The Wish Collector
Page 40

He wanted to see her out, he did, but he couldn’t wear the mask during the day. It would make what was already creepy, just weird and clownish. At least in the dark of night, the creepiness sort of took on an edge of fiendish, and fiendish he could live with. Clownish he could not.
Beasts were alluring in the dead of night, weren’t they? There was a reason they hid in the light of day. And anyway, the damn mask was uncomfortable after a while—rubbery and sweaty—and he longed to rip it off and toss it aside, to feel the cool air on the damaged skin of his face.
Myrtle said something and Clara looked beyond her for a moment to the plantation house.
Jonah turned his good eye toward her, straining to see the expression on her pretty face. Awe, he thought. Yes, the look on her face was full of wonderment as if she were gazing upon some place of worship. And damn if he didn’t feel jealous of the inanimate structure.
Clara returned her gaze to Myrtle and smiled warmly as she waved, slipping through the gate on the side of the property as Myrtle latched it behind her. The sound was lonely, reminding Jonah of the empty day that stretched before him.
A moment later, Jonah heard a car moving away, taking Clara home. He watched as Myrtle ambled back to the house, talking to herself as she walked.
And despite his mundane thoughts about hiding in the trees, his heart rejoiced. Clara knew of his scars and cared for him anyway. And God, it had felt so good to be held. To feel her softness against him, to listen to the sounds of her breathing as she’d slept. And yet it unsettled him too.
He had thought that to watch her dance once would sustain him all the rest of his long, lonely days—but in fact, it had done the opposite. It had made him long for more. So yes, Cecil was right. He pined. God damn, but he pined. It was a constant pang throbbing in his veins.
And now, to have the memory of her arms around him, his name on her lips as she drifted into dreams, it just increased his longing for life, for her, for things he could never have.
He put his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, feeling the small, smooth card within. He brought it out, staring at the information printed on it. Who knew gang members had business cards? Just a name and an address and the memory of the offer the man named Ruben with the obvious prison tattoos on his face had made: “You ever need a night gig, masked man, you call me. We could use you.” And then he’d laughed, but it hadn’t been unkind. In fact, it’d been laced with respect, and it had made Jonah feel damn good, despite that a moaning Clara lay limply in his arms, and he’d needed to get her someplace safe.
Speaking of which . . . he’d have to have Myrtle or Cecil come with him to collect his motorcycle later. Once he’d determined Clara was still too out of it to ride behind him safely, he’d called them to pick them up, leaving the bike chained up where he’d secured it after following Clara’s bus.
Jonah sighed, stepping out of the trees and tipping his face to the bruised sky. It was going to rain.
He walked to the wall, laying his palm on the solid stone. Right there was where it’d all started to change. And he still couldn’t decide if the change that had begun in him was a good thing or would bring nothing but deeper misery in the end.
Several feet away he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall and then a male sigh just before a piece of paper was slipped between one of the cracks, landing on the dewy grass.
The man’s footsteps moved away, the sound of a car starting up and then driving in the opposite direction meeting Jonah’s ears a minute later.
The ink was already bleeding because of the dew it’d landed in as Jonah unfolded it carefully, reading the wish.
“I wish I had a reason not to jump from the CCC tonight. Anything. Just anything.” Christ. The CCC.
The Crescent City Connection, the bridge that spanned the Mississippi River, connecting downtown New Orleans to the West Bank. He’d driven it often when he’d lived a normal life.
Jonah leaned against the wall, swearing it trembled beneath his weight. The ancient thing was getting so old, it would probably crumble at the barest of touches one of these days.
He fingered the message, putting it in his pocket and then bringing it out along with Ruben’s card.
Some guy was planning to jump off a bridge tonight and was looking for a reason—any reason—not to. Jonah thought about that, thought about the fact that if anyone knew how destitute a person could feel, how hopeless and clueless about their own place in the world, it was him.
He’d considered—maybe not strongly, but still—ending his own life a time or two, but Myrtle and Cecil’s relentless love and care of him had stopped him from considering it too closely. He’d had that. He’d had them, and gratitude suddenly spiked within his chest so fiercely that it caused a physical pang. A tightening.
Maybe Justin had been right when he’d often said that there was always something to be grateful for. He’d written off half the things Justin said—he was practically religious in his optimism and it had, frankly, annoyed Jonah. But . . . well. Maybe that one held some truth.
Would he have actually survived this long without Myrtle and Cecil? Had their unwavering belief in him been an unnamed consolation within his grief and anger and pain? And this man has nothing.
Yet.
In any case, how negligent would Jonah be if he didn’t do something to try and stop a man from ending his own life? He stood there for another moment, considering, and then pushed off the wall.
He had plans tonight after all.
**********
Eddy stared at the churning water below. Fear rumbled through him, but not loud enough to quiet the roaring emptiness that gaped open like a festering wound inside of his soul. The emptiness that felt vast and unending, a black hole of pain.
He’d have thought emptiness would dull his senses, but no, it seemed to make everything sharper, more piercing somehow. He couldn’t live with it any longer. He just wanted it to end. And that water below was going to do just that. Drown out the noise, the hurt, the memories, and yes, the breath from his lungs . . . because he couldn’t see another way.
He wanted to. He wished he had something, some form of hope that things could get better. He’d even gone to that stupid wall, which was, well, stupid. But nothing was going to change, and he couldn’t face another day of this never ending agony.
“Pretty far drop.”
He sucked in a startled breath of exhaust and river-water-scented air, gripping the metal bar in his hand more tightly as he turned his head.
“S-step back,” Eddy demanded in a voice that sounded less than commanding.
He’d chosen a spot that was out of sight of the cars driving by on the bridge. How had this guy spotted him?
The older black man wearing a leather vest and a dark bandana around what appeared to be a completely bald head didn’t flinch and didn’t move back. In fact, he stepped forward, his eyes locked on Eddy’s. “You’re a Marine.”
“Was,” Eddy said. He wasn’t sure why he’d put on his uniform before going out there. It’d seemed to make sense at the time. He should have died on that stretch of desert highway half a world away like all six of his buddies did, but instead, he’d been saved for some unfathomable reason that brought him nothing but regret. So he’d die in his uniform after all, even if his death would be by his own hand.
“Yeah,” the man sighed, as if he’d understood far more than was contained in that singular word. “It’s never really past tense though, is it?”
He leaned against the giant metal support, putting his hands in his pockets as if this were a situation he came across every day of the week and therefore wasn’t fazed in the least.
Eddy tilted his head, taking the guy in. He was probably in his sixties, but still muscular. He obviously stayed in shape, and his attire made him look like some kind of biker.
Eddy couldn’t read the patches sewn onto the front of his vest from where he stood, but he assumed they spoke of whatever organizations he belonged to. Belonged to. The words rung in his head and he wasn’t sure why. They made him wince. They made him yearn. “You were a Marine too?”
“Yup. Came back from Vietnam in sixty-nine. Stood right where you are now more than once.”