Smokescreen

Welcome to my first completed short story.

He knelt on the damp ground and flicked his lighter open and closed. The flame burnt his fingertips, but he took no notice, focused instead on the images flooding his mind. How she cut his hair too short the first time, fresh out of cosmetology school- Let me buy you a coffee and I’ll forgive it­- the first date and those after; Las Vegas, endless bright lights promising happiness at the bottom of a bottle or down a church aisle. She had laughed as he slipped the ring on her finger- they were still babies, scarcely over twenty. The apartment, its broken hinges and leaky faucet, and the rusted car; she insisted on the piano, so they bought the car second-hand.  

He envisioned her pale hands dancing across ivory keys to weave a story of great love, and also great sadness. Strains from Swan Lake still echoed in his mind as he stared at what lay before him. He struggled to recall how he arrived where he was, and what had happened during the interim.  He remembered leaving Oregon three years previous, and he remembered the return; but what he saw before him, so harsh and cold, made him question every memory in between.

---

Oregon’s morning haze still brushed the evergreen trunks as Lincoln Walker shuffled along the empty highway, eyes downcast. He cut an unusual figure, all gawky limbs and too-long neck, too-big ears covered by straw-colored locks in need of cutting. His faded red Converse kicked small pebbles, making a sound like radio static. In one spidery hand he held an unlit cigarette; the other twirled a chrome Zippo lighter with surprising elegance. 

At first, he heard nothing but the wind and his own footfalls, but soon became aware of an engine in the distance. He glanced toward the sky and squinted at the sun, then behind him, where the car grew visible. He lifted a hand to wave and once it reached him, the car stopped. Rust marred its turquoise paint and a crack ran along the passenger side of the windshield.

The passenger window rolled down and the petite redhead driving yelled out to him, “Get in the car, stupid! Let’s go.” She pulled aviator sunglasses from her face and peered at him.

Lincoln flipped his lighter open and touched the flame to his cigarette. He lifted it to his lips and inhaled. She sighed and wheeled the car onto the shoulder, tires crunching on the asphalt. He studied her as she pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out. The wind blew her hair into her face, and she lifted both hands to tie it back before leaning on the hood. 

“Well?”

“Hi, Alexi.” He took another drag from the cigarette as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim shorts. She looked away, lips pursed, then back at him.

“That’s it? ‘Hi, Alexi?’”

He shrugged. She got back in the car and slammed the door. The engine sputtered and coughed into life. Alexi rolled the window down again. “Get in the damn car, Lincoln.”

            Smiling to himself, Lincoln acquiesced, and she pulled back onto the highway. “Lincoln Walker, I cannot believe you. What were you thinking? Hitchhiking from Texas to Oregon? Have you lost your damn mind? You could have been kidnapped! You could have been killed! Don’t you watch the news? Or movies? It happens all the time…some idiot goes and accepts a ride with some stranger who turns out to be a psychotic serial murderer and then they get killed and dumped in some landfill. You couldn’t have taken a plane or something?” She glanced at him. “Put that thing out, Linc, or open the window.” She trained her attention on the road again and added, “I thought you quit.”

            “I did,” he said. “And then I quit quitting.” He rolled the window down and dangled his arm outside to flick ash from the tip of his cigarette. “You look good, Alexi.”

            She scoffed. “Yeah, well, compared to the last time you saw me, anything would look good. I made death look good.”

            “I mean it.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Lincoln tossed his cigarette out the window and lit another. Alexi’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You need a haircut,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“When we get home, I’ll cut it for you.”

“Alexi-”

“Don’t argue.” She glanced at him again, green eyes piercing. “You need it.”

Lincoln smirked. “Same Alexi.”

“Sometimes. Not always,” she said, reaching over to turn the radio on. It crackled for a few moments before music began playing from an 80s station. Her nose crinkled in distaste and she switched over to a CD. Soft string music began playing.

Lincoln smiled. “Classical?”

Color rushed into Alexi’s cheeks. “It’s Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake,” she said. She glanced at him again.

“I recognize this.”

“You should. You’ve heard me play it.”

The breeze coming in from his open window tasted like the ocean. It was cooler than the air in Houston, and Lincoln took a deep breath. Alexi glanced at him, a small smile on her face, and her green eyes softened. She took one hand off the steering wheel and placed it over his. He turned to look at her, her tangled curls, the freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks, and then clasped his hand around hers.

Some twenty minutes passed before Alexi spoke. “We’re almost there.”

