
            Yeah, not bad, I say.
            You alright?
            Same old.
            There’s a silence. Then he says:
            How’s Mum?
            And I catch my mouth open before any words come out. I listen to everything: John’s held breath, my chin whiskers on the phone receiver, a slight rattle from the wind against the kitchen window I meant to fix. I don’t know why, but I tell him Mum’s fine.
            Still the same? he asks.
            Yeah, I say, half turning to Addy’s room, but I don’t fully look.
            Well, I’m gonna head over.
            Okay.
            You eaten dinner?
            No, not yet.
            I’ll bring some leftover roast.
            Okay.
            See you soon.
            Then he hangs up and I’m left holding the phone to my ear. If John’s bringing leftover roast that means it’s Sunday. Can’t believe I forgot the bloody day. Staring at a dying face a lot of your time, you realise how silly the names of days are. Why’s a Sunday different from a Tuesday? What’s the difference between a second and an hour? It’s pretty much the same. Age just moves you forward, nothing else. Moves you forward until it stops and time sure as hell doesn’t matter then.
            I put the phone down, look about the house. Our old house. Old folks in an old home. I’m looking at everything – the lampshade, a chair, a fork askew on the kitchen bench, an empty cup atop the television, my coat over the back of the couch – and all I can see in them is Addy’s eye. They all start winking at me like they’re all possessed.
            Then I remember I’ve lied to John. Well, not really. I could always tell him Addy died on his way over here. Let him enjoy the trip back here thinking his Mum’s still sleeping soundly.
            I shake my head a little – kind of coming back into reality – so I stop seeing Addy’s eye everywhere. The first thing I take a proper look at is my tin of Wee Williams on the nightstand. I get the tin, pull out a cigar and pat my pockets for a lighter. I look around and it’s nowhere. I then go to the kitchen to the stove and put the cigar in my mouth and lean down whilst I twist knob on and I can’t help but linger staring at the stove’s blue flame. Addy would have killed me lighting a cigar inside. I almost break down knowing she’s not here to tell me off.
            Outside on the back porch I draw on the cigar, taking in huge mouthfuls of smoke. I let the smoke trickle out of the corners of my mouth, like it’s bleeding, like I’ve bled out all the blood I got and what’s left is bonedust and smoke. Everything’s turned dark. The fields are nothing but black under a big sweep of stars. An image of Addy comes back to me: she’s walking up the long dirt driveway, slouched, kind of listless. It’s summer, and her legs are bare, but they’re shaky, timid. She’s got sunglass on. I remember this image, now. Decades and decades old. It was when our first child, Helen, died two weeks after birth. That killed Addy. We’d been trying for God knows how long to have a baby. Then when we were lucky, Helen left in a flash. A click of fingers. Gone. I remember now – that day, after we’d come home from hospital, I made a pot of English Breakfast, and Addy and I sat on the couch, in total silence. After a long while, I said: We’ll try again.
            She was shaking her head. No. I’m not going through that again, she said.
            Addy would tell me, years later, in bed one night with all of the lights off and us awake on our backs gazing up at a blank black ceiling, about how she would never forget seeing such a tiny, helpless baby stiff in a sterile hospital crib. I never saw Helen like that, because men didn’t do that in those days. Babies, Addy said, are meant to wriggle and writhe. Even when they sleep, they’re still moving – a constant motion. It’s new life figuring out what the hell to do. And as we lay there, I saw my own horrid recollection of Helen up on the blank ceiling. It’s an image I’ve created that I’ll never forget. But Addy, she saw the real thing. God only knows the ways in which that’ll live in your mind forever. 
            I didn’t say anything else. That was that day. Then there were more days and finally, a few years. And then she’s crying one morning after a visit to the doc’s, saying she’s pregnant with John. And he came along, and he was beautiful. And he grew up and became a good and honest man. Addy cherished that boy, and even though I had wanted a couple more kids, she refused. A pain was born in her that day walking up the dirt driveway in summer. It never went away.  
            And like a lot of things, the image goes as quick as it came.
            I finish the cigar, stub it in the peach can ashtray on the porch ledge. I lean on the ledge, savouring the taste of smoke. I can’t get over how dark it is. The whole world could have disappeared and I wouldn’t know it.
