Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(73)
My young neighbor looks up at the sound of my approach. “Wait here,” I say as a greeting, as if he has somewhere else to go. “I have something for you.” Angus remains silent. I hurry up the rest of the stairs and into the apartment. Missy and Saul have gone to bed. His snores and her fan blend together in an odd harmony. I fetch the jar I’ve been saving from my room and go back outside, settling next to Angus. Crickets sing into the stillness. “Here.” I put it into his small hands.
His profile is unreadable. It strikes me, in that moment, that we’ve both changed. Somehow, Angus grew without my noticing. His voice is a little deeper, his limbs a little longer, his scars a little darker. Even in a place that does its best to keep him tiny and broken. With the tip of his finger, Angus traces the ridges that holds the lid in place. He runs it down the side of the glass. Around the curve at the bottom. “Want to take a walk?” I ask him, watching.
As an answer, Angus slides off the step, clutching the jar as if he’s afraid he’ll drop it. I head for the woods, and he doesn’t protest. Neither of us speaks. This time, it’s not because we need a wall to knock on or the wall between us is too thick. Words just don’t belong here.
Old leaves and branches crackle underfoot. My gaze keeps returning to the treetops, hoping for a glimpse of the rocket that’s been lost for so many years. I skim the bushes and underbrush, too, yearning to catch sight of a swishing tail or those familiar floppy ears. There are only shadows and the flickering lights of fireflies in the distance. The stars are out, but they’re locked in a fierce battle with the clouds, making them difficult to see.
We don’t go too far from the apartments. I listen carefully every time we draw near, and when I finally can’t hear his parents arguing anymore, I bring Angus back. He trails after me up the stairs to his front door, all the while staring at his new jar.
I squat so I can see his too-wise eyes. He transfers his gaze from the jar to me. “I want you to remember something, no matter what happens,” I say. Angus nods, and I purse my lips before continuing, thinking of Los Angeles and dead flowers. “Some things change, but so many don’t. There comes a time when you have to stop waiting for it. Okay?”
He blinks slowly, absorbing this. “Okay.”
“Bye, Angus.” Hoping he won’t notice the wobble in my smile, I touch his back as he slips inside. The latch clicks, and I know I won’t see Angus again. Not in this lifetime, at least. For a moment I study the dented doorknob that leads to him and his fragmented world, thinking I should ask Saul to replace it. Then I turn away.
It’s getting late. I should go to bed. Really, there’s so much I should be doing. Calling Georgie, telling my aunt and uncle that none of this is their fault. What I do in the end, though, is drift to my room and take out the present that’s been waiting in my nightstand for weeks. And finally, I open it.
The paper tears easily. A note flutters down into my lap and I pick it up, scanning it briefly. Missy’s handwriting: A place to keep your secrets. The gift is a wooden box, with exquisite, swirling carvings all around the edges. The latch is simple, a golden clasp, and I finger it gently, just as Angus did with his jar. Impulsively, I dig the flash drive out of my bra and put it inside. Nestled in the red velvet, it doesn’t look like an object of unanswered questions or mysterious pasts.
On the desk, my laptop suddenly begins to hum. I lift my head. Everything in my room is so familiar, so safe. The striped wallpaper, the cluttered floor, the tilted ceiling light. Everything the opposite of what my other room was, a few yards to my left. That was a space of light and order and futures. I wish I could walk over to that place, to see it one last time. Strength is easier to imagine than to achieve, though.
It’s strange to think that all of this will be here tomorrow even when I’m gone. I study the stain above me. A muscle ticks in my jaw. “What are you doing here?” I ask without glancing away from it.
Forgiveness sets something down next to my feet. It makes a soft thud. He straightens, and I see that his sleeves are pushed up his elbows, exposing the hard tendons in his arms. “I brought you something,” he tells me. Curious in spite of myself, I lean over to peer inside the cardboard box. It’s … tapes. Dozens and dozens of tapes.
He doesn’t wait for me to ask. “You can listen to them in the car instead of Elvis. Maybe when you leave Franklin.” A ghost of a smile haunts his lips.
Words stick in my throat. I’m never leaving Franklin. I swing my legs to the side of the bed and crane my neck to admire Forgiveness’s face. He’s so kind, so good, so painfully out of reach. His legs are close enough to my knees that it would only take a slight shift to touch him. I don’t try, though. I keep staring, and I wonder why we push people away. There are a thousand reasons, really, but I think the biggest one—the most important one—is that if we don’t, they get close. And then they can see.
Forgiveness abruptly looks away and walks to the window. His stance reminds me of Revenge. Tomorrow. Choices.
“Forgiveness?” I say his name in a whisper. He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening. I fix my gaze on the tapes he brought and wish I could forget the night he read to me. “Don’t come tomorrow, okay?”
No response. A moment later, he disappears. I crawl into bed, clothes and all. My eyes shut, and sleep descends within minutes.