“I remember.”

“It’s been awhile.”

“I know. But I remember.”

Alexi pulled into the parking lot outside the apartment complex. “Come on. You need a haircut.”

Alexi still lived in their old apartment. Once inside, she ushered Lincoln into the kitchen and sat him in a chair. “Stay put,” she said. She disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. Lincoln looked around. It was much the way he remembered it. Books lay in stacks on every surface, dirty dishes cluttered the sink, and Alexi stuck pink post-its here and there. On one cabinet: “Fix broken hinge.” On the refrigerator: “Need milk,” “Refill meds,” and “Call Dana.” Lincoln stood up, and wandered into the living room.

“Lincoln.” Alexi stood at the bathroom door, scissors and plastic cape in hand. “Come on, I’m ready.” She took Lincoln by the arm, led him back to the seat, and fastened the cape around him.  She disappeared back into the bathroom and returned with a spray bottle and a comb. She dampened his hair, combed through it, and began to cut.

“Not too short,” he protested.

“I know. I’ve done this enough times before. Calm down.”

Lincoln relaxed under the familiar touch of her hand, and for a few minutes only the quiet shick-shick-shick of her scissors broke the silence. “Who’s Dana?”

The scissors stopped. “My shrink.”

“You’re seeing a shrink?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Why?” Alexi tugged his hair a little too hard, and he winced. She resumed her work in silence.

“Why?” Lincoln repeated.

“Because.” She paused, then added, “We’ll talk later, Linc, now let me finish this.”

When she did finish, Alexi pulled the cape off him and shook it out. She gestured toward the bathroom, and he left to see her handiwork as she began to sweep the hair from the floor.

Lincoln flipped the light switch and looked at the mirror. A pink post-it read, “Call Lincoln.” He glanced toward the kitchen. Alexi was still sweeping. He shut the bathroom door and locked it. He lifted a hand to his head, ran his fingers through his hair, and sank onto the floor. A fraction of a memory flashed before him; he had knelt, shaking, on the same cold tile the day the hospital called.

“You should come as soon as possible. She’s had an overdose.”

“What? Is she okay? What’s happening?” His mind struggled to catch up to the words he heard. “Should I…How did she get…what?”

“The ambulance brought her in seizing, she’s in the emergency room now. I can’t tell you much more than that, I’m sorry. It’d be best for you to come.”

 “Lincoln?” He heard Alexi call. “You okay?”

He opened the door. Alexi fiddled with her hair, brow furrowed. “Yeah. You did good. Thanks.” He entered the living room and sat on the sofa. He patted the seat beside him. “Come sit. Talk with me.” Alexi fidgeted for another moment or two, but Lincoln smiled, and she gave in. “It’s been awhile.”

She peered at him. “It has, Linc. Three years.”

“Things are different?”

She smiled and leaned against him. “Some things. Not everything.”

 “You’re seeing a shrink.”

 “You’re still smoking.”

“Your hair’s gotten long.”

Alexi laughed. “So had yours.”

 “You still love me?”

She looked up at him. “Of course I do, Linc.”

They sat in silence again. Lincoln wrapped an arm around Alexi’s delicate shoulders and she relaxed into him once more. “But, you know,” she said, “Dr. Lansing thought I should give up on you ever coming back.”

 “Yeah?” She nodded. “You knew better.” He studied her. “Why are you seeing a shrink?”

Alexi avoided his gaze. She lifted a hand to play with her hair, winding it this way and that around her fingers, knotting and unknotting the strands. “You left me, Lincoln. I was in the hospital, I was sick- I was dying!- and you left me. I mean, I know they called you from the hospital, and I know you came…but then you took off, to God knows where, and I didn’t hear from you for months. And then, out of nowhere, you call. You just…call.” Alexi stood up and began to pace. “Like it wasn’t a big thing, like you were just gone for a day or two. ‘Hi, Alexi. Sorry about your drug problem and abandoning you and everything. Call when you’re ready.’” She grew frantic, tugging at her hair. “Anyone would see a shrink after all that.”

Lincoln gazed at her. “I know.”

Alexi threw her hands in the air. “Then why the hell did you need me to tell you that?” She flopped down next to him and they sat in silence again, marked by the stuttering clock on the wall. Lincoln looked around the living room. His eyes fell on a stack of CDs on the coffee table. He leaned over to pick one up. 