            Inside Murphy is sooking. Around this time, after dinner, Addy would take him for a short stroll around the back paddock. I’d watch them – these tiny little things in the distance. One time, there was a thunderstorm. Addy and Murphy were so small underneath a sky shaking with mean blue clouds and lightning. Addy had stopped and watched the storm. Me watching her watching the storm. Serene, somehow.
Murphy sidles into the room, and I pick him up and we sit together on the couch. His tail slowly wraps itself around him as he lays his head on the arm of the chair. I hold his flank. The more time I spend away from Addy in the bedroom the harder it is to go back in there. I’m not really worried about crying. Crying’s what we do. All my life I was told men shouldn’t cry and that’s bull. I’ve always thought if your body feels like doing something, then let it. Swear, laugh, cry. It’s all the same. And every part of my body wants to go into that bedroom and lay next to Addy for what will probably be the last time, but I just can’t do it. I’m not scared of death, or the dead. I know she won’t wake. Maybe that’s what it is. Knowing that eye will never open up to regard me again.  
            Bats must be swooping, I can just hear their high clicks. Murphy’s dead asleep on me. Getting up while an animal’s asleep on you is somehow a sin. It’s also good enough reason right now to not go in and see Addy. She’s gathering the chill and that’s okay, I keep telling myself. It’s a selfish thought, but I want John to take care of all this. I want him to call the people you have to call who deal with the dead. Lord, people do that for a job. Now that’s beyond me. But I want John to do everything. I want him to take over this part of my life for a while. Just until all the bits and bobs are finished. Then I’ll come back.
            There was a nurse – Gloria. God sent down angels in the form of nurses, that’s for damn sure. She was young, I think 22, 23, but she was warm and humble. Doctors (and this is when we were still living in hospitals) would come into Addy’s room and read her chart and then say: Well, there’s not much we can do. We’ll make her comfortable, they’d say. Then they’d leave. Gloria, she would come in and pick up all of the doctor’s leftover pieces. She didn’t just make Addy comfortable. She spoke to Addy. Touched her hand. Gloria cleaned Addy, bathed her, fed her. I was too frightened to do any of that. I just watched. This young woman got so intimate with Addy. I don’t believe in anything superstitious or the like, but that nurse breathed some extra life into Addy. And myself, probably.
I’m thinking about Gloria now because Addy’s life was ending just as Gloria’s was beginning. She’d left us a week ago, because she fell pregnant. Timing could not have been better. Get out now, Gloria, don’t see this woman die. Leave that to me, that’s my job, not yours. And once, I made coffee for the three of us. I came to the doorway of Addy’s room, but stopped. Gloria was in tears, but she was smiling. Addy’s eye – I could see it glitter in the slatted shade of the blinds – looked like it was smiling too, in that magical Addy way. I brought the coffee in. Gloria apologised for crying, but Addy touched her arm and said: Don’t ever apologise for that. She’d just told Addy she was pregnant. Later, on the porch, Gloria told me Addy spoke to her sagely about life with and without children.
I had asked Addy exactly what she’d said to Gloria that day. Addy said: I gave her private advice from an old mother to a new mother.
That was the last time Addy was ever fully lucid.
            My leg’s gone to sleep. Murphy’s paws dangle over my knee. I sob a little thinking about Gloria, and how I must have her over for afternoon tea. Not tomorrow, maybe the day after. The day after that. Murphy lets out a long, heavy sigh and I do the same right after him. I ruffle his ears, and then his old, thin head slowly rises, he whimpers. He knows Addy’s not coming for him.
            Murphy shoves off, and I stand. He trots about, then comes close by my legs. He’s terrified. He always loved Addy more than me, and I don’t blame him. She kept his coat in good nick. Fed him all these old remedies – eggshells, ginger-baked goods – that kept his coat a dusty, smoky blue. Like the sky I watch.
            Headlights pan across the walls of the house, and I take a deep breath. John’s here. The tires scratch the dirt. The engine halts, then ceases. A car door opens, closes. Footsteps on the gravel. Then on the boards of the porch. Why are these sounds so bloody definite? It’s like torture. There’s a brief silence before he knocks.
            Come in, I say.
