Page 32 of Tourist Season
“Jesus Christ, Arthur,” I say, taking his arm to steady him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Crashing this piece of junk,” he says, whacking the crumpled hood with his cane. “What does it look like?”
“On purpose?”
“Of course not.” He stabs his cane into the turf and starts hobbling in the direction of my cottage as though nothing happened. “The accelerator was stuck.”
“Under your foot? Because you were pressing it instead of the brake?”
Arthur grumbles an inaudible reply.
“Where’s your walker?” I ask, surveying the dented fender of his golf cart before trailing after him. A quiet rustle of feathers pulls my attention away to the wall where Morpheus has just landed, shaking out his wings as he watches us with interest. I manage to subdue a groan, but only barely. “Did you leave it in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need it. It will slow me down.” This is never a good sign. When determination to kill makes its way into his bones and roots itself there, Arthur tends to forgo the more cumbersome walker in favor of one of his handmade canes. Especially the one he has now, made of rich red oak with a bronze wolf’s head on the handle. I can see that dark energy coursing through him as hegrips the cane and makes his way toward the garden gate with purpose. I know exactly what he’s going to say before the question even leaves his mouth. “Where is my black bag?”
I swallow and train my face into an innocent mask as he shoots me a glare over his shoulder. “I don’t know, Arthur. Where did you put it?”
“I know you took it. I saw you on the security camera when I looked back through the footage to identify the thief of my Pasotti umbrella.”
“Someone stole your umbrella?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did you find it?”
“That’s beside the point, Harper,” he says as I chew my lip under his sharp scrutiny. “I want my bag.”
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
“Murder,” Morpheus pipes up from the wall. A look of distaste creases Arthur’s features as his foreboding stare slices to the source of the sound. “Pretty murder.”
“Pretty murderbird,” I correct.
Morpheus flies to the peak of the bird feeder, tracking Arthur with his onyx eyes. “Nom nom cookie.”
“Harper. Why do you insist on feeding that vermin?”
“He’s not vermin. He’s a highly intelligent corvid.”
“A highly intelligent corvid who would gladly poke out your eyes if given the chance.” Arthur waves a hand in the bird’s direction, but Morpheus only caws a defiant refusal to be subdued, followed closely by a string of “nom-nom-cookie” requests as we pass the feeder. “I need my bag. I know it’s here.”
Arthur slows as we step onto the flagstones of the patio, halting when he reaches the table. He stares at the cottage. His griploosens and firms around the handle of his cane, his fingers flexing as though he could squeeze the images from his thoughts. He shuffles his feet but doesn’t move closer to the door, his determination slowly ebbing away.
Pain surfaces in his features. Grief is a phantom that never gives up. It never grows tired of haunting our hearts. It clings on, somehow surviving even when other memories drift away. It’s so imprinted on his soul that I think everything else about him could change as his disease pulls his identity apart, and yet it will persist. Maybe it will be the same for me one day. The grief that still clings to me like a cloak might linger on when everything else fades into darkness. The fear too. Terrors that seem carved into my bones.
I hate everything about this moment. I hate the loss Arthur was forced to endure all those years ago. I hate having to hide and not give back the tools with which he copes. I hate losing the friend and mentor I love to such a cruel decline.
I slip my hand into Arthur’s. He startles, but he doesn’t take his eyes from the cottage. His lips press into a firm line as he squeezes back.