“What is this?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Alexi reached over, took the disc from him, and smiled. “Debussy,” she said. “Piano. I started playing again during my rehab.” She wandered into the kitchen. “Do you want anything? I don’t have much…” She opened a cabinet and peered into it. “There’s some condensed soup. Bread, peanut butter. Spaghetti-Os.” She opened the refrigerator. “Lemonade,” she said. “Lettuce, apples…leftover tuna…that’s probably not any good, actually…”

She fussed around the kitchen for a few minutes. When she reappeared in the living room, she had two glasses of the lemonade and a plate with sliced apples and peanut butter. “Sort of childish, I know,” she said, “but I haven’t been to the store lately and…”

“It’s fine, Alexi. It’s great. Thank you.” Lincoln took one of the glasses as she sat the plate on the coffee table. She rejoined him on the sofa, an apple slice in her hand.

“Tell me about Texas.”

Lincoln took a gulp of lemonade, and then sat back against the faded corduroy of the sofa. “Texas?” he said. “It’s hot. Humid. Houston, anyway. When it rains, it gets even hotter. It’s closed in. Like there isn’t any room to breathe. Not like here.” He paused. “I didn’t like it much.”  

 “What were you doing there, Linc?” she said, her voice soft.

“I was working as a mechanic.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Lincoln sighed and reached for his lighter. Alexi’s nose crinkled but she didn’t protest. He stood up and walked over to the window, then cracked it open and blew a stream of smoke outside. “I don’t know. Waiting, I guess.” He took a drag off the cigarette and twirled the Zippo in his other hand. “My sister lives in Houston. I stayed with her for a little while. She was mad I’d left. Told me every day I should turn around and deal with you, but what could I do? When the hospital called…and I saw you…you were so small, like you would break if I held on too tightly. You didn’t recognize me. You had no idea who I was, or where you were, or why. You looked so lost.”

His voice broke, and he turned away. After another drag off the cigarette, he continued. “So when they said you were going to be fine, I left. And you went into rehab. And because I wasn’t there, you got better.”

   His shoulders began to shake. Alexi watched him, green eyes wide. She rose and took a cautious step toward him. He took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder. She took another step, and another, and then reached to touch his arm. He tensed. She dropped her hand to stop the lighter and then placed it on the window sill. Her fingertips brushed against his other hand as she pulled the cigarette from his pale fingers and flicked it out the window. He shifted to face her. She held his gaze as she took his hand. He hesitated for a moment; then he pulled her into his chest. He laid his cheek against the top of her head and inhaled. She smelled like lavender, like vanilla.

“I’m sorry, Alexi. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She squeezed him. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I tried to do the right thing. I wanted to stay.” He tangled his fingers in her hair.

They stood  together as the old clock beat a syncopated rhythm. Alexi broke the silence. “You’re here now,” she said again.

“Yeah, Alexi.”

 “It’s going to be okay now.” She pulled back to look at him. “Lincoln?” He avoided her gaze. She grabbed his face with both hands; her eyes searched his. She dropped her hands and stepped back. Her brow furrowed; she tugged on a loose curl. She studied him, and his shoulders slumped. “Why did you come back?” He dropped his gaze. “Lincoln?”

“I’m back. Don’t worry about the why.” Lincoln tapped the floor with the tip of his shoe.

She shook her head. “No. Don’t you do that.”

“Alexi-”

“No. You don’t get to do that.” She spun on her heel and stalked down the hallway to the bedroom. The door slammed behind her. Lincoln exhaled. He reached over to the windowsill and picked up his lighter. He glanced toward the bedroom, where faint strains of classical music now escaped. He sighed, put the lighter in his pocket, and strode toward the bedroom. He rapped on the door. The music paused. As he turned the knob and pushed the door open, it resumed.

Alexi sat at her upright piano on the opposite side of the room. Her back was toward him, and her fingers flowed over the keys. Lincoln’s eyes widened. He hovered in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. The music floated through air and wound around his head like a halo. He crept closer to watch her hands handle the complicated pattern of keys. It seemed like intruding on something sacred, the interruption of an ancient ceremony. The music rose and fell in swells, now louder, then softer, increasing and decreasing in tempo. Alexi’s fingers began to slow on the keys as the song tapered to a close, and Lincoln found himself crouched beside her.  

Alexi took a long breath and shifted on the bench. She patted the space next to her, and Lincoln rose to join. Without speaking, she lifted one of his hands to the keys and placed it over her own. She pressed the keys down and a chord echoed in the room. She shifted her fingers and pressed again. Lincoln looked at her, and a small smile crossed her face. She moved her fingers again, and a third chord filled the silence. She dropped her hands into her lap. Lincoln hesitated; then repeated the three patterns alone.

