Not Even Past. Dave White
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little trouble standing.
“Sarah,” he said, as a way of greeting her.
Sarah turned toward Leonard and opened her mouth.
Leonard nodded. “I’m taking care of it. Why don’t you and William get a snack?”
“I think I’m going to have cookies,” William said. He ran out of sight. Martin remembered the kitchen being in the direction William ran.
“Wash your hands,” Sarah called and stalked off after him.
“You still need to leave,” Leonard said when she was gone.
Martin’s hands were trembling hard, and squeezing them into fists didn’t stop it. He thought about jamming them in his pockets, but didn’t want to look like a three-year-old. They remained at his sides, shaking.
“You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t. I made a promise.” Leonard turned toward the front door again. He pulled it open. “Leave us alone.”
“William is hers. I know he is. Before she—” He paused, not sure how to say it. “Died. Before she died, she told me she was pregnant.”
“Why are you chasing this?”
Martin curled and then stretched his toes inside his shoes. He needed to be doing something.
“Jackson Donne came to me and said she was in trouble.”
“Please go.” Leonard’s cheeks weren’t red anymore. They were the opposite. Pale, as if all the blood had drained from his body and pooled in his feet.
“How do you have a child in this house if she’s dead?”
“It’s the neighbor’s kid.” The words were ice chips.
“He called you Grandpa.”
Leonard closed his eyes. Opened his mouth, closed it. Opened his eyes again. They were glistening.
“Please go. You can’t—.”
“She’s alive.”
“Go, Bill.” His voice cracked.
“I can help.”
Leonard shook his head. “No. No, you can’t.”
Martin waited a beat, then walked toward the front door, but turned left toward the kitchen. The hallway used to be barren of memories. Now, the Bakers had lined it with framed pictures. Martin’s eye registered them as he passed. William on a slide at a park. William eating cake. A picture of Jeanne graduating high school.
William and Sarah sat at the kitchen table eating sugar cookies. Sarah was flipping through a magazine, but not really reading it. Her eyes were on William. He was looking at a comic book.
They both looked up at Martin in the doorway. Martin felt Leonard’s hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle grasp, with a quick squeeze. Like he was saying please.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Martin said.
Sarah looked back at William.
“Hi, William,” Martin said.
“Hi.”
“What are you reading?”
“Spider-Man.”
Martin nodded. “He’s the best.”
William held up the book so Martin could see Spidey flipping through a hail of bullets. A thug had been firing a machine gun at him.
“Can I ask you something?”
William nodded.
“Where’s your mom?”
Sarah made a noise. Her hand flashed up and covered her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in.
“She’s working,” William said.
“Where does she work?”
William looked at Sarah, then up at Leonard. If he read something on their faces, he didn’t show it. He just went back to looking at the comic book.
“Far away,” he whispered.
“Do you ever see her?”
William shook his head. “Not for a while.”
Martin nodded. “Don’t worry. Spider-Man always gets the bad guy.”
“I know,” William said. “And sometimes he has help.”
Martin paused. “You mean like Doctor Octopus?”
“No. Doctor Octopus is a bad guy. They don’t work together. Doc Ock would hurt Spider-Man. I mean the Avengers.”
A thought crossed Martin’s mind. He reached out and shook Will’s hand. “It was nice to meet you.”
William nodded.
Martin turned, trying to ignore the tears in Sarah’s eyes. Leonard stared at him as he walked by. He felt like he was passing through needles. It took until he got to the front door until it hit him.
He’d been alone for so long, years. Martin didn’t go out with people. Didn’t talk to anyone.
No one ever had long conversations with him. And when someone did need his attention, it was either by calling him “Bill” or “Martin.”
No one had used his full first name in years. Maybe Jeanne was the last one. She liked the formality of it. It wasn’t a boy’s name. It wasn’t a baseball player’s name.
The realization froze him cold at the doorway.
He hadn’t been called William in six years.
Bill Martin turned on his heel and faced Leonard.
“Jesus Christ,” Martin said. “He’s named after me.”
KATE ELLISON stared at her fiancé. He sat across from her, not making eye contact, jamming invitations into envelopes. She’d already asked him once to be gentle. He did for about three invitations, and then the jamming started again.
“Do you want a beer?” She really didn’t want to nag or ask what was wrong. He’d get to it. Jackson always got to it.
Eventually.
Jackson shook his head. He jammed another invitation and it bent at the corner, like a dog-eared page in a book. A tremor went through her, a short bolt of electricity.
“Stop it,” she said, hoping the words came out evenly.
Jackson froze, except his eyes, which finally met hers. He held them for an instant, then his shoulders slumped and he looked down. After placing the envelope on the table, he sat back on the couch.
“What the hell, Jackson?” Even just went out the window.
“Kate, I—”
“No, seriously. You’ve been acting weird all day.”
She searched her memory for another time he’d acted like this, sullen and quiet. A petulant child. All she wanted was a moment to compare this to, something to latch on to and help her understand. This wasn’t like him at all.
Nothing came back to her.
Their fights were always full of screaming, but open and honest. They always knew where the other stood. The first night Jackson promised to come over but didn’t—their first fight, actually—she knew he was right for her. There were no games. His phone had died, and without the clock on it, he lost track of time bullshitting with Artie. She argued he could have checked another cell phone, or—for pete’s sake—looked at a clock. The Olde Towne Tavern was littered with them.