            John tries the door, but it’s locked. I don’t remember locking it. I quickly scan the room to make sure my absent-mindedness has obstructed anything else. The blue flame of the stove still burns, I see.
            John knocks again. I’m halfway between the door and the stove. Finally, I choose the door.
            John’s face is dour, but gentle. Tired, but warm. Like he’s done a hard day’s work but has just felt the warmth of your childhood home and the smell of your mother cooking your favourite meal. In his hand is a plate covered with tin foil. He smiles.
            I take the plate, show him in.   
            How is she? he asks.
            I don’t say anything. I turn my back to him and take the plate to the bench.
            Dad?
            I hear him jangle a set of car keys as he removes them from his pocket. Then I finally turn and look at him. He’s wearing a deep blue jumper, jeans and slick black boots. His hair’s a mess of salt and peppered grey. His face is smooth, slightly brown. I think he’s ageless. Stuck out of time. A figure from a painting. Forever beautiful and unaffected. The keys are in one hand, he’s got a puzzled look on his face. Then I realise I’m staring at him like a madman and when he clocks on, he knows what’s happened.
            John launches for Addy’s room. I close my eyes and imagine everything: John weeping, perhaps kicking the bedside table, falling at the edge of her body. But none of that happens. There’re no dramatics. Only quiet. The door creaks, though, like a soft cry.
            The next thing I know I’m standing beside John as he looks down at Addy.
            Did she go on my way over here?
            Yeah, I lie.
            Then we’re staring at her together. In the soft colour of the lamp. The dome of her bald skull. Her chin pointing at the window. Ears crumpled into the pillow. A thin outline of her body underneath the blanket. I’m about to tell the truth, but John says:
            She’s so thin. Thinner than when I was here yesterday.
            I don’t say anything.
            It’s hard seeing Mum like this. She was always so strong. I don’t know if you remember that time we went to Halls Gap? To the mountains. I was about four or five. It was raining. There was mist around the tops of the mountains, and it scared me. We were going for a hike, up to the Pinnacle I think. I didn’t want to go, but I remember Mum just lifting me up like it was nothing and propping me on her back. She carried me the whole way up the track. I held on to her so tightly.  
            I can’t recall John’s memory but it shatters me.
            Do you remember that?
            Yeah, I lie again. 
            We’re silent for a while. Then John leans down, right to Addy’s ear. He whispers Goodbye, then kisses her gently on the forehead. As he moves away, he stops. He notices her one good eye – it’s opened, now, just a little. The glaze of her sea blue iris hangs below the heavy eyelid. I was positive it was closed. But maybe it wasn’t. Just like locking the door, I forgot. The stove is still burning, too.
            Then, with one finger, John slowly shuts Addy’s eye. The blueness is gone. I’m aware now that my back is against the bedroom wall, and I’m shivering something fierce. Slowly, I slip down the back of the wall, until I sit, my knees drawn up to my chest. John hasn’t noticed. I can see tufts of dust underneath the bed. Then I close my eyes.
 
John’s holding my arm as he leads me back into the lounge room. He sits me down, then gives Murphy a pat. Don’t worry, says John. I’ll call everyone, take care of it.
            I nod.
            Do you want to stay with me tonight?
            I’ll be right.
            I think you should pack a bag. Come with me.
            Okay.
            Was Gloria here?
            No, I say. She’s having her baby.
            John smiles. That’s right, he says, fondly. Then his smile goes away.
            I’m sorry you were alone, he says.
            I nod again. Then I say, without even thinking: I lied, John.
            Huh?
            I lied.
            About what?
            Mum went before you called. I just didn’t tell you.
            Why?
            I shrug.
            Well, he says, that’s okay.
            And I don’t remember that story about Halls Gap, either.
            That’s okay too.
            John pats Murphy. Go see Dad, Murph.
            Murphy, in all his tired energy, lumbers to me. I help him up on the couch. He rests his head on my lap. We’re a couple of sad old things.
            Dad, says John, I’m just going to get my phone from the car. You get a bag ready, okay?
            Okay.
John leaves and I’m cold again. Part of me wants to go back into Addy’s room. Part of me wants to open her eye again and leave it open, so I can just stare into it. What a strange thing. But it makes sense. I don’t go back into her room, though. I find myself in the kitchen again, at the stove. I turn it off. The blue flame is gone. It’s strange, but the house feels like its moving. Breathing. Just waking up, or something. John’s at the doorway, waiting. Dad?
