Mark Falkin - The Late Bloomer

Traipsing through someone else’s house felt wrong and my anxiety at what I would find made me queasy. Though the house was musty and smelling of death, I also felt a current of air running over my skin. Thinking I felt movement in the house, a presence, I drew my gun, held it to my side. I crept down the short hall and my flesh bubbled up over my arms and hands. One hand covering nose and mouth, one holding the glock.

I pushed open the door to the back bedroom. The clock radio played big band. There lay Mr. Fleming, under a partially opened window, dressed in a navy suit and blue tie, polished brown shoes. Last night’s rain had blown in, leaving his hair and jacket wet. The curtains waved.

I stood in the doorway and observed the room for a moment, trying to discern what happened in here other than that Mr. Fleming had died. On his desk was a yellow legal pad, a few pages rolled and tucked back under it, a pen laying on top at an angle that seemed purposeful, resting as it did at a perfect diagonal with the paper’s corners. Something ordered in the chaos, to be noticed. Similarly, Mr. Fleming’s shotgun was at the foot of the bed in a way that made me sure it had been set there carefully. A laying down of arms. Compared to all the others I’d seen, this scene of death seemed to be mindful, staged, Mr. Fleming accepting and ready to go, though I wondered about the window being half open and him right below it. Had he tried to climb out?

Then there was the other thing that made this scene different though my mind hadn’t grasped it when I first came in. He clutched a folded piece of yellow legal pad paper and held it to his chest.

I knelt down and took it from his stiff hand, tearing a swatch off which remained between curled fingers. His face pallid, his eyes looked past me at the ceiling, the inside of his mouth glimmering white, morning light gilding it. His eyes held the yet unnamed combined color of gray and yellow, streaked across with red oxbows exclaiming the brutality of last breaths.

I holstered the glock, clicked off the clock radio, and unfolded the paper to the writing inside. I lifted my T-shirt up over my nose.

Outside, the Bronco’s muffler blatted. Bass honked twice and I heard him yell out to hurry up.

I turned the paper [11] A copy of this document is attached as Exhibit B. around, sat on the edge of the bed, felt the butt of the shotgun at my hip. Mr. Fleming’s script looked harried, the letters jagged, the lines slanted.

KEVIN—JUST AS MY TIME COMES UPON ME, I SOMEHOW KNOW YOU WILL SURVIVE AND HOPE YOU FIND THIS. IN FACT, I KNOW YOU WILL, BECAUSE OF THE DREAMS ABOUT YOU AND THE YOUNG WOMAN I’VE BEEN HAVING THIS SUMMER. DREAMS THAT WERE MORE THAN DREAMS. IN THIS KNOWING ABOUT YOU, I’VE ALSO SEEN THE DARK SMILING TEETH, WHICH I KNOW YOU’VE SEEN TOO, THUS I KNOW THAT YOU’LL NOT BE STAYING HERE FOR LONG, SO, WHEN YOU CAN, BEFORE YOU GO, WILL YOU PLEASE BURY MY WIFE AND MYSELF AT MEMORIAL PARK?

I wondered if Bass wanted to bury his folks. Should I waste time trying to find Mom and Martin?

I KNOW IT’S A LOT TO ASK. WE HAVE PURCHASED (NOT THAT THE QUAINT CONCEPT OF “PURCHASING” MATTERS MUCH NOW) TWO PLOTS IN THE NEW SECTION BY THE FAR EAST LONG ROAD. THERE IS A SHORT YOUNG HEDGE THAT RUNS BORDERING THE SOUTH OF IT. THE NEAREST GRAVE IS MILLER TO THE NORTH AND PARISH TO THE SOUTH AND SALAZAR TO THE EAST. WE PICKED THAT SPOT TOGETHER, BUT ANYWHERE IN THE SHADE OF THAT LITTLE WOOD WOULD BE MUCH APPRECIATED. I’M NOT SO CONCERNED ABOUT ME, BUT I CANNOT BEAR KNOWING SHE’S OUT IN THE OPEN LIKE THAT.

She’s not in the open, I thought. She’s under a pile of rocks.

I’m sorry, stones .

THIS THAT’S KILLED US? YOU’RE ASKING ME, WITH OBSEQUIOUS GENUFLECTION AT THE DOORSTEP OF THE LEARNED PROFESSOR? MY BEST GUESS IS… EVOLUTION IS TOO SLOW. NEAR-EXTINCTION IS FAST. WE’RE THE KEYSTONE SPECIES. WE’VE NOT BEEN HERE LONG, GEOLOGICALLY SPEAKING, BUT WE’VE DONE A LOT OF—SOME WOULD SAY DAMAGE. I DON’T SEE IT THAT WAY. I DON’T THINK THE EARTH DOES EITHER. I THINK WE’VE MERELY PUSHED NATURE INTO A CORNER. SHE’S PUSHED BACK HERE AND THERE, WITH AIDS, WITH STRAINS LIKE SARS, EBOLA, WITH MELTING ICECAPS. BUT NOW I THINK NATURE HAS GIVEN US A HARD SHOVE.

