Everyone Dies In Alabama

(A Short Story Collection)

Oar

Beau was taking pictures of the face. It was one of many pieces, but, still, the more January took in the rest of the park the more she was sure: that face was just about the best carving around.

She pressed her palm down onto the carving she was at—a lightly etched lion’s head that had recently been set into the center of an old oak. That oak was covered in bark that had turned gray long ago, but beneath such a soft tan had been revealed. It was a color that was so much like a real lion January was beyond impressed. Actually, she was completely stunned and with Beau still busy taking shot after shot, January was even rather happy with how she was able to drink in that stunned all by herself.

Which was odd, seeing as how being alone wasn’t something she usually enjoyed. To be honest, any sort of all-consuming silence was only something for her to fear, a terror that kept her busy with her college newspaper, or with her sometimes friends, so she would never find herself exactly where she was right now: stuck near to someone yet still at such a distance everything was getting just a little too quiet.

Yet January really didn’t like to be all that close either. Near but not too near was a silence she could handle, a secret mantra she enjoyed whispering quite a lot. Perhaps taking pleasure in Beau’s distance would be okay.

Besides, with the way things were now there were no distractions, that little too quiet allowing her to easily feel the lions’ heat beneath her palm. January could even enjoy how the lion’s mouth seemed to nip at the tips of her finger’s—how its eyes had been sculpted perfect too, and how it had whiskers that ran to fine points along such thick wooden ripples that just had to be some kind of imitation of fur. It was all so amazing, yet, still, something was off.

She drew her eyes into tight slits of concentration. A deeper cut…yes, that was what was needed. Maybe a quick rush of blood, or perhaps a sudden stab to the heart, sometimes a nice blade did reveal a better truth, so why not? A little pain would make this lion almost as good as that face Beau was still photographing.

January looked up. During these early beats of summer, the days did enjoy playing their tricks, a wicked kind of magic that often made her feel as if evening would never arrive.

But now, the more she stared, the more it was clear: the sun was finally settling itself into night. That meant it had to have been seven, maybe even eight, in the evening. Still, an aura of honey brown did remain—some lightly toasted hue that glowed heavy in the air. It let her catch every bit of the disappointment that was near. It was only she and Beau who were in the park.

Mr. Oar—the master behind all these carvings—did his work at night, everyone knew that. But unlike her, Oar apparently didn’t enjoy only a touch of solitude. He must have preferred complete isolation, and utter darkness. January should have known she’d have to wait, and wait, to get what she wanted.

“Again,” Beau asked, “why are we here?”

January sighed and turned to stare his way. Beau was such a good little helper, but he was also—always—so nervous. If it weren’t for the fact that he liked sleeping with her as much as she knew he did, January was certain he never would have had it in him to be anywhere once the sun went down.

“I mean,” Beau went on, “it is getting dark and—”

“Oar only works when it’s dark,” January said. “We’re here to record that.”

She smiled. She had others she could have brought along. There were definitely a couple guys, and a couple girls, she could have called—some of whom she was sure would have even said yes so very, very, fast since she did know them as intimately as she knew Beau—but she really hadn’t given them a second thought. That was interesting.

“What,” January asked. Beau was looking at her funny. It brought her out of her wonderment—only Beau had been called…just why had she done that—quite quick. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s actually getting real dark,” he said.

January sighed again. Her smile dropped too, and she tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. Shannon would have been better. She loved the outdoors no matter if there was light out or not, but January was starting to enjoy their time together—the way Shannon would sometimes giggle after they’d had sex was getting dangerous…January found it rather cute—and, anyway, Shannon couldn’t shoot a camera to save her life so why bother.

“Who cares,” January said, her smile quickly returning. Beau loved it when she was happy. “If it’s getting dark,” she went on, “who cares? If we need to camp out and wait it will be worth it because once we get Oar—”

“He likes to work alone,” Beau said. But his voice held no strength behind his words as he walked closer before reaching out for her. “Besides,” he continued, “I have enough pictures. Why don’t we talk about him from afar? We’ll stick to rumors and speculation like everyone else.”

January let her fingers slip between his. Seriously, just why had he been the only one she’d called?

Beau had long legs, long arms, and a wild mop of brown hair that often sat clean, and combed, yet somehow still askew, atop his head. On any normal day, he was only ever kind of attractive. Yet he was always such a mess too, someone January often couldn’t believe she’d slept with.

But he was also the best photographer on campus, his pictures filled with so much beauty it didn’t matter what article accompanied them. Something Beau captured told a story way better than any writer ever could, and maybe that was why she’d given him a ring.

