Page 6 of Whatever Will Be

But I swore this wasn’t a day to brood over fury and revenge and so I won’t.

Just for today.

From my vantage point at the floor to ceiling front window I can see cars beginning to arrive. They soon hog every inch of curb space and eject overdressed occupants who step stiffly across the ice in uncomfortable shoes. They’re all going to the same place; a two story grey shingle house that used to be more impressive before time and neglect had their way.

Jules, for all her big dreams and fancy scholarship offers, never did leave.

I guess she couldn’t.

Sometimes life delivers a hand of really fucked up cards.

As if on instinct, my eyes sharply jerk to the north. This real estate listing had boasted ‘spectacular lake views’ which is a goddamn joke because the lake can only be seen if you stand on a chair in the kitchen and try to squint between the tree branches. On a frigid day of clouds and fog like this one, the lake would be colorless and flat, not even worth looking at. But I have no complaint because I already knew all of this before I offered seventy-five grand above asking price. After all, this used to be my house, the one I grew up in. I’m already familiar with the views from every window so I wasn’t expecting to see water.

I’m sure he can see all the water he wants to see.

His house, built with a stolen inheritance, hogs a big piece of lakefront and boasts a private dock.

This train of thought gets shut off deliberately, before I can choke on my own familiar rage.

It’s time to take a walk down the street. Danny will be around for his sister’s funeral and if he wants to tell me to get lost then so be it.

Approaching empty handed makes me feel like a dick. I probably should have brought flowers anyway, something colorful to battle the day’s ugly grief. The wind chill probably hovers in the single digits and I forgot a jacket but this level of cold isn’t the kind where you wonder if you’ll still be alive in an hour. That’s a kind of cold I’m familiar with, still dream about and wouldn’t wish on an enemy.

No, that’s a crock of shit.

I would wish it on him. His fingers, his limbs and even his cock could turn purple before snapping off and I’d fucking cheer.

The Aaronson house looks worse up close. There are a handful of roof shingles missing and the front porch floorboards are chipped and loose. This is the oldest house on the block and looks the part in a bad way.

Before I climb the wobbly four steps to the porch I watch a pair of people belted into black winter coats ring the doorbell while breathing out frost clouds. The man turns to the woman and asks, “How long do we need to stay?”

“SHH!” scolds the woman and self-consciously pats the coil of blonde hair on her head.

It’s only when they’ve gone inside that I realize I recognize her. We went to high school together. There are bound to be a lot of people here I’ll know. This isn’t a big town.

I hesitate to knock or ring the doorbell. I doubt I’ve ever done either one at this house. The back door leading to the kitchen was chronically unlocked and I’d just walk right through it with no regard for the time of day. Alex Aaronson, sloppily bearded and perpetually snacking on junk food, was a fixture on the living room couch. If he wasn’t passed out with his mouth open then he’d be sweating over the fate of some sporting event on the big screen television because he’d bet money on the outcome. He was never bothered by the sight of me and I’d get waved upstairs to Danny’s room by a chubby hand. Danny’s room was directly across the hall from Gretchen’s and Gretchen liked to keep her door open unless she saw that I was around.

I have no idea why, but at the first echo of my footsteps Gretchen would bolt to her bedroom door and slam it in a panic, like she thought I was lurking nearby just to catch a glimpse of her flat chest and scrawny legs. They were not interesting and neither was Gretchen herself.

I always thought of Danny’s kid sister as an underdeveloped little weirdo who might collapse into a coma if her report card contained a single B. However, I did feel pretty shitty the day she broke down. Gretchen was not a rotten person and it wasn’t her fault she was too fragile to deal with life. Some people just aren’t built to withstand punishment.

At this point I’ve spent so much time standing around at the front door like a half frozen creep that eventually someone else comes along and wants to go inside.

“Excuse us,” chimes a tinkling voice and a set of really old women peer up at me from beneath red wool hats that have been pushed all the way down over their ears. I can’t tell which of them spoke.

“Sorry.” I step to the side and a mittened hand reaches out to press the doorbell.

“We worked with Julianne,” says the woman who didn’t ring the doorbell. Her face creases into a mask of distress. “What a horrible shock. I can’t stop thinking about Caitlin and Mara.”

Neither one of those names mean a thing to me. “Yeah, me either.”

An arctic lake breeze blasts across my back and it has teeth. A flutter of color to the left forces me to notice a pair of pink tricycles I’d overlooked before. They’ve been carefully propped against the porch railing and the plastic streamers dangling from the handlebars are being played with by the wind.

The sight of those sad little tricycles is a crushing jolt. I know without being told that they must belong to Jules’s daughters. They are the most depressing objects I have ever laid eyes on.

With a squeal of old hinges, the front door cracks open. I follow the two women inside because I don’t see what’s to be gained from remaining on the front porch until I’m a block of ice.

The house is packed and all I see are the backs of heads. There’s a low buzz of mournful conversation. The stuffy air that comes from the crush of too many bodies is an abrupt change from the frigid outdoors.

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