P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

Phillip’s shoulders drew tight. “You went through my wallet, Fran?”

Frances’s eyes were moist, but Louis didn’t think she’d cry. Not yet.

“Is this the army buddy you’ve been visiting for the last sixteen years, Phillip?”

Louis knew from the edge to her voice that Frances thought Claudia had been alive and that Phillip’s visits had been romantic rendezvous, and his heart gave for her.

“I deserve an answer, Phillip,” she said. “An honest one.”

Phillip was staring at Frances. There was a stiffness to his jaw, but something had changed in his eyes. There was a faint fear there that came from the realization that he had let things go too far, kept his secrets too long.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Louis said.

Frances looked at Louis. “Sure, go ahead and try to slink off like you’ve nothing to do with this. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Phillip finally reached out and touched her arm. Frances pulled away, her eyes filling with tears. Phillip motioned to a chair, tried to urge her down in it gently. Finally, she sat down, keeping hold of the papers, her eyes never leaving Phillip.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, turning to Louis.

Louis started away, then glanced back at Frances. He wanted to apologize for the last few days, for keeping this from her, for not making Phillip tell her. But now wasn’t the time.

Louis wandered into the kitchen. The turkey was still in the oven. A pan of dressing sat on the stove, and two pumpkin pies were on the countertop, near a glass of eggnog and a plate of sliced cranberries. He looked up at the clock. Almost three.

He sat down at the table, spreading the newspaper, but he couldn’t find anything he wanted to read. He could hear their voices, low and insistent, out in the living room.

He already felt different. Like something solid and unshakable had been snatched from under him. And he wondered if this was what kids felt like when they were first told their parents were getting a divorce. Growing up in foster homes, he had learned very early that nothing was forever. Especially good things. But then he had landed here in Plymouth, where things were not only good, they were unchanging, and no matter how long he waited for that bad something to happen, it never had. He had come to believe that forever was possible for some people.

The small kitchen was hot from the oven and finally, he went out the back door, standing under the overhang for a moment until the sleet drove him back in. The next half hour crept by like that, with him moving between the kitchen, the icy outside, and back again, taking bites of the stuffing as he passed.

He was remembering a night about a month ago. Joe had driven over from Miami for a short weekend. They had stayed up until midnight, drinking and talking, and later, after making love, she had snuggled up against him and they had lain there, listening to the brush of the palm fronds in the rain.

I wish this weekend was going to last longer, Louis.

He had answered her before he thought about it. I wish it would last forever.

Maybe it was just a comment, an expected reply in an intimate moment. But still, he had said it, and maybe he had said it because at that moment he believed there could be a forever for him and Joe.

The kitchen had grown stifling, a hint of burnt meat now in the air. Still, no movement from the living room. Just muted voices. Louis switched off the oven, opened it, and took the turkey out. The skin was dry and cracked, most of the juices dried up.

He waited awhile longer, then sliced off some breast meat, and made himself a plate of turkey, cranberries, potatoes, and a biscuit. He sat at the small table, eating in silence.

Around five, he heard footsteps go up the stairs and the slam of a door. A few seconds later, Phillip came into the kitchen. He looked tired, his eyes red. He didn’t speak, just went directly to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He left again.

A couple of seconds later, Louis heard the TV come on and saw the blue light filling the dark living room.

Louis didn’t move from the table, but his eyes drifted to the yellow phone on the wall. Then he rose slowly and walked to it. He dialed Joe’s number in Miami, and leaned against the counter, listening to it ring.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Pick up, Joe .

And then her voice.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Which me?”

Her voice was playful and he felt the tightness in his chest lift just enough to make breathing easier.

“The me that needs to talk to you right now.”

A silence, then, “Hang on a second.” The clunk of the phone. He picked up a fork and the pumpkin pie and went to sit at the table, stretching the phone cord across the kitchen. By the time Joe came back on, he was digging into the pie.

“Where’d you go?” he asked.

“To turn off the oven,” she said. “I’m making Thanksgiving dinner. Swanson’s Hungry Man Turkey Special. Yum-yum.”

He laughed.

“How’s your turkey day going?” she asked.

“Not good,” he said.

“Is that why you called?”

“I don’t know. I think. . I think I just needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

“I was watching the Weather Channel. It’s cold up there.”

“Tell me about it.”

A long pause. “What’s wrong, Louis?”

A longer pause. “I miss you,” he said.

“You’ll be home soon.”

Louis pushed the pie away and rose. He went to the counter, twisting the phone cord in his hands.

“Louis?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Joe, something’s come up. I won’t be home when I said. I might have to stay here awhile.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I’m helping my foster father out with a personal problem and things have gotten messed up. I can’t leave them right now.”

“What’s the matter?”

Louis rubbed his forehead. “I can’t go into it all right now.”

Joe was quiet for a long time.

“You still there?” he asked finally.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Another silence.

“Joe-”

“Louis, I don’t like this.”

“Like what?”

“When you do this, when I know you need to talk but you won’t.”

Louis shut his eyes. He could tell her about it, tell her everything he had seen at Hidden Lake, because she was a cop and he knew she would understand. He could maybe tell her about Phillip and Frances and about how secrets kept too long could corrode a marriage. What he couldn’t tell her was that he had secrets of his own, things in his past that needed to come out if there was ever going to be a chance for him and Joe.

“Louis?”

He had to tell her about getting Kyla pregnant and what he had said to her on that rainy night in his dorm room.

Go, then. . get rid of it.

“Louis?”

“I have something to tell you, Joe.”

She was silent, waiting.

“But I can’t do it until I get home.”

There was another long pause. It was so quiet he could hear a purring sound and suddenly he could see her, sitting on that lumpy blue denim sofa cradling her big orange tabby cat.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said.

“I’ll be here,” she said.

It was Sunday morning. Frances had left early to go to church. Phillip had slept late on the sofa again. Louis fixed himself a bowl of cereal and read every section of the Sunday Free Press . He was standing in the hallway looking at the gallery of pictures on the wall when Phillip finally came down from his shower.

“You get any sleep?” Louis asked.

“Not much,” Phillip answered.

Louis’s gaze went back to the photographs. “Is that me?” he asked.