“You just played a basic chord progression,” she said, a small smile on her lips.

Lincoln gazed at her. “Thank you,” he said. 

Alexi shrugged and replaced her hands on the keys. She began a different melody, and after a moment he recognized it. “That’s what you were playing in the car…Swan Lake?” She nodded. Lincoln listened. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before. “I can see why you like it so much,” he said. “It’s pretty.”

“Do you know the story of Swan Lake?” Lincoln shook his head. “There’s this girl, Odette, and she was cursed to be a swan in the daytime, but she meets a prince and they fall in love. But then the prince meets this other girl, Odile, and she and Odette look identical. So she seduces him and they get engaged. And Odette kills herself.” She smiled and stopped playing. “You look better without all that hair hanging in your face.” She reached a hand up to tousle it.

“Why did you stop playing?”

 “Because I was a drug addict.” Her fingers began to dance again. “Why did you come back?”

Lincoln wrapped an arm around her waist. “For you. I came back to be with you.”

            “Are you sure?” she said. Despite her playful tone, her music grew darker, like a warning. “You’re missing something, Lincoln.”

            Lincoln frowned. “Alexi, I don’t understand…”
            She turned to look at him and said, “Think, Lincoln. Why did you come back? Come on. You remember. Now tell me. Why did you come back?”

He stared at her without comprehension. She wanted to pull something out of him; something he knew, but could not recall. A memory flickered before him: A rainy day, black umbrellas, a church…Swan Lake...but…“That can’t be right,” he murmured. “We didn’t get married in a church.”

Her fingers flew over the keys and the music wound itself around them in a frenzy. “This is the part of the ballet where Odette kills herself,” she said. He looked at her as the music grew louder and more sinister, and suddenly saw in her eyes what she had been hinting at. The hospital, the seizures, the phone call.

            He shook his head. “No. No. Alexi…no.”

            A sad smile crossed her lips. “There you are. Do you remember now?” Lincoln stood up and backed away. Alexi bowed her head and continued to play; the music became quieter and more delicate as Lincoln sprinted out of the apartment and down six flights of stairs. Once outside the apartment building, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled out his lighter and a cigarette. With his eyes still closed, he flicked the lighter open and lit the cigarette. His hands trembled as he lifted it to his mouth and inhaled.

            He did not open his eyes as he reduced the first cigarette to ash and lit another. He could still hear strains of Swan Lake; he clapped both hands over his ears. The cigarette dropped from his lips and Lincoln opened his eyes to find tears spilling onto his cheeks, splashing on the ground. He wiped his face across his sleeve and reached into his pocket again. He removed a set of keys and began to trudge across the parking lot.

            When he reached the car with rusty patches and a crack in the windshield, he unlocked it. He sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The familiar sound of the coughing engine shattered on Lincoln’s ears. His hands shook as he shifted into drive and headed toward the highway. He remembered how to reach his destination, although he had been there only twice before. He took a deep breath to steady himself and turned the radio on. Quiet strains of violin music began. Lincoln flinched and shut it off. He rolled the window down and lit a third cigarette.

            Lincoln had chain-smoked his way through three more cigarettes before he drove through the gates of his destination. He parked the car and got out, stepping on his last cigarette. He clutched his lighter and flicked it open and closed again. His feet carried him down concrete paths wrapped around trees and stones. He shuffled to a stop when the car was no longer in sight. He looked down, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the second speed dial. A soft female voice answered, “Dr. Lansing’s office.”

            “I need to speak with Dr. Lansing,” Lincoln said, his voice husky. He told the receptionist his name, and she patched him through.

            “Lincoln.” Dismayed, he found he recognized the voice. “Is there a problem?”

            The image of a small white room flashed in front of him. “I’m not…I’m not sure. I…when did I start seeing you?” A blonde nurse with a syringe to stop the screaming…the screaming? Alexi didn’t scream, she had been quiet in the hospital…and so still.

            Dr. Lansing’s voice was laden with caution as she said, “In 2007. Where are you?”

            “And…how…how long ago was that?” A syringe to stop the screaming- his screaming.

            “Three years, Lincoln. Your sister called. She said you left-”

            Lincoln hung up the phone and knelt on the damp ground. In front of him, smooth granite held an impossible truth:

ALEXI M. CASSIDY-WALKER, 1983-2007