Where Silence Gathers (27 page)

I drop into the chair across from him and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Without warning I say, “Joe, I know this is your station and you have the right to play whatever you want. And I respect that, I do. But don't you think Elvis would want you to play other music, too? I mean, so many of his songs were about love and experiences. Shouldn't we be able to learn about that through someone else?”

The old man blinks, as though this is incomprehensible. “Elvis was king, Alex.” He adjusts one of the knobs. “And anyway, I've been running this place for over twenty years. No one's been able to change my mind about this. They've offered me every bribe known to man, to no avail. Why should I make an exception for you?”

The song playing finishes. I twist my lips, thinking of Briana. Change. Some of them come naturally, and some we have to force into being. My mother did tell me that I would change the world. We just have to start with small pieces of it. “Okay, let me put it this way,” I say slowly. “If I have to listen to one more Elvis song, I'm going to get violent.”

Surprise flickers in Joe's gaze … and a little wariness. Though he tries to hide it, the Emotions give it away. Fear winks at me, his near-white hair glowing in the dim lighting. My eyes narrow in response.

“You remind me of your mother,” Joe mutters after an obvious pause. He doesn't sound happy about it. His finger taps the counter beside him.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
. I wait again. Then Joe swings around and switches the microphone on. “All right, folks. We're going to do something a little different tonight, per request of the … feisty Alexandra Tate.” He swivels toward me. “Any requests, kid?”

My heart leaps, and I hurry to tell him the song.

The DJ sighs, reaching for a CD among the stacks in front of him. “Write this down, because it's a historic moment. I'm going to play ‘You Get What You Give'
by New Radicals. This one's for you, Briana.”

Thirty

The next day I find Saul in his office. There are papers in front of him, numbers and words typed across the white spaces, but he isn't looking at them. Instead he's staring at the container of pens next to his hand. Probably worrying or regretting something, as we're prone to do. Entering without invitation, I set the gun down in front of him. “I stole this from your nightstand.”

My uncle takes it wordlessly, and we both study the angles and edges of the gun like it's one of his maps. Something that, even after exploration and discovery, still doesn't make sense. “I'm sorry,” I add. Still he doesn't respond. He doesn't tell me it's okay or ask me why I took it—it isn't, and maybe he's afraid to know—so I find a lifeline for both of us and grab it with both hands. “I was wondering … do you think you could teach me? How to play piano, I mean?”

From behind the desk, Hope grins at me. As her hand settles on Saul's shoulder I remember how she saved my life in the tunnels. I wonder if she has one more miracle to give.

“I can do that,” my uncle says after a breathless pause. He tucks the gun into a drawer and finally smiles.

I nod. “Good.”

We keep looking at each other like we're people with a wonderful shared secret. Then Saul glances down at the papers, and I step away. “Okay, well, Missy is making spaghetti. So I'll see you in a little bit.”

“I'll bring the fire extinguisher.”

I leave him to those pieces of paper. They don't seem so meaningless now. I weave through the pianos, aiming for the stairs that lead up into our apartment. Movement outside the window makes me pause. Angus. He sits on the bench, holding yet another jar. With my hand on the rail I watch him. My first instinct is to go out there and thank him for what he did that night. Something tells me, though, that Angus wants to be alone; the sounds of his parents' latest argument drifts through the ceiling. Listening to them, I realize that some promises have to be broken … and some never should have been made in the first place.

Sunlight reflects off the glass in his hands. For the first time it occurs to me that maybe those jars were never empty. Maybe they hold all his invisible pain. Everyone has to put it somewhere. Someday Angus will have to break those jars and find a new place for it. Someday. Not now.

Missy is standing in front of the stove when I enter the kitchen. She's watching the noodles bubble with rapt attention, and I wonder how long it's been since she dared to blink. Just as I'm about to speak, brakes squeal outside. Missy doesn't move. “Who is that?” she mumbles at the pot.

“It's probably Mark. He's coming over to tutor me, remember?” I go to the window. He's getting out of his truck, shoes crunching on the gravel. As I watch, Mark wipes his palms off on his jeans. His gaze flicks up to the glass, but the sunlight must hide me from view. I hurry to grab a notebook and pen.

“Bring him up for supper!” Missy calls on my way out the door.

The stairs shudder beneath my weight. Hearing my approach, Mark lifts his head, already smiling. The sinking sun reaches for his eyes. Strange that I've never noticed how blue they are before. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you ready?” An Emotion fills the space beside him. There's a pause, and I let my glance flick to her. Hope smiles at me.

I smile back. “Ready.”

Eggs pants in the passenger seat.

As we wind down Briana's driveway, she raises her hind leg to scratch her neck. “You better not have fleas,” I tell her. She just leans out the window to watch our progress.

When we reach the house, I see that there are no other cars besides mine and my friend's. “Stay here.” I shift gears and twist the key in the ignition. My dog snaps at the air, distracted by a fly, and I get out. The soft material of the dress I'm wearing whispers against my skin. Birdsong follows me to the door, which is propped wide open. “Hello?” I call. A fan purrs in the corner. Cautiously I step inside.

“Alex. Come and look.”