            I nod at him. I look into his eyes, and exhale.
            Finally, I follow him.
                          
           
             

I’m Still Here
​

​ 
The first thing Emily noticed was the dead branches lain across his front yard. Cut down, the leaves stripped, racked in a stack. She opened the gate and walked up the driveway, passing the debris. Most of the leaves were frayed in shades of wasted greens and browns.
            The flyscreen door opened. Emily looked up. Horace, her one-time lover of more than 30 years ago, emerged in a worn gold dressing gown.
            Emily, he called, raising a hand.
            She smiled. She clutched her handbag, then her eyes fell to the driveway. Oil stains. Cracks. Pricks of weed spouting through the pavement.  
            Under the carport, Horace embraced Emily. She smelt stale nicotine. Dust. They retracted and he clasped her shoulders and beamed. My God, he said. It’s been forever.
            Yes, she said, lightly. Yes, it has.
            You haven’t aged a day, said Horace.
            She glanced in his eyes, these two tiny blue things behind glasses, dug into broad hollow sockets.
            He brought her into him again, he smelling more of old furniture than of a man.
 
Inside, the house was dim. It was hard to look at him. Tall and gaunt and fragile. As he showed her into the kitchen she saw splotches of varying sizes and colours dotted over the bottom of his gown. He dragged his slipper-feet over the floorboards. Wisps of his combover stood upright, catching what little light there was in the kitchen.
            Please, he said, removing a newspaper from the kitchen table. Take a seat.
            Thanks, said Emily. She drew out the chair and slung her handbag over the backrest and smoothed the front of her skirt and sat.
            A kettle was boiling on the kitchen bench. Two mugs beside the kettle. A small jar of milk beside them. Horace was leaning against the bench, smiling at her. When the kettle clicked he turned and poured the water into the mugs and Emily watched the plume of steam funnel up over his face. It didn’t seem to bother him.
            He tipped a little milk into his mug. Two spiderlike fingers pinching the jar’s handle. He then brought the mugs over and sat.
            Thank you, said Emily, as Horace’s frail hand gently slid the mug over to her.
            The tea was Earl Grey, strong, like a perfume.
            I remembered it was your favourite, said Horace.
            Emily smiled, lifted the mug and blew on it. She looked around the kitchen. Although the window blinds were open there was a darkness about the room. As if in all its long years the place had never gotten enough light.
            It’s a lovely house, said Emily.
            Yeah, said Horace, surveying the walls, the ceiling. He leaned forward in his chair. I’d always meant to have you and Jim over, but we never got around to that, did we?
            Before Emily answered, Horace said:
            How is Jim, by the way?
            He’s good.
            Still together, I hope?
            Emily nodded. Then her phone buzzed from inside the handbag. She took out the phone and when she swiped the screen open her face was momentarily blue. Horace watched.
            Sorry, she said, glancing up at Horace. She texted something, then laid the phone on the table.
            They were silent. Horace smiling warmly at Emily. The drone of a clock tick. Muffled bird chirpings.
            The phone buzzed again. Horace’s eyes darted to it. As Emily went to pick up the phone Horace said: I’m not keeping you, am I?
            Emily left the phone alone. No, it’s just – I don’t mean to be blunt, Horace, but when you called yesterday, you said it was about something urgent?
            Horace laid his palms flat on the table and closed his eyes. As if ready to recite prayer. When he opened his eyes, they seemed further inward his head.
            Jeanie died last week.
            Oh… Horace. I’m so sorry.
            He’d retracted his hands. They disappeared into his lap.
            Thanks, he said. It was expected, but…
            I don’t know what to say. It must be hard. I’m so sorry.  
            Horace lifted his mug, tested the rim with his bottom lip. He left the rim on his lip for some time. When Emily tested the mug on her lip, the rim was scalding. It hurt, but she set the cup down in a seamless motion, hiding the pain.
.           Then Horace said: It just got me thinking, you know. About family and friends.
            Of course.
            And how when we get to our age you think about the people who have left you.