Yes, that had to be it. When combined with her desire to have someone near yet not too near, it did fit.

“We have to get more,” January said as she leaned forward and kissed Beau on the nose. “Trevor hasn’t put me on the front page in months and…every graduate school says they like it when—”

Beau let go of her hand. “But isn’t this a puff piece?”

“It will be front page,” January explained, “and that’s what grad schools care about. I get a bit of prominence in our paper—my portfolio looks even better.”

Beau turned. He stared at all that surrounded them—the old oaks, and ashes, the few pines and willows too, that bowed all solemn and severe over their heads. Many a tree even bent so low they almost touched the asphalt pathway that he and January were on.

Beau swung his arms wide. “But doesn’t this place give you the creeps?”

January could see the ominous tinge he was being affected by. On one side of the park were three baseball diamonds. They were well kept—January was even sure that first base, perhaps third and second too, was forever being swept with care—and it all just helped to make the park feel so secure along much of its length.

But a vast creek, something that seemed more like a mighty river after a good rain, kept all that far from where January stood. Only long tunnels of trees could be found where she was, things left punctured by paths of black asphalt, and the occasional meadow that was never really used.

People could picnic, or play, anywhere in this park, but usually everything fun stayed where the baseball diamonds were. No one did much of anything on the other side except go for runs, walk, or look at some artwork carved into trees before they hurried back over thick wooden bridges to return to what was better.

January had run here, but that had always been in the daylight when the sun would sneak through the trees, or would meander past the many open meadows, to make things seem normal. She understood Beau’s nervousness. In the deepening gloom, any carving in any tree was no longer amazing. Now, most everything screamed.

“This place isn’t scary,” she said.

She liked what she saw. A hint of love, a touch of sorrow, pain made that fade and left behind only truth. The trees with the deepest cuts—those whose faces wept sap in the night or perhaps dew in the morning—were the best trees around. Let Beau be nervous, scared even, because in this gloom she was starting to enjoy all the screams she found.

January nodded towards an ash. “How can you not like this,” she sighed. “I mean it’s way better than the baseball junk on the other side, don’t you think?”

Beau dropped his arms and laughed before bringing his camera back up. “I don’t know,” he said, snapping away as he talked, “baseball stuff doesn’t stare at me like this lion does.”

It was the one thing January had to absolutely disagree with. That lion remained too surface while the face, and perhaps a carving of a fat gnome even further off—the one that held a mace as if in preparation for sudden use—looked so much more alive.

“No,” January sighed. “This one still needs a deeper cut before it will have enough soul to stare.”

A sharp trill pierced the air, both she and Beau jumping as January realized her cell phone was ringing. Beau dropped his camera, a strap around his neck deciding at that instant to no longer do its job. Instead of catching such expensive equipment—his camera bouncing and perhaps giving him a nice bruise—it snapped as everything quickly plummeted onto hard asphalt before rolling off into the night.

“Son of a—” Beau said as that sharp trill was soon joined by the low noise of cracked glass.

Yet he caught himself before adding anything else. It was his thing. He may have drunk and smoked quite a bit whenever January asked him to join her for some fun. He even knew that he was one of a handful she enjoyed, and though he was jealous he accepted it without too much fuss. There were so many dents and bruises to Beau—defining characteristics that confirmed that morals, to him, were something to be kept loose—yet he refused to cuss. He would get close, but he always caught himself. It was like Shannon and her giggles, something rather cute.

Beau ran into a nearby meadow. If there was anything other than she that could cause him to be brave it was the potential for camera ruination. Without hesitation, he headed into growing dark as January pulled a pink cell out from a pocket of her jeans.

“Tell me that was the Chancellor of Noel,” Beau said. He was already back at her side, his damaged camera held steady at his chest, “because this thing cost me five hundred bucks and its lens is—”

“It was my dad.” January couldn’t stop staring at her phone. “I—”

“You didn’t answer?”

Beau moved a step closer, January doing something she hadn’t done in oh so long. She went to him. Even with her mind screaming that this would be a loss of control—she couldn’t show how much she needed someone…not again—she just threw out her arms and jumped for his embrace.

Beau tossed his camera over his shoulder. “He forgot to tell you he was home?”

Somewhere in the growing dark he must have reattached the camera to its strap, that strap now fixed and working without a problem. This time nothing fell as he caught her, and held her, while everything else settled along his back.

“You told me,” Beau said. “Isn’t your dad in England?”

“No,” January sighed. “He was calling from his office downtown.”

