The Smell of Sorrow

“Shit,” Ray mumbled as he pulled into the empty spot where his sister's car, the one he drove now, usually parked. Miguel and his mother’s car were also in the driveway. Dawn’s sky was a still, blue-glass lake. He pulled out his cell, turned the phone on, and saw over 30 contact attempts, texts, missed calls, and voicemail messages. Their night had been an endless one too. To be, or not to be. The catechism he held last night dissolved. As careful as he might be, he could not drop a single stone into the sky's surface without the waves propagating outward, each small circle ringing into a slightly larger one, an infinite reversal of nesting eggs.

Hope called his name in a sob. “Ray!” She flew out of the house, threw her arms around him, and started crying on his shoulder.

Ray returned her hug. I’m sorry for what I put you through, what I keep putting you through, then he let go. “About the windshield, I’ll get it fixed this afternoon.”

****

Hope held him at arm's length taking in the point of impact, the dried blood, searching his face, reading him. He hadn’t been drinking; his breath wasn’t peppermint schnapps fueled, and when she hugged him, alcohol did not rise from his pores. But something profound had happened. She could see beyond his resigned exhaustion into a hollowed-out core. Reflected there, in desolate arctic eyes, was an unfathomable hopelessness. This wasn’t the time for questions. He was here. He was alive. They had another chance, another hour, another day. “Windshields are a dime a dozen. I only have one brother.”

****

Ray knew she was feigning lightheartedness. Her bloodshot eyes darted away. “Come on, breakfast is in progress. You know how Mom and Gabrielle are when they start cooking and talking. They cannot stop.”

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t refuse either. He didn’t dismiss his sister or turn and head to the garage, as he had so often done.

****

Sometime during the clear morning after the storm, while Leo and Echo explored the property, picking up fallen twigs, sawing up felled branches, and putting the timber into a wheelbarrow to stack in the woodshed, autumn's remaining leaves began to fall. Last night’s wedge twister had shaken the trees in its path with such force that the stalks which managed to survive the night clinging to the branches seemed, in the light of day, to give up from sheer exhaustion. Colored sleeves of silk cascaded from heights, burnt oranges, and apple reds, swirling down, bumblebee yellow and rich merlot, drifting in the air, catching in Leo’s hair, eventually falling around her feet.

She tried to examine what happened with Ray analytically. Other than the fact he was not attracted to her and had never reciprocated her feelings beyond the level of friendship, she also knew what she’d done wrong. When she first volunteered at the shelter in high school, she would often hold the cat or dog she was working with so tightly, the creature would claw and scramble to get away. Over time, she learned how to gauge what an animal needed and how to earn their trust. There was a balance, so they felt secure but not trapped. And there was the lesson she learned from Banshee.

Leo rubbed the scar on her right hand, remembering. Sometimes, what an animal had gone through was too overwhelming to process. She had seen that look in Ray’s eyes the night he walked into the restaurant to pick up a pizza, and she had seen the same in Banshee (who had yet to earn her name) the morning she found her chained to the dogwood tree outside of the shelter. Something inside of them folded up and retreated deep into their interior, where they couldn’t be touched or harmed again. That morning, when Leo gently loosened the heavy chains, quietly talking to the suffering dog, she reassured her, being careful not to make any sudden movements, and the canine seemed to respond. But just as Leo led her inside for the veterinarian to examine her, she turned on Leo. With terrified staccato yelps, the flea-ridden pooch lunged forward and tore into Leo’s hand.

“Who’s wailing like a banshee out there?” Another volunteer ran to help. The dog’s dirt-saturated collar, which had probably been new and bright red when it was put on her as a puppy, had never been loosened or replaced to accommodate her growing neck. Over time, the poor canine’s skin stretched around the collar, which became embedded and required surgery to remove. Banshee took over six months before she could trust again and seemed interested in engaging with the world. With Ray, Leo witnessed a slow transition, a re-emergence of sorts, too. She’d seen him become more comfortable in his surroundings and around her. She felt him open to her, trusting her, and what did she do? She double-crossed him by turning his trust into something he never wanted.

If melancholy had a scent, it would be of fading honeysuckle, or a riverbed gone dry. She carried within her a sadness, a pain, that Echo could smell. Throughout the morning, Echo would sidle up to her, brush against her legs, and look up, her steady golden eyes reassuring and appraising. Each time Echo came to her, and Leo paused to touch her, the perfume of sorrow grew fainter. With a sudden burst of speed, Echo began running through the blanketed woods, dodging trunks, leaping over fallen branches in tight circles, turning on a dime, kicking up pine needles, colorful leaflets, and oxidized dirt, earthborn confetti. Never far from Leo, she raced, all cylinders firing, defined musculature rippling in the light. Pulling up short, she came to an abrupt stop. She sat before Leo, looking at her with adoration and expectation. She panted with exertion, her muzzle open as if in a smile; her golden eyes alight with sheer joy. Leo could not help but respond.

She laughed. “You’re right, girl.” She reached down and stroked the graciously spirited beast, whispering one of her favorite lines from Kurt Vonnegut’s graduation essays: If This Isn’t Nice, What is?