            Emily was aware of her body. Any movement she would make was somehow inappropriate. Wires of tension pricked within her shoulders.
            I just thought it would be nice to see a familiar face.
            Emily smiled, weakly, with him. She was going to say that familiar wasn’t the right word, but stopped herself. Then she said: How are, um, John and…?
            Diane.
            Sorry, Diane. How are they?
            They’re okay. They’re taking care of Jeanie’s stuff now. They said, Dad, you sit back and relax. We’ll take care of this.
            That’s good.
            They’re good kids. Well, adults now. With their own kids. But we still see them as kids, don’t we?
            Emily nodded. You’ve got grandkids?
            Yes, five altogether.
            Lovely.
            They’re going to miss their nan, though.
            Emily nodded again, gravely. Eyes down in the black of her tea. Without realising, she’d taken a large breath, then exhaled quietly. Now, she was more relaxed.
            In fact, said Horace, you should see this.
            Horace stood and lead Emily into the living room. He switched on a light. The room was packed up and near empty. Clear squares and rectangles where photos and paintings had been in places over the mustardcoloured walls. Boxes, some taped up, others half-full on top of a rugless floorboard. An armchair askew in the corner. The wide, shadeless window that let in the stark overcast of outside. Towards the back of the living room, in front of an empty mantel, was a teddy bear atop a baby’s highchair. Over the bear’s mouth was an X of duct tape. Tied around its body was a bungee cord, strung tightly across a number of times so that the bear’s fur was tense, spouting over the cord.
            This is hilarious, said Horace.
            Emily didn’t say anything. She looked at the bear’s lolled head, its black-button eyes.
            That’s Willy, said Horace. And he’s my hostage.
Horace laughed – dead echo in the living room.
            Diane’s daughter left it here the other night when they slept over. Diane rings me when she gets home, says, Oh Maddie won’t stop crying, she’s lost her teddy! So, I said I’d have a look for him. Found him under the bed and thought, I’ll have some fun with this. Thought I’ll tie Willy up, send a photo to Diane saying, I’ve got him held hostage, Maddie! You’ll never see him again.
            Horace kept laughing. Emily stared at the hostage bear, her mouth open ajar.
            Horace’s laughter slowed, and then eventually he was silent. Emily said: I hope she wasn’t too frightened.
            Oh, no. They loved it… I loved it. They’ll be here to pick him up tomorrow.
            From the kitchen, Emily heard her phone ring.
            Sorry, she said, and left the room to answer it.
            Horace folded his arms, staring at the bear. His face slowly lost the warm smile, then moulded to a deep frown. He then looked at the greyness outside the window. Slowly, soft rain began to fall.
 
            In the kitchen Emily was nodding quickly, the phone pressed to her ear. Horace glared at the tight scrunch of red earlobe under her thumb.
            Yep, sure, said Emily. No, that file was supposed to be deleted… the case finished last week. Yep… Right. No, thank you, Karen.
            And then Emily looked at Horace.
            Look I have to go, Karen… Yeah, sorry. Enjoy your weekend. Bye.
            Emily lifted her bag from the back of the chair and propped it on the table.
            Sorry, just work stuff.
            Can’t get away from it, huh?
            Emily shrugged.
            I thought you’d have retired by now.
            Planning to. Next year, hopefully.
            I never worked too hard, said Horace. Not really.
            They were silent again. While Emily pretended to adjust things in her bag she looked at the levelled circles of dried tea within Horace’s mug.
            Horace had moved from the doorway, closer to Emily now. She heard his old, faded breaths. She took a step back from him, slung the handbag strap over her shoulder.
            Would you like another cup? asked Horace.
            No, thanks. I should really be heading off.
            He nodded, glumly. Then he shivered. He touched things – the back of the chair, the table corner, a piece of his robe, massaged two fingers against his thumb.
            Horace, said Emily. Is everything okay?
            Horace pulled out the chair and sat. He said: Can you please stay a little longer?
            Emily’s phone buzzed again. She set the handbag back on the table and got the phone out and turned it off and put the phone back in the bag and drew out a chair beside Horace and sat.
            He reached out and touched her arm. His fingers gripped her shirt, the blunt nails scrunching up the material. His bottom lip quivered. Flared nostrils of a deep and languid breath. Slight whimper.