Beau’s hands and elbows, but especially his wrists and fingers, were stick like yet comforting as they wrapped around her. She was even starting to like how his ribs notched against her temple. She could enjoy the rhythm of his heart.

“Beau, I—” she said.

It was odd how she now felt so much closer to him than whenever he and she were naked and in some bed. She even began to wonder if maybe she should say something about that—about how this had gone beyond rather cute…this meant more—but her cell phone rang again, and she just stepped away.

What was wrong with her? Sex could be pushed to the side but enjoying a heartbeat was…it was making her feel things she’d sworn to never let into her heart again, and January could only shudder before she smiled so sad.

“I have to get this,” she said. She held up her cell, Beau staring at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Your dad,” he asked

Of course it was her father, that man always so determined once he’d decided she could be acknowledged. She could ignore—but that never worked. No matter how she refused to answer, he would just ring, and ring, and it would only make her dream—some grand fantasy where daddy must be feeling the same loss she always felt whenever he ignored her.

But that was such a lie. Her father only ever called to get her off his list, a daily to do itinerary which stayed fresh in his mind until it was accomplished. It was what made him so good at his job. Unless it was her brother—the always stellar Caleb—January’s father was simply a man who remembered someone only because he needed something from them.

“Yeah, my dad,” she said.

She brought the cell to her ear, her finger already on the button to answer. Beau looked back towards the other side of the park. It was where he’d left his car.

“I could go get another camera,” he said. “While you’re talking—it would just take a second, unless you want me to stay?”

But January already had her finger down, her father’s voice the only noise she could hear. She watched as Beau merely shrugged, though his face did look rather disappointed too, before he turned and walked away.

“Dad,” she said. “When did you get back?”

“A week ago, and I’m leaving in about an hour,” her father sighed. “Business in Brazil—Sarant and I might finally build a factory there.”

Sarant…that was a surprise to hear, the mere mention of his name making her buckle. Yet there was a pain she could let in that would keep his memory at bay, a pain she could even speak aloud right now.

“Oh,” January said. She’d grown up only thirty minutes from this very park, it wouldn’t have been that hard to visit. “You’ve been home...why didn’t you call? I’ve left messages and I could have stopped by if—”

“Messages,” her father asked, “when?”

“While you were in Europe, I thought...maybe I could—”

“Oh, somebody did mention you’d been burning up the phone lines but, well, you know how busy I get.”

“I know,”

“And I meant to have you swing by, but your mother and brother wanted to go out. We went downtown a few times with Sarant and his new girlfriend, stopped by the art museum and a couple other places that…well…time slips when you’re out and about and, anyway, I’m sure you understand.”

But January didn’t understand. How could she when her mind was now obsessed with green, her very mouth also betraying her as, suddenly, she could only taste such a heady suffocation of ivy.

Sarant…her father had mentioned Sarant again, and a girlfriend, and…and now there was something else she didn’t understand. How could hearing about Sarant make her think about green…or taste ivy? Hadn’t she put envy, and jealousy—and so many other emotions—far into the rearview of her life?

January wasn’t sure. All she did know was that no longer was the pain of her father something she could use to keep her feelings at bay. Something else had hold of her heart.

She remembered the first time she’d seen Liam Sarant, a tall man with ebony eyes who’d told her she looked too pretty to be so young. She hadn’t been able to place what he was—European, South American, even at thirteen she’d prided herself in knowing in an instant where most people were from, but Sarant had confounded her. And, when he’d spoken, his Irish brogue somehow perfect yet alien, she’d been entranced.

Soon, whenever he would swing by for long visits at her house, she would always make sure to be around. She would laugh at his jokes, sigh at his smiles, and feel only rapturously whole whenever she could convince him to give her a hug. Her brother had enjoyed popping up from out of nowhere to tease her about it, even her mother had rolled her eyes at it, yet when Sarant had given her his private cell number, but more importantly when January had started to text him—just tiny notes to ply the depths of his intelligence—she’d only been beyond delighted in how prompt he’d been in his replies. After that, why let anything else be a bother.

Her father’s voice brought her back to the present. Was he still talking?

“Liam has a new girlfriend, since when,” January asked. It was something she hadn’t realized she was going to say, but why couldn’t she know? What would be the harm?

“Liam,” her father laughed. “Since when did you start calling him Liam?”

It really was jealousy she was tasting, and January couldn’t believe how that had snuck up on her. Seriously, the girl who had made such a practice of being near yet not too near, how could she have returned to being so weak?

Was it because she’d been calling him Liam ever since she’d turned fourteen? That couldn’t be it. Her father didn’t know anything about that.

