Jacqueline collier

Written in 2024/MAY

I wrote this originally as a chapter in a novel about a man so distrustful that he never wants to become anything more than a stranger. I reworked the chapter into a short story.

I met Edi on the train. A six-hour trip, as far out from Chicago as the trainline would take me. I needed a restart. Two hours in and she took the seat beside me. She was wearing a Wolverines shirt which gave me the impression she’d grown up in Michigan. Guess she got bored sitting by herself, or else she needed someone to keep her awake so she wouldn’t sleep through her stop. Maybe it was the scent of my cologne which lured her towards me, said I reminded her of her brother. Either way, she figured me out the minute she shook my hand. I’m serious, too.

We must have been talking for over an hour, mainly about family. She wasn’t a Wolverines fan, but her brother was. She told me she’d come to the city to say goodbye to someone already gone, and the conversation petered out. Then, when the train arrived at its second-to-last destination—quarter to eleven at night—, right when I thought she was about to walk down the aisle never to be seen again, she stopped in front of me. Guess she didn’t want to lose out on another goodbye.

I was wrong about that.

“This is my stop,” she said. She was lounging around like she was waiting for something, but I was determined not to say goodbye before she did. I don’t know why. “Detroit, huh? Ever seen the Blue Heron Lagoon?” She was getting impatient; I could feel it. Like dust in the air, it was subtle. Suddenly, she stunned me into silence. “You coming?”

I opened my mouth and was ready to tell her I’ve got to get off at the next stop, but it occurred to me that I had nowhere to be and no reason to keep traveling. I got up.

***

I’m in her flat and she’s told me to entertain myself while she finishes folding her laundry. Apparently, she was in the middle of doing it when the telephone rang and she had to drop everything and hitch a ride into Chicago. I don’t know if that’s really what she’s doing right now—maybe it’s an excuse to clean up whatever mess is beyond the living room—but it doesn’t matter. Those sorts of lies don’t harm anyone. And I know the kind that do.

She’s got a nice brown couch, too, but the rest of her furniture is cheap. Most of it looks like it comes from charity shops. I notice a photo of her brother in the same Wolverines shirt she’s wearing now. I feel sorry for Edi. She’s tried to make the place look nice—but I reckon it’s a lot of effort wasted—some places aren’t made to look pretty.

I can hear her humming through the wall. It reminds me of the factory I used to work in—that low, constant hum. An audible forget-me-not. I try to suppress the memory; how everyone turned against me because I was a cog in the machine. But wasn’t everybody? Why was I different? The place caused me a lot of bitterness, but her voice is sweet at least. It is. There’s nothing rough about it. I reckon if she sang me a song, I’d be impressed. But then, I’m easily impressed. But I bet I would be.

I settle down on the couch and I set up the chess set on the coffee table. The pieces spit out dust, the cross is broken on one of the king’s crown, and the checkerboard is scratched with use. I consider my first move. Sometimes you can think too much about what you might do, and you never do anything. Most of the time you need to start small. I hover my hand over the leftmost pawn, but I find that my hand is shaking. Can’t I trust Edi?

A door opens and she walks up to the couch, looking curiously down at me. My eyes are strained with concentration, but I take a moment to relax, to smile. Why wouldn’t I trust her? She’s not out to get me. She’s changed her clothes and she looks perfect in a cardigan. I don’t want to be afraid of her, but I know that the closer you let someone in, the deeper the wound they leave. And I’ve had my trust broken one too many times.

There’s this bewilderment in her eyes, so I ask her if she’s ever played chess before. Her demeanour nearly changes, but, before she lets herself get insulted, she remembers we’re strangers—that I’m genuinely asking.

“Are we really going to play chess tonight, Thomas?” She asks with arms crossed. I can’t really tell if I’ve upset her. If I have, she plays the part of placid like a champion. It comes across like she’s spent years being undermined and she’s gotten to the point where she almost doesn’t care anymore. But she does. And that’s why she reacted when I asked if she knew how to play.

“I like chess,” I tell her while I reset the pieces. She’s shaking her head in amusement. She kneels down and turns the board around so that she has dominion over the black pieces—maybe she doesn’t like representing a damaged king, I don’t know. Or it could be as simple as she doesn’t want to make the first move.

As I plan my opening moves, she does something I don’t see coming. She smacks her horse into the third row, taking me by surprise. But then, I’m not surprised. She doesn’t play seriously. She knows the moves, but not the dance. I don’t object, I let her start.

While I move my pieces into formation, I want to laugh because she’s spent the whole time prancing her horses around. “You’re missing out,” I tell her. She makes a blunder, and my bishop could take her horse, but, for some reason, I let it pass. She doesn’t notice. I think she’s thinking, but not about the game. “You’ve got to move the other pieces, too.”

“But I like horses,” she rebuts, “they’re unpredictable. Everyone else moves in a straight line.”

“They’re as predictable as the goddamn rest of the pieces,” I contend, grinning at her reasoning. “They all operate within a predictable framework. Under no circumstance will your horse move in such a way that I could not have seen it coming. That’s what makes chess so different to real life.” She shrugs my dismissal away.

“They’re the same thing,” she counters, swiping the remaining pieces into a bunch. “Just like chess, you never see what’s coming until it comes. And hindsight always swings by too late.” It goes quiet. She has no idea how painful that was for me to hear. There’s a silence.

“Hindsight haunts everyone, right?” I knew I should have seen it coming when my best friend tried to hurt me due to a sudden change in his politics, but I didn’t. It was hidden in plain sight and it wasn’t sudden. I guess I wasn’t looking for it and that’s why it eluded me, and that’s a mistake I won’t make again. But I don’t want to think about that now. “Yourself included?”

“Certainly. Especially when it comes to family matters.” She closes the discussion.

