This little short was written for a story class–it only seems fair to share it.
Enjoy!
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The old oak door thudded shut behind him as he took the stairs, sneakers echoing on the stone. The chill of early morning kissed tanned skin as he left the shadow of the old church, the scent of incense and wood oil clinging to his clothes. Father Mason hadn’t asked for his help, but he’d gotten it all the same. He suspected that the priest was used him showing up at all hours—especially when he couldn’t sleep.
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, glinting off stained glass. He ducked around the corner of the sprawling stone church with its slate roof and wide walkways, past Father Mason’s garden outside his residence out back, jogging to the parking lot. His car stood alone but for Mason’s battered Jeep, one that had seen a dozen years and thousands of miles. It reminded him of his sister’s, though hers was newer. Both had seen the wear of years, showing it in scuffed running boards and scored paint near the wheel wells and bumpers. His own car was much newer, less worn. Non-descript with unscratched silver paint, it was the kind of car you saw and forgot almost as soon as it had gone by, registering only as silver car or fleet vehicle. Perhaps it would have been in another life.
Wind gusted through the old trees as he fumbled his keys from the pocket of his jeans, carrying with it the scent of roses and the salt of the distant ocean, both almost overwhelmed by the smell of the Potomac. Tim McConaway mumbled a curse as he nearly dropped his keys before he jammed the right one into the lock, twisting it and yanking the door open. Maybe his sister was right. He needed to think about keyless entry.
He threw himself into the driver’s seat, the springs under the upholstery creaking softly. The engine grumbled to life as he jerked the door shut. A second later, his phone landed in its usual spot, in the cupholder next to the gear shift, its screen glowing, the white numbers of the time almost accusing as they stared back at him. Five-forty-three a.m., not quite sunrise. The radio kicked on almost as soon as the car’s engine—not his usual news, but classic rock. The sound of it filled the car, just barely audible above the engine’s growl, the first few notes not quite registering until the singer’s voice, mellow with underlying scrape, came over the speakers.
It was the Pretenders, and the song was “I’ll Stand By You.” Something about the words made his throat tighten as he lifted a hand to wave to Father Mason, who stood on the sidewalk near the corner of the church, watching with a faint smile as he pulled out of the lot. Father Mason nodded to him, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing a tattoo of knotted thorns that coiled its way up his forearm like a living thing. No matter how many times Tim had asked about it, Mason had never fully explained. The priest had always found a way to change the subject, to wonder out loud why an Air Force officer with his record always seemed to have so much to confess.
Some mysteries were meant to be left unsolved.
His phone blipped and he glanced at it as he stopped at a stop sign, illuminated by a single streetlight. Up and down the street, bungalows and ranches stood silent, shadowed sentinels beneath old trees, their porch lights off as the sun slowly rose over the river and the trees. It was his sister, answering the hasty text he’d sent before he’d left the church.
“We’ll catch the first flight out,” his sister’s response read. “Give B my love.”
Another song came to mind, almost without prompting, one that echoed words he could barely remember from a winter night now years passed—angel of mercy, how did you find me. He remembered a tiny office at the bottom of a stairwell at Quantico, tension and anger warring in his heart, souring his stomach, and the sound of the door scraping quietly against the floor. The flash of red hair before she’d glanced back over her shoulder to look at him, hazel eyes seeking something he’d suddenly been afraid she wouldn’t find. But there had been other doors since then, other glances.
Brigid O’Connell had never asked for much, not in all the years they’d worked together. What she had asked, he’d always tried to give. He wasn’t sure he’d always succeeded. Now, she was like family—to him, his sister, his uncle. She didn’t have anyone else.
Not anymore. Not yet.
A few months ago, there had been a graveside promise as he’d knelt in the damp earth, water and mud seeping through his pants at the knees, a bare hand pressed against the freshly carved granite of a headstone. That stone, etched sharply, the edges not yet worn by time, marked the life and death of a man who would never know the twins about to be born this morning. On that rainy day in April—on his own birthday—with rain seeping beneath the collar of his jacket to run down his spine in icy rivulets, Tim had promised to protect the family that Roswell Darbin-Kincaid had started but would never know. It was all he could do for the man his best friend had planned to marry.
The streets were mercifully quiet as he drove the few blocks into the rising sun, his heart slowly inching higher in his chest, trying to climb into his throat to choke him. A kid on a red mountain bike rode along one street, delivering newspapers, the white cord of his headphones briefly catching the light of the morning sun.
As he turned the corner toward a row of converted row houses, he could taste the coffee he’d had at three AM, mixing with bile. His heart was beating too fast, the sound thundering in his ears.
Why him, of all people?
He already knew the answer. A promise made was a promise kept.
There was no one else.
Her building was older than his, weathered clapboard siding and brick. A three-story walk-up, like his, but nicer somehow. It seemed warmer, more like a home, with lacy curtains in the window of one of the lower floor tenant’s apartments and gardens in the shared yard out back. Bay windows rose in a column up one side of the front façade. He glanced toward her second floor window as he pulled up. The sheers were drawn, obscuring any view of the interior. It was early, after all, and they were privacy sheers.
He parked in the street, almost haphazardly, between her car and her neighbor’s truck. A pair of joggers went by, their conversation muffled by the sound of their footsteps—a sound so rhythmic and soothing and damnably normal that it ratcheted his anxiety down a notch or two. He swallowed the bile that crept ever higher, sour and burning, as he got out of the car. He left it running as he went to her building’s door, fumbling again with the keys. Their jangling jarred him back into focus and he took two breaths, great gulping gasps of air. Humidity was settling in. The scent of rain was on the wind.
Good, he thought. We need it.
He almost laughed at the incongruity of the thought as he stepped into the foyer.
He took the old wooden stairs two at a time, so quickly they barely had time to creak under his tread. Her door, gray-painted, stood closed, the lacquered two-A reflecting in the dim light of the hall. Reaching for the knob, he glanced away for a second, looking to see if anyone was coming up or down the stairs.
The door opened, and there she stood, red hair bound back into a messy braid, her faintly freckled face pale, jaw set. One arm curled around her distended belly, the silver-gold and sparkle of a ring from the wedding she never got to have catching the light. She wore an old Georgetown zip-up hoodie over a loose, navy blue maxi dress—both gifts from Roswell. Her hazel eyes met his as he turned back from checking the hall. There was relief there.
His heart calmed, if only for a few seconds, and the rising panic started to recede.
“It’s time,” she said, echoing the text message she’d sent twenty minutes before.
“That’s why I’m here.” He reached for the overnight bag that sat at her feet, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he straightened. “The car’s still running. Let’s go.”