In all actuality, her father didn’t know all that much about her. Why would he when all he cared about was his business, and his darling boy? He didn’t know how she’d started to visit Liam in their pool house whenever he’d swing by for his visits. Her texts with him had been going on for almost a year by then, it hadn’t felt wrong. When she would slip through such shadowy evenings—was Caleb there to tease, please let Caleb not be there—she’d simply been going to talk to Liam face to face, what could ever be the problem with that?

He’d kept telling her to keep it a secret too, to just call him Liam whenever they were alone, and that too had never felt off. And, anyway, she no longer had to beg him for a hug. He’d always been so ready to touch her when it had been dark, and they’d been in the pool house. After that it had been oh so easy to agree with anything he’d said.

Liam had begun to tell her how to dress, and how to act. He’d become the person she couldn’t wait to share the secrets of her life with—the girls she couldn’t stand, and the boys she wished might like her better. It had been so strange. During those nights he would hold her, pull her to his lap, sometimes run fingers through her hair or sometimes, more times than not, place little kisses on her lips as his fingers had quickly found her legs and then so much more.

She would sometimes even wish that Liam might one day need her as much as she needed him, but he would always only touch her while trying to get her to talk about kids her own age, so she’d done just that. Maybe that had even been why she’d told him all about the boys she’d kind of liked yet really hadn’t. Yes, that had to be exactly why she’d told him everything.

He’d returned the favor. It had taken a while, but he’d finally done it, January instantly sure it had made them close—bonded, as one—for forever.

He’d told her all about how his father had been from Brazil, but his mother had been Irish. He’d even shared so much about how after his parents had died, he’d been raised with his mother’s family in her country. It had been why he’d spoken as he had.

This revelation of Liam—his life, his everything—had been the reason behind why January also adored Irish poetry, and Brazilian soccer, Irish liquor, and most every Brazilian athlete who knew mixed martial arts. He’d been hers—his life assuredly made only for her to lose herself inside of—and sex with him had somehow felt way too soon, yet not nearly soon enough.

However, and to go back to being honest, January really hadn’t known what was going on. His kisses had just become hungrier—his fingers more exploring—until one evening she’d simply lain back and had let him consume her. It had been what she’d thought she was supposed to do, and she’d even let such thoughts, such weakness—is this love, is his life really mine—convince her that things would never change. She had fully believed she would be able to call him Liam, her Liam, for the rest of her life.

But she’d never let her father know any of that. He didn’t want to know, so why try and explain the affair? And when Liam had suddenly surprised her by renting a place in town so he could stay there during all upcoming visits, yet, more importantly, when he’d said too that they could no longer have any kind of pool house anything because now—just a month after she’d turned sixteen—it hadn’t been right, she’d kept that pain to herself as well.

For a while, it had been an anguish—that vacant pool house so near, yet also way too far, as it had stared at her with such dark and empty eyes. She would run over. Forget Caleb and the corners he could pop out of, or the teasing he might do. She would just rush inside and turn on every light even if that would, most likely, get her noticed as well.

She needn’t have worried. She probably shouldn’t have been worried when Liam was around either. No one had ever popped out of anywhere, and no one had ever stopped by to see what it was she’d been up to.

It had made her brave, and she’d quickly started to slip into the bed she and Liam had shared. She’d wrap herself in silk, hug a few pillows, and try so desperately to pretend the past alive.

But the silence—and the empty…even with the lights on it had always been so empty—had finally crushed her. January had stopped smiling, had also stopped eating, until, out of nowhere, she’d realized something profound.

If people were around, if she talked to her mother, went out with friends, stayed near yet not too near, she could control intimacy. She would still feel pain, but it would be a new kind of pain, some quiet blade no one else could hear, or see, yet she had complete control of.

She liked that. How this blade soon put that empty and silent pool house—why had he left—and any bit of weakness (and who was he with), far into the past. With people around yet kept at just the right distance—they’re getting too close…need to cut them out of my heart—she’d gained so many protective scars while also arriving at yet another profound truth that had slowly been revealed. She wasn’t worthy of love, or forever, and she would never again let anyone trick her into believing otherwise.

But tonight, weakness had returned. She’d already lost control by jumping for the embrace of such a boy, and she’d said Liam—something she truly hadn’t uttered in quite a while—yet maybe that was a sign. Of all the distance she’d ever attained, her father was the one amount of miles she wouldn’t mind crossing. She longed for him to say he missed her, or, perhaps, for him to reach out and take that quiet blade from her hands.