I look around for things to say, for a distraction. Suddenly, the guitar crammed in the corner pops out. I point to it and ask if she plays. She looks over at it almost wistfully. “Yeah. Mostly I like playing classical melodies on it.” She sees my expression and instantly tries to lower my expectations, “it doesn’t sound good the way I play; I just like doing it.”

She can see that I want to hear a sample, so she gets up—a little reluctantly—and grabs the instrument. She sits stiffly next to me on the couch. She’s slow to tune but does so by ear. Then she starts plucking a piece, and I can tell she’s embarrassed. She chuckles to cover up her chagrin when her fingers don’t hold the strings how she wants. She keeps pausing to apologise when she messes up. I think the tune’s nice, even if it’s laced in error. I think she plays it well. I mean, who the hell needs perfection when good is enough? But, again, I’m easily impressed.

When she finishes, I clap. She wasn’t expecting an applause, and she flinches at the sound, like she’s prepared to defend herself against it. She’s got that bewildered look in her eyes again. She’s ready to say something, probably downplay herself, but I interrupt.

“What was that tune?” I ask her. She’s about to speak again, but I watch her regroup as she registers that my question has nothing to do with her ability. She seems relieved. Gives her a break from her self-deprecation.

“Clair de Lune.” She’s looking at the dents in her fingers which makes me wonder how long it’s been since she last practiced. Now I’m doubly impressed. I grab her hand and pull her to her feet so that we’re standing chest to chest. I press the hand with the flayed fingers to my lips—I think I’d be impressed if she was just pretending to play the guitar. I think I’d let her impress me for no reason at all.

“Clair de Lune,” I repeat. She rolls her shoulders back and I’m starting to think that her air of bewilderment is a permanent affixture. She’s got an honest smile. Lonely but genuine. I brush my fingers through her auburn hair, allowing it to hang over her back. It only just reaches her shoulder blades.

“Can I give you some advice, Edi?” I ask, and she’s tangling her fingers through mine. She nods, but I’m not convinced that she likes the idea. “You ought to be more proud of yourself.” The way she exhales says she doesn’t believe me at all. “You’re incredible.” She tilts her head away, but I pull her closer. I make sure she’s looking at me and I tell her again.

“I’m ordinary,” she uses humility like a weapon against herself.

“Not to me.” She wants to reject my words again, but I think she recognises that I’m not lying. She lets me kiss her.

***

She’s lying on my chest, her humming muffled by my flesh, and I’m feeling horrible because I’m going to have to disappear and she’s going to think it’s her fault. And if I just had a little more courage, I might have been able to risk another betrayal for her, but I’m too afraid of giving her the chance. She’s deep in thought, too. I’ve noticed that—she hums when she’s thinking.

There’s a crack in her throat and she sits up, her auburn hair spilling over my face like blood. I’m suddenly unsettled by the scrutiny in her eyes, but I don’t let her notice. I go to say something but this time she beats me to it.

“You’re not all here, Thomas,” she tells me. I react by drawing my hand across the side of her face. I didn’t expect to feel so much tension behind it—I feel sorry for her, sorry that she brings herself so much trouble. Then she says, “It’s like there’s a shade cloth behind your eyes, keeping the light in,” and I look at her blankly. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a set of words so gracefully cruel. I sit up and try to come across like I’m unaffected, but I think she knows. Now she’s the one looking sorry for me.

“Should I leave?” I can’t figure out where I went wrong. I tried to be what she deserved, even if I knew it was temporary. She sighs and leans over me to reach the nightside lamp. It flickers as the light swashes over us.

“You already have,” she says. I’m struggling to understand what she means. I grab her hand but now my affection comes across as a burden. She pulls away. “You’ve had one foot out the door this whole time.” The worst thing is, the water’s rising behind her eyes. It crushes me, seeing how upset she is. I hate that I’ve let her down. And I know she’s right about me, too, but I still want to prove her wrong. Not because I think I know better, but because I wish everyone would treat her with the adoration she deserves. More than I was able to, at least. But it’s too late for that, and I know she’s right. She’s really clever, too, but I bet nobody takes the time to let her know.

She’s started crying like a child now, and I know it’s not just because of me, but I’m the catalyst. I try to comfort her, but I realise I might be the wellspring of her discomfort. But I can’t leave her like this. Her breath is shallow, she keeps gasping for air. “It’s okay,” I whisper, “it wasn’t fair what happened to your brother.” She jolts when I bring him up—must have surprised her that I’ve been carrying pieces from our conversation on the train with me. She tries to hold back her tears so she can speak, but she doesn’t have the strength. “Don’t say anything, it’s okay.” I draw my fingers through her hair again and decide that auburn is my favourite colour.

It’s a long time before she’s able to take command over her body again. The early morning quiet cloaks us. I watch her quivering lips until they make a sound. “I can’t decide if I want you here or not,” she confesses, her wide eyes capturing and rejecting me. My body stiffens.

I get out of bed and start fixing up the blankets. She watches me like what I’m doing is obscene—maybe it is, I don’t know. I grab my watch from the bedside table and fasten it to my wrist. I put on the clothes I left on the floor.

“Are you seriously going to go now?” Her voice croaks with the resonance of imminent abandonment. And I now know that what I’m doing here is wrong—I should at least stay until daylight—but I’m already so ashamed of myself. Adding a new count to my transgressions won’t make the slightest difference. “Please!” She begs with a voice so weak it makes me feel sick. “Please! I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Goodbye, Edi,” I say, kissing her cheek—a godforsaken kiss of betrayal. “That doesn’t mean you want me here.” I can’t stand what I’ve become as I say those words to her, but I can’t do any better. If I ever care too much again, I could be paying the cost.

I leave her home and I’m standing under a cloudless sky.

Under the goddamn clair de lune.