WHAT’S DONE THE SHOVING? SOMETHING LODGED DEEP IN OUR DNA CODE, HIDING, WAITING FOR THE TRIGGERING MOMENT, WAITING STILL AND QUIET AND PATIENT AS A SNAKE EYEING THE FLITTING MOUSE. IT’S BEEN WAITING THERE ALL ALONG, HIDDEN ON THE DARK SIDE OF THE HELIX.

I WAS TOO OVERCOME WHEN YOU WERE AT MY DOOR, BUT I DID WANT TO TELL YOU THAT AT A LITTLE AFTER DAWN—HOUSE AND CAR ALARMS STARTING TO GO OFF, THE VARIOUS CITY EMERGENCY VEHICLES SIRENS BLARING IN THE FAR DISTANCE— I LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW TO SEE THE JENKINS KIDS, THREE HOUSES DOWN FROM YOU, AND THE WALSH KIDS WHO LIVE AROUND THE BLOCK, ALL MEET IN FRONT OF THE JENKINS’ HOUSE. THEY DIDN’T TALK. THAT HALF BLIND DANNY JENKINS KID PULLED THOSE COKE-BOTTLE EYEGLASSES OFF HIS FACE AND DROPPED THEM TO THE PAVEMENT. THEY SILENTLY TURNED AND WALKED DOWN THE STREET. THE CHILDREN OF THIS WORLD NOW? THE ONES YOU’VE GOT TO SOMEHOW CONTEND WITH AND LEAD? CHANGED, AND CHANGING. QUICKLY. DRONES, LACKING FREE WILL, LIVING IN VAST WORLDWIDE COLONIES.

IT’S JUST A GUESS, BUT I’M AFRAID THAT’S ALL I’VE GOT TO GIVE.

“Lacking in specificity,” I mouthed to myself in a wet whisper. A dry hank of Mr. Fleming’s bangs lifted in the rising wind coming through the window.

WE SURE WERE LOOKING FORWARD TO WATCHING YOU PLAY AT THE MACY’S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE. DON’T STOP PLAYING. THE WORLD WILL STILL NEED ITS MUSIC… AND ITS STORYTELLERS, ITS POETS (YES, WE ALL KNOW ABOUT YOUR WRITING; YOUR MOTHER WAS SO PROUD).

GODSPEED, KEVIN. IT’S YOUR WORLD NOW~

KENNETH FLEMING

I slumped, rounded my shoulders, and sighed. I reread the last lines again about what the world will still need and doubted very much that I should be the one to provide it, that I was worthy of such a thing. The part about my mom being proud made me erupt in wracking sobs which I tried not let consume me but when I did that it got worse. I tried to hold it in and to suck it up.

Sucking it up, the smell of death in the room drew farther back and up into my deep sinuses, and its pungency stung. I smelled the death of this room and knew that the woman who carried me, gave birth to me, cared for me, sang me to sleep, loved me only for who I was and nothing more—she lay smelling somewhere too and it was almost more than I could stand.

Despair kept worming its way into me. The will to survive couldn’t plane the sharp edges of mourning. If I were to find myself alone in this, the fear would drown me just as sure as the white stuff.

I noticed at the bottom of the note, right above where the paper had been torn, a solitary PS . It hung there. He had torn off what came after.

I went to the desk and picked up the yellow legal pad and swung over the page tucked behind. The name Warren Jespers PhD UT appeared at the top, but had been crossed out. A false start. A change of mind.

I pulled out the wicker waste basket from under the desk. In it was a neon-green Pearl-Snap beer can, an empty box of shotgun shells, and a wadded ball of yellow paper. I snatched it out like it was Wonka’s golden ticket.

The top of the first page was torn at the angle matching the note I’d just read. There was a second page as well. [12] A copy of this document is attached as Exhibit B.1.

KEVIN, I’M RELUCTANT TO ADD THIS, BUT I THINK I SHOULD. I HAD A COLLEAGUE, MY GOOD FRIEND REALLY, AT THE UNIVERSITY, WARREN JESPERS, WHO HAD STOPPED TEACHING PRE-MED BIOLOGY TO WORK IN PURE RESEARCH WITH UT’S RATHER HUSH-HUSH GENOME PROJECT. IT WAS HIS PROJECT. WARREN WAS BRILLIANT, TENURED, AND TOO OLD BUT REFUSED TO RETIRE. THE BOARD OF REGENTS WANTED HIM TO DO HIS THING FAR AWAY FROM THE SPOTLIGHT. THEY HAD HIM AT THIS LITTLE-KNOWN ANNEX OFF MEDICAL PARKWAY IN A BUILDING THAT COULDN’T BE ANY MORE NONDESCRIPT. HE HAD A SINGLE ASSISTANT, MY WIFE.