****

Hiram had fallen asleep in his baby bouncer on the kitchen floor. Hope washed the breakfast dishes while Ray dried and put them away, a division of duties they had been doing since early childhood. They worked seamlessly together and in silence. A metal spatula slipped from Ray’s dishcloth and clattered on the floor by Hiram’s feet. His slumbering body startled reflexively, then relaxed. As Ray bent to pick up the kitchen utensil, he could see movement below the lightly veined, paper-thin skin of his nephew's eyes. Hiram was dreaming. Ray looked up at his sister, who was staring intently at him. She was studying him as he had regarded his nephew. At that moment, he knew. No matter how overwhelming or unbearable everything was, his loved ones would never understand. They would take suicide as an act of betrayal. Purposely checking out was not an option anymore. He was defeated before he started, buried under the rubble of a fallen life. But he had no choice. He would have to see this life through, no matter what. He slumped on the floor.

Hope sat next to him. “We’re at a loss, Ray.” She gently rocked the bouncer while Ray touched his nephew’s sturdy but unbelievably small feet.

“I am too.” Ray had never admitted this out loud.

“You’ve been back over nine months, and just when I think you’re getting better when I let my guard down, something happens. I’m terrified. We all are. As rough as this patch is, nothing could be worse than not having you here.”

Just when I think you are getting better. Better? As if what he carried was a predictable disease process that could be scientifically cured or surgically excised. If only. How could he explain how war attaches itself to your viscera like a virus, invading every aspect of your being, all the way down to your DNA? Everything changes, how your mind works and functions, how you perceive the external world, what you believe, and value, and how you simultaneously crave and fear love. In war. to survive, you detach yourself from emotion. Once you return intellectually, you must allow yourself to feel again. But when you begin this process, the losses pile up, loss of the men you served with, the innocent civilians, and loss of self. And this awareness produces such anguish that moving forward is impossible. Time to shut down again. Will I ever get back inside of myself again, and what is the point if I do? Look at how damaged and useless I have become. Even the most basic tenets Ray carried into war, the concept of good and evil, right and wrong, were shredded.

Ray exploded. “You just don’t get it, sis!”

Hope leaned back, stunned. Hiram’s pudgy flesh rolled, his legs flailed, his eyes popped open wide, and he started to cry. Ray’s tone moderated, but he persisted. “Everyone’s life would be better if I hadn't come back. I should have died there.” Ray hugged his knees while Hope pulled Hiram out of his bounce seat and began to soothe him. He wanted to continue arguing with his sister, to point out how their lives would be easier if he hadn’t returned. The days they inhabited would be normal and stress-free if he weren't here. And over time, the memories of him would compress, condensing his existence into an insubstantial footnote. Their suffering, and his, would be erased–the way tight sutures close around a wound. Years later, the only thing left is a faint whisper, a translucent scar.

Hope settled Hiram in her lap and reached for her brother, placing a hand on his arm. “Like it or not, we’re tethered since the womb. If you fall into that dark tunnel, I’ll hold on with all my strength to keep you from hitting bottom. And if you crash, I won’t be far behind. That’s the way we work. But it’s not just about us anymore, Ray. This little guy here, my son, your nephew, is the future.”

Hope waited until he met her eyes. “We can’t do this alone, we’re here for you and will always be, but we’re not enough. We need help. Last night, when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again, I promised the universe that if I had another chance, I wouldn’t waste it, that I would fight for you the way you’d fight for me. I called the Veteran Hospital in Muskogee, and they can help. We have to try this, Ray, please. If not for yourself, for Hiram. We can’t let him down.”

****

Leo sat on the rooftop, surveying the late afternoon, an arm loosely draped around Echo, who leaned into her as if she couldn't get close enough, as if they were one. Leo quietly spoke aloud her inner truths while Echo, with her ever-watchful presence, absorbed. “I miss him, girl. I miss my battle buddy so much my heart hurts. The reality is I’ve been in love with Ray since I was a little girl. I realize that now. But I can’t make him love me. Maybe I’m destined not to have a person in this life, and if that’s how it's supposed to be, I’m resigned. For now, it’s just us girls, a pack of two. But you know the saying—Two is Enough.”

She sighed, grateful for her furry companion, free to come and go as she wanted. This was the way partnerships should be. I don’t want anyone to be with me out of obligation or because of some verbal agreement. Echo was by Leo’s side because she chose to be there. The dog door was always open. There was always food and fresh water in her bowls. Leo knew enough not to deny Echo’s inherent nature and understood how important honoring the creature’s biological imperative was. She was a descendant of wolves, but Echo also had her evolved notion of loyalty and what was selflessly required of pack members. Over the months, a wordless connection developed between them. Daily the bond strengthened–a commitment distinctly theirs, unwavering and reciprocal.

Leo reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell and the photograph from last night. She had folded the snapshot into quarters. She tried to smooth the creases out, but they formed a cross, the arms of which sliced through the families’ faces rendering their expressions unreadable. She had to do something. She knew personal growth and her ability to move forward with her life depended on this single action. She opened the flip phone, her fingers trembling while tapping out a message to her uncle. Before she stopped to think, she hit the send button. —Ready to meet Emily.

Echo’s henna-colored nose, which blended seamlessly with the color of her sleek coat, twitched. She smelled a cottontail; farther down, there was a waft of red squirrel and a trace of mule deer. Echo’s protective instincts had kept her by Leo’s side all day. The immediacy of the hunt was tempered by the presence of a kibble bowl, which was always full. The ping of a text response punctuated the quietude, but Leo did not move to open the message. Instead, she absorbed the calm, regal bearing of the creature by her side. Velcroed together, they surveyed a widening afternoon. And still, the leaves continued to fall.