Jackson Bell - Trigger Finger

My head, still heavy from whatever drugs they’d given me, felt heavy. A basketball perched atop a drinking straw; my neck felt weak from the weight of it. I let my eyes wander around the room and they came to rest upon the nightstand beside my bed. It looked like oak or walnut or some other heavily grained type of wood, but the moonlight reflected off a flat, smooth surface. Veneer , I thought. It’s not real oak, or walnut. It’s basically a big sticker some Chinese guy slapped over a hunk of particle board. The furniture equivalent of a Chicken McNugget.

I opened my mouth to comment on this, but Allie held up a finger. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say what you were about to say,” she said. “You’re going to need to be careful about the questions you ask from now on. Places you look. Don’t pick at things anymore, Kevin. When you get to a good place, there comes a time to stop asking questions. To just accept what’s in front of you and enjoy it . Because if you don’t want to enjoy it, honey, I can go away. You don’t have to come with me.”

She studied me and cocked her head to one side.

“Do you want to come with me, Kevin? Or do you want to stay here and wake up in a morning in a world where pretty much everyone you love is dead?”

I looked back at the nightstand.

And then I hopped out of bed.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Hold on. There’s something we need to do first.”

She reached into her purse again and pulled out an empty Mason jar. She reached in again and pulled out a freezer bag full of sand. Not for the first time in my life, I reflected that she probably could have hidden a dead body in that purse.

“I have a friend on the Arts Council,” she said, “who practices nontraditional medicine. Holistic healing. Herbs, relaxation techniques, things like that.”

She set the Mason jar on the nightstand and unscrewed the lid. It made a metallic click as she set the lid down beside it.

“She suggested that I have you do this,” she said. “Here, take the bag.”

“Why?”

“Just take the bag.”

I did. She motioned for me to sit back down and I did that, too.

“Fill up the jar,” she commanded.

I filled the Mason jar with the sand handful by handful, careful not to spill any. Allie hadn’t said not to spill, but I felt like I needed to put as much in the jar as possible. When the sand reached the rim, I packed it down with the heel of my hand and added even more. I didn’t ask any questions.

“Put the lid on,” she said.

I screwed the lid back on the jar.

“Okay.”

She smiled again. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

I set the jar on the nightstand and stared at it for a long, silent moment. Allie sat quietly, watching me.

“What did I just do?” I asked.

She stood up and motioned for me to do the same. When I rose without the Mason jar, she took it from the nightstand and pushed it into my hands.

“We’ve got to take this with us,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I need to pack.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve got everything you need at home. This jar is the only thing you can take out of this room. Now come on, follow me.”

She opened the door and led me out into the corridor. The overheads burned brightly out here, and my eyes rebelled at the sudden introduction of so much light. I stood there holding the Mason jar, blinking, until Allie grabbed my wrist and tugged me.

“Come on,” she said. “The car’s outside.”

We found no nurses in the hallway. We passed a clock on the wall reading three in the morning, but this seemed like the kind of place that would have a night shift. Duty nurses, orderlies, people patrolling the hallway for wanderers just like me. We passed a nurse’s station—abandoned—and stepped out into the vacant lobby. Someone had drawn the blinds across the visitors’ window. Across from that, the entire far wall of the lobby consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows, navy blue with night. Allie pushed open one of the double doors. I expected an alarm to sound, but none did. I followed her and stepped out into the night.

“Breathe,” she said.

I inhaled the air that enveloped me as soon as the door closed behind him. We were standing on the broad sidewalk that ran along the turnaround in front of the facility. The night was cool but not cold, heavy in the way that only spring evenings can be. I smelled dogwoods, those vaguely fishy harbingers of spring. It felt like a good night for a walk, a run, even. Beautiful temperatures like this didn’t stay around for long. Twice a year we got this weather from Heaven as the landscape shifted between those few weeks of balls-freezing cold and the long months of balls-sweating hot. Spring never stayed long; this kind of beauty always slid away. I took in great, greedy lungfuls of it.

I caught Allie looking at me quizzically and realized I was tearing up. “Sorry,” I said with a sheepish grin. “I think it’s been a while since I’ve been outside.”

“It has.”

“It’s a beautiful night.”

“It is.” She smiled and pointed to my right. “There’s the car.”

On the curb just a few paces away sat the BMW, my burgundy chariot, polished and shiny beneath the lights shining from the awning over the turnaround. I darted forward.

Allie’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

She reached around and tapped the Mason jar.

“You’re going to take this home,” she said, “and you’re never going to allow it to break. You must never open it.”

I nodded. I clutched it against my chest, not wanting it to slip from my grasp. “What is it?” I asked.

She pursed her lips in a little smile.

“It’s everything bad that’s ever happened to you in your lifetime,” she said. “It’s all in that jar. We’re going to take it home and you’re going to put it somewhere safe, but you’re not going to open it because it belongs in there. There is no need for you to ever, ever open that jar.”

I nodded.

“No more questions,” she said gravely. “There’s no need. You know what the truth is. Don’t ever question it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Kevin. Don’t ever question it. No matter what. Don’t ever open that jar. And don’t drop it. Because it can break.”

I looked at it. “Okay.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you understand the choice you’re making here?”

I took a deep breath of that exquisite night air, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, she was still there.

“Yeah,” I said, “I do. No more questions. Ever. Not a one.”

She smiled again and opened the passenger door to the BMW. I made as if to get in, but she stopped me again.

“You’re driving,” she said. “I don’t like stick, remember?”

I did. Still holding the jar, I rounded the trunk and got in on the driver’s side. The leather seat accepted my back and buttocks like a custom-fitted glove. I looked around for a place to set the Mason jar but couldn’t find anything, so I put it on the floor in the passenger foot well.

“Ready?” Asked Allie.

“You bet.”

“Then I suggest we go. Right now.”

I buckled my seatbelt and pushed the button for my memory setting on the power driver’s seat. Allie had driven, and she’d about jammed the seat up against the steering wheel. The seat returned to my position with an aristocratic whir. I reached down and released the parking brake.

“Take us home,” Allie said.

I pushed the stick into first and eased out the clutch. The rumbling six-cylinder dipped then rose again as the car rolled out of the turnaround and into the parking lot. As the facility faded to nothing in my rearview mirror, I didn’t look back.