The Line

I recognized him from blocks away; his bright red hair was hard to miss. Already shirtless in the growing heat of the day, he was walking with a couple of bags of concrete slung over his square, lightly freckled shoulders. I dismounted and watched him. He was facing away from me. His worn jeans hugged his lower half in a way that would without doubt stop traffic, if there were any.



I compared my mental image of Jackson to the man who stood before me. They were about the same height and close to the same build; I wasn’t sure who could take the other in a fight. Other than that, they didn’t look much alike. While Jackson had blond curls and classic features—the kind of face you’d find carved into marble in a museum—Peter was a fiery redhead, and his Celtic features were anchored by a strong chin. Like the rest of him, Jackson’s eyes were perfect, a piercing blue the color of a bachelor’s button; Peter had mismatched eyes, one royal blue and one nearly emerald.



Jackson was as close as I had ever seen to the physical ideal, but the truth was that Peter’s quirky imperfections were closer to my physical ideal. He was a fine sight. And I loved him, really I did. Just not in the way I loved Jackson. I felt no new passion for him tugging at my heart. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time.



Peter seemed to sense that he was being watched, and he turned to face me. There was no way I could take off without being seen, so I raised my hand and waved. “Didn’t want to distract you,” I called. He lowered the cement to the ground and walked toward me, the sunlight glistening on his skin.



I had known Peter my whole life. Jackson was a newcomer to Savannah. But when I looked at Peter, I saw a dear and beloved friend, and when I looked at Jackson, I saw a piece of myself that had been missing since birth. I had no idea why, and it frustrated me to no end. I wanted to want Peter. I just didn’t.



“You can distract me anytime you want,” he said with a big smile.



“No, I don’t want to get you in trouble with the foreman,” I responded, unconsciously maneuvering my bike between us.



“He isn’t here yet. He’s off bidding on another project in Isle of Hope,” Peter responded, leaning across my bicycle to plant a quick kiss on my lips.



“I was in the neighborhood,” I said, pulling back. “Ginny has summoned me to the royal court.”



“Uh-oh,” Peter smiled. “What have you done now?”



I started to protest my innocence, but decided it was best not to get into details. “That’s for me to know…” I began.



“And for Ginny to bitch about,” Peter finished.



I laughed, and he placed his large, rough hand on mine. I told myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong by being with Peter. Then my conscience kicked in, and I wondered if I would have already broken up with Peter if I had met Jackson first, if he had looked at me the same way he looked at Maisie. Should I cut Peter loose so that he could find the love he truly deserved?



“Mom and Dad were hoping we would come by the bar tonight,” he said, breaking into my moral quandary. His parents owned and operated Magh Meall tavern. It was not much more than a hole in the wall near the river, a few of blocks away from the treacherous cobblestones of Factors Walk. The bar took its name from the Irish equivalent of the Elysian fields, but the Irish flag that jutted out proudly toward the river was its only sign. So like its fabled namesake, you had to make a valiant effort to find it, or be one of those lost on the sea for life, driven there by some providential wind. A honeyed dark wheat microbrew and a small stage where local talent performed made Magh Meall popular with both the tourists and the local crowd, and on some hot nights, it was standing room only from opening until the arrival of the fire marshal. “I’ve been asked to play with the guys who are performing tonight. I told them only if you were up for it.” Peter was a natural musician. Guitar, violin, you name it. If an instrument had strings, he could make it sing.



I nodded my assent, and he kissed me once more. This time, I let him linger. When he pulled away, I hopped back onto my bicycle and began to pedal away. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was still watching me, his face glowing with the type of love I wished I could give him.



It only took me a few minutes to reach Ginny’s place. She had lived alone all my life. She always lectured the rest of us about the importance of family, but she sure didn’t want to spend much time with us—well, other than Maisie. My sister had spent as much of her childhood in her room at Ginny’s house as she had at the home the rest of our family shared.



I leaned my bike against the live oak that wasn’t yet big enough to completely shade Ginny’s front porch. I was surprised to see that the door was cracked open, and that Ginny hadn’t pulled the shades against heat. Ginny wouldn’t allow air-conditioning in the house, preferring to keep things somewhat bearable, though gloomy, by blocking out the morning light. She had finally capitulated and accepted an oscillating fan into her house a few summers back, but that was only because Maisie had insisted.



I climbed the steps and knocked on the doorframe. “Aunt Ginny,” I called out, but there was no reply. I opened the door fully and stepped inside. “Aunt Ginny, it’s me, Mercy. I’m here. I even got here a little early,” I called out from the narrow foyer.



I had spent a lot of time in this barren entryway. When Maisie and I were children, Ginny had insisted on taking advantage of the yearly break in our formal schooling to teach my sister a witch’s ways. Other than a few family outings like our Fourth of July picnic, she had refused to let Maisie out of sight for very long from Memorial Day until Labor Day. When I’d come over to play with Maisie, Ginny would make me wait in a chair in the hallway until my sister’s lessons were done. That same chair still sat sentinel in the hall, directly across from a blank spot on the wall. I swear Ginny kept that area undecorated with the sole intention of making my wait more painful.



I tried bringing books a few times, but Ginny would always take away the ones she didn’t approve of, which was basically all of them. I tried bringing paper and pencils to draw. “You have no talent, don’t waste the paper,” Ginny would say, tearing my drawings in two. So I’d sit there in that straight-back, wicker bottomed chair with nothing but my imagination to keep me company. It was there that I started making up many of the outrageous stories I now shared on my tours.



I took a couple steps farther in. To the right was Ginny’s rarely used dining room. To the left, a room whose furnishings were so antiquated I could only bring myself to think of it as a parlor. There was absolute silence in the house.



Except for the buzzing of a horsefly. And Great-Aunt Ginny’s discount store clock striking off the seconds louder than a jackhammer striking concrete.



An unexpected odor enveloped my senses. Metallic and alkaline, it was unmistakable, yet impossibly out of place. I registered it as the smell of blood, and then everything slowed way down. I followed the coppery scent into the parlor. There were splatters on the wall. Still red, just turning brown.



Ginny’s body was on the floor, her head cracked clean open. I didn’t feel for a pulse. There was no need. Ginny was still and silent and horrible. I knew she was dead. The top of her skull was lying six inches away from the rest of her. God knows I hated the old biddy, but seeing her here like this…I obviously didn’t know what the word “hate” meant. This here, this picture stretched out before me was hate. There are a lot of gentler ways to take someone out. Whoever did this enjoyed the doing.