June, Reimagined (77)
But that evening, as June sat like a sentinel on the steps, the band playing “La Vie en Rose,” Matt Tierney appeared, holding a bag at his side and wrapped in a wool jacket as if he fit perfectly into the puzzle of Paris, scarf and all.
He pointed at June’s beret and sweatshirt. “Please tell me you didn’t pay for those.”
“An arm and a leg. But high fashion has a cost.” June stood and wrapped her arms around Matt, pressing her nose into the familiar nook of his neck, breathing him in. Despite nearly two months of silence between them, June had known that, when she called, he would come to her.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” Matt said. “Fucking midterms.”
June pulled back to look at Matt’s jet-lagged, beautiful face. “I almost called Jared Leto.”
“So it’s over then?”
June nodded. She may have left Scotland, but her old life no longer fit either. Going back to the States felt physically impossible, as foreign to her as France.
“What now?” Matt asked.
“Absolution?” June offered.
Matt looked over his shoulder at the church behind them. “You’ve come to the right place.” He extended a hand to June, and she slid hers along his smooth palm until their fingers intertwined. “Let’s go inside.”
In the seven days that June had spent at Sacré-Coeur, she had never once gone into the church. Matt now pulled her toward the intimidatingly large entrance, with its beautifully arched travertine stone columns. Once inside, they walked through the nave and then sat in one of the smooth wooden pews. Overhead an angelic Jesus in white, with widespread arms and a radiating heart of gold, looked down on them. June had never been in a more beautifully intimidating space.
“You want absolution,” Matt said, pointing up. “I hear he’s good at that.”
“How do I start?”
“Jesus always liked a good story, though he tended to telegraph the moral, so his endings were fairly predictable.”
June smiled. “Only you would critique Jesus.”
Matt nudged her. “How about this for a start?” Then he whispered, “Confession time . . .”
June looked at Jesus above her. She took a breath. And started at the beginning.
June now saw death for what it was—a living entity. Death was very much alive in a person, planted years before and watered by moments until it grew to full strength. When June looked back on Josh’s life, she blamed herself for the planting. She had dug the hole with her bare hands, not knowing the blood she would see on them years later.
The entire town of Sunningdale saw Josh Merriweather’s shoulder injury as a tragedy, save one person—the injured. Josh saw it as a blessing. He had lain on the field in agonizing pain and smiled. Most took his silence in the hours and days after the incident as contemplative mourning. In truth, he had spent that precious time envisioning his new life without football. He had always wanted to try acting, but Friday night games interfered with the fall play. And what about a job? Josh was strong and liked to work with his hands. Maybe a landscaping company, or an apprenticeship with a mechanic, or fixing potholes and hanging Christmas lights in the town square on the weekends for the City of Sunningdale.
In a whispered confession one night, when June had been tasked with bringing her brother his dinner and pain medicine and as she set the tray of food on his lap, Josh’s right arm strapped to his body, he told her of his plans, of how one moment had allowed him to reimagine his life.
“Every time I walk onto the field, I get nauseous,” he had said, poking at his lasagna with his good arm. “I hate the lights. I hate the sound of the crowd. I hate the smell of my own damn uniform. Do you know what my first thought was when I was lying on that field?”
“What?” June asked.
“Thank God, it’s finally over. I don’t ever have to play this fucking sport again.”
June took the fork from Josh and stabbed at the food, taking a bite for herself. At her mom’s request, June had been waiting on Josh hand and foot since he’d come home from the hospital. And to make matters even more aggravating, the smell of lilacs was getting to her. One floor below, their house looked like a florist’s shop. Nancy didn’t have enough vases for all the bouquets that had been delivered. She had started to put them in water glasses, but inevitably, some died from neglect. There were balloons and stuffed animals and trays of food lining the freezer. And just that afternoon, Josh’s girlfriend, Siena, had personally delivered her handmade get-well card and a blow job.
“You’re such an asshole, Josh,” June said as she chewed. “Do you know how many people came to the hospital? If I died tomorrow, fewer people would come to my funeral. The house wouldn’t look like this. You have no idea how good you have it. This town loves you. You could be drunk, having sex on a park bench in broad daylight with a girl who isn’t your girlfriend, and no one would care. The police would drive by and tell you to have a great game Friday night. Do you think people will do the same when you’re collecting their garbage for the city? You’re crazy to give up what you have, Josh. Not to mention, it’d be a total dick move to Mom and Dad. And me.”
“What the hell does this have to do with you?”
“Do you think I’d be invited to parties if I wasn’t your sister? I was the only freshman girl asked to homecoming by a junior.”