            Emily leaned in closer. How did she die, Horace?
            We were in the bedroom. She was drugged up, in and out of sleep. I was lying beside her, reading the paper. It was so quiet. Then she just blurted out: Horace, what’s it like outside? She’d lost her sight by this stage. I looked at her eyes. They were all grey and rolling about. I looked outside the window and it was just about to rain. All grey. Just like her eyes. Then I said: It’s golden. The sun’s falling warmly through the trees, and the garden’s full and healthy. I looked over at her, she had this smile. Weak, but… a smile nonetheless. And she said: Horace, can you take me outside, in the sun?
            I helped her into the wheelchair and rolled her outside, just out in the front garden, where all those dead leaves are now. Everything was still. It was a little chilly. I could see misty rain in the distance, over the top of the houses. She said: I can hear the street and the cars going onto the freeway. And the wind. I can feel it. I said to her: We’re in the sun, now, and she said she could feel that, too. Then she was asleep again.
            That night I slept beside her, which I rarely did towards the end. But something told me I should. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. She was very cold, so it must have been somewhere in the night, long before I woke. God, she was cold. But her face was soft. Relaxed. I kissed her on the forehead and… That was it.
            The clock ticked heavily. Drumlike. Emily shifted in the chair, scratched a leg on the floor. Horace sniffed, rubbed his nose with the edge of his finger. Then he took off his glasses.
            At least you were there, said Emily.
            Horace sighed. Then he said: I didn’t have any thoughts. Everything was a blur. I paced around a bit, and then, for some reason, you came to mind and I felt safe. I knew I had to see you, Em.
            I’m touched you thought of me.
            I still think of you. Of us, together.
Horace, that was such a long time ago.
            But it’s time I can’t forget.
            I understand you’re grieving, Horace, but you can’t dwell on us. It was a fling a lifetime ago. We’ve moved on.
            But I’d think on it, day-to-day. Whether I was with Jeanie or not. Wondering if I’d been more of a man, I could have made a life with you.
            I didn’t want that.
            You didn’t?
            No.
            Why?
            We had a fling for a month, but that was all. I was building a life back then.
            You didn’t consider us being together?
            Emily shook her head. We had fun, really good fun. You were a charming man. But you weren’t part of anything long term.
            I can’t believe you felt that way.
            Emily looked Horace in the eyes and said: That’s what you said, too. That’s what you said at the start. Nothing of this is for the long term.
            Horace stared forward, a still, blank look. He rested his elbows on the table.
            I don’t recall that, he said, in near whisper.
            I do, said Emily. Very clearly.
            But if it did happen, I wish I hadn’t said it. I wish I’d said the opposite. Because if I did, you’d still be here.
            Horace –
            You’d still be here, and I wouldn’t be alone.
            Emily went to stand, composing what to say next, but she was cut off by the shrieking sounds of tires on the road outside that halted with a thunderous crashing sound of metal.
            Emily jumped a little, a hand over chest. Horace remained still, glaring forward at nothing.
            What was that? said Emily.
            I’m still here, said Horace.
            A woman screamed, and something large collapsed.
            Emily started for the door and opened it and peered down Horace’s driveway.
            Opposite Horace’s front lawn was a car with its front totalled into a streetlight. The streetlight had collapsed onto the slab of pavement which was cracked inward. A woman was knelt by the front door of the car. She wiped a shower of glass and blood from her face.
            Oh my God, said Emily. She went back into the kitchen, where Horace remained still.
            There’s been a horrible accident. Pass me my phone, quick.
            Horace didn’t move. I’m still here, he said.
            Emily took her phone from the table and turned it on. She paced behind Horace, waiting for the phone to boot up. Horace, she said, we have to help.
            Emily grabbed her handbag, sidled out of the kitchen, out the front door, down the driveway. Horace listened to her heels clack on the pavement in-between the wailing wauls of a woman, cars stopping, doors opening and closing, a siren hurling all around the open air.
            Then he stood and lumbered to the doorway and leaned against it. He pulled the flyscreen door in and locked it. He looked at Emily’s figure through the mesh of flyscreen. A strange distortion of a person meeting the random wrath of carnage. He said: I’m still here.
            He then swung the front door shut, and deadlocked it.