If anything, her father was the one person she would get close to if only he would ask. But maybe she should lose just a touch more control, jump again and hope her father might catch her like Beau already had.

“Daddy, I,” January began.

“Liam,” her father said, “funny you would call him that, he probably would hate how some kid would call him that. Anyway— “

“Daddy,”

“The reason I called,” her father kept on.

He became static, a nonsense January didn’t have to pay that much attention to. There was no catch, there had barely been a jump, and soon January only gave a few grunts—some assurances of how she really would be more than delighted to drop on by a month later for some dinner party to celebrate some new achievement Caleb had attained—before the conversation finally reached a rather abrupt end. She didn’t even register what it was Caleb had attained—another star businessman slash son extraordinaire award, or perhaps he’d finally been crowned president of the world—all she knew was that her father wanted her to dress all soft and pretty so she could be a part of the whole picture perfect image of a picture-perfect family so, of course, she’d said yes right before he’d hung up.

Besides, since she might also catch a glimpse of Liam at that party why wouldn’t she say yes? Any party for anything was always such a nice side-business opportunity as well, and though it would hurt it could still be fun. She would watch whatever new girl Liam had—get cut real deep in the process too—as she allowed so many more protective scars to get inside her heart.

January brought her cell back up to look at its cold black view screen. It was already long dead yet, for some reason, she kept hoping for one more call from her father—just catch me…just once—as Beau was noticed out of the corner of an eye. He was walking slowly back her way with an old man keeping pace at his side, some small yet thick fellow with a heavy leather bag clasped tight in his left hand.

It had to be Mr. Oar, but January quickly let such a revelation slip. No matter how important Oar was something else had to happen first. There would never be that one more call—how could she still be so weak to ever think that—and, suddenly, a month later felt an unreachable eternity. There was no way she could wait till then.

“Jan,” Beau began. “Look who I—”

But January was already pressing a few buttons on her cell, a name in her contact list quickly chosen before she put everything to her ear. She would be using a guy Beau was familiar with, someone he knew she’d slept with before; someone she’d also already promised herself—he was just so arrogant—to never speak to again. Yet Beau’s heart had tricked her into enjoying its sound, and it was also quite unforgivable that he had somehow made her believe that losing control around him was an okay thing to do, so why not use someone she didn’t even like. There was no way her quiet blade wouldn’t cut deep after this.

“It’s Mr. Oar,” Beau continued. He just hadn’t noticed yet. “He surprised me by my car, materialized right out of the shadows and—”

“Yes, yes, I am surprising,” Oar said.

He was a squat Asian fellow, much shorter than January had expected. She was all of five-five and Oar barely made it up to her chin.

But his body, a rolling coil of muscle easily seen through a silk white shirt he was wearing, was intense. He even had hands that were wrinkled and veined a thick black and blue, huge and tough instruments for sure, things hardened from years of work and what January guessed might be the sun even though Oar was supposed to only come out at night.

The artist she’d been expecting was not turning out, in any way, to be what she had imagined. January was even so taken in by him she almost missed it when the number she’d dialed went to voice mail. Suddenly her new guy was saying she should leave a message at the beep, and for the life of her January couldn’t recall what it was she’d wanted to say.

She looked at Beau again. It all came back.

“Antoine,” she saw Beau’s face drop. “Hope you get this soon. If you could meet me at my place at...what time is it?” She looked only at Beau, Oar ignored as she smiled pleasant. She knew Beau wouldn’t have it in him to deny her this.

“Eight,” he said.

She’d done it. Jealousy gone, the sound of Beau’s heart almost forgotten too. “Great,” January said. And she was no longer feeling—with not even the slightest hint of ivy anywhere along her tongue—right? Her heart felt so protected—cut real good—that just had to be the case. “Antoine,” she sighed, “meet me at my place by ten. We’ll have some fun I promise.”

She hung up. Oar was still at Beau’s side, but he was rooting around for something in his bag as Beau shook his head and brought a camera to his eye. He didn’t have the same strap at his neck anymore. The thing he looked through now was something January had not yet seen.

“This is better for the dark,” Beau said. “Do you want me to go for other trees?”

“Sure,” January said. “I have Oar to talk to now so, yeah, go on.”

“Okay,”

“But” January quickly added as she began to realize something strange. She actually still was feeling. Why was that? “But don’t you go too far,” she continued, she couldn’t stop herself, “and don’t…don’t you forget about me while you’re gone, okay.”

Beau didn’t smile. He didn’t even turn to her as he loped off into the night. “How could I forget you,” he said. “You’re the loneliest person I know.”