Francis. She's in the living room, hunched over something resting on the windowsill. The floor creaks as I approach. She moves so I can see, and there, bursting from the soil, is a white flower. Alive and vibrant and growing. “It's a Peace Lily,” Francis tells me, touching the white petal. “Isn't it beautiful?”

“Yeah, it is.” I study her and think of how many meanings that word has.

There's a sound from the hall, and I glance up. Briana stands in the doorway, watching us. Her hair is damp from the shower. All my carefully rehearsed apologies about the kind of friend I've been fly away. I can almost hear wings flapping. After a beat of uncomfortable silence, Briana inclines her head. I stand and join her. When I reach her side I start to utter those ridiculous words, since they're all I have. “Briana, I just wanted to say that I'm—”

“What if it dies?” she interrupts, her voice sharp.

The flower, she means. I turn to Francis, who's still staring at it. Even after every plant she's watched wither and fade, she still has hope that things can be different. I face Briana again, my own voice soft. “What if it doesn't?”

Briana doesn't respond, and her hand clenches and unclenches. Worry grabs it with both of his, and forces it to go still.

Suddenly Francis whirls, startling us. Leaving the window, she brings the lily over to Briana and kisses her forehead. “I want you to have this,” she says and presses it into her daughter's grasp. Stunned, Briana takes it. Without another word, Francis creaks down the hallway and into her room. The door closes.

There's a long, long pause. When it becomes evident that Briana isn't going to talk about what just happened or what it means, I ask, “Were you listening to Joe's station last night?”

She tears her attention away from the door to look at me. Her grip is white on the potted flower. “Yes. Georgie didn't really give us any choice.” Another Emotion joins us in this small space, but I don't let myself see who it is. I want to ask her what she thought, if it changed anything, if it helped at all. Maybe it was just a song, even if it felt like more.

“Well … ” I clear my throat. “You know I'm not good at, uh, expressing myself. So just know that I'm so glad you're going to college, and I'll think about you every day. And I hope you find a radio station that doesn't play a single Elvis song.” When she doesn't smile back, I make a vague gesture. “Okay, then. Bye, I guess. Good luck with everything. Not that you need luck, you're so good at everything.”
You're rambling
, that inner voice nudges. Right. I swing around and clatter down the steps.

“Alex.”

I turn. Briana smiles, a thing just as fragile as all those flowers. “I kissed Rachel yesterday. Right when we threw our caps into the air.”

A lump forms in my throat. “That's good,” I say. “You'll have to give me the details before you leave.”

Briana nods, still smiling and clutching that lily. “See you soon. And
…
you look beautiful.” She retreats into the house again, but that doesn't matter. It's a beginning, and beginnings are just as important as the endings. I linger for a moment, fingering the skirt of my mother's favorite dress. It still smells like the attic I finally removed it from.

Eggs prances impatiently and I slide behind the wheel.
Home?
her expression seems to ask. “Not yet,” I say. “There's one more stop I have to make.” The engine rolls over after a few tries, and then we're thundering down the road, dust flying up all around. Overhead the clouds are thin wisps, so delicate that one gust of wind could wipe them away forever. Eggs hangs her head out the window, her long tongue flopping out of the corner of her mouth. Slobber splats the seats behind ours, but I don't care. We pass the lake, the general store, the radio station, the school. Until there's nothing but trees and a single sign on the right.

FRANKLIN CEMETERY.

The instant I stop and open the door, Eggs tumbles out in a flurry of legs and gleaming fur. I stretch my arm toward the backseat and grab the box Missy gave me. Butterflies flit through the air and long, golden grass tickles my knees as I trek away from the rest of the headstones, toward a row that stands apart. A huge oak tree towers over my family's graves, the branches twisted and ancient in their wisdom. Kneeling, I dig a hole with my bare hands. Dirt cakes beneath my nails. Once it's big enough, I bury the box containing the flash drive, laying it to rest along with everything else. There. Finished.

I flatten my filthy hands on my thighs and they all gaze back at me.
WILLIAM TATE. TRACEY TATE. HUNTER TATE.
“Love you,” I whisper, my vision blurred with tears. The scents of chocolate and mint drift past, carried by a breeze.

Suddenly Eggs barks, an urgent sound. She stands on her hind legs and claws at the tree trunk. A squirrel titters angrily from the leaves. I glance up at it and start to smile. But then something glints. I frown, looking closer … and the oxygen leaves my lungs.

There it is. Rusted with age, cracked down the middle, so brittle that it looks like it'll never fly again. But it will. Because my father built it, and he made things to last. I jump to my feet and haul myself up the unyielding branches. Each one brings me into the blue, unending sky. The squirrel scurries into hiding, thinking that my outstretched hand is reaching in its direction.

I pull the rocket free, smiling.

About the Author

Kelsey Sutton has done everything from training dogs and making cheeseburgers to selling yellow page ads and cleaning hotel rooms. She received a BA in English from Bemidji State University and lives in northern Minnesota. When Kelsey is not writing or trying out a new career, she can be found in the park with her dogs, ordering a drink at the coffee shop, or browsing a bookstore.
Where Silence Gathers
is her second novel with Flux.