By Katherine Guttman

JP’s hands are shaking. The scars on his hand – where their father threw the scalding water onto the boys when they were just six and eight – glare at me white against his tan skin. He goes to set the coffee mug on the counter but it rattles too much so he clutches it tighter.

“That’s George’s backpack.” He gestures with his chin, then goes to take a sip from the mug and can’t seem to get it to his lips. I take a sip of my tea.

“He didn’t end up going then?” I ask, and rub my back pocket where his note is. The note that ends with one more ride, Bella, until all three of us can go. I love you more than clean whistles and dirty skies.

JP struggles a swallow down. His Adam’s apple bobs, like George’s does when he’s nervous.

“He didn’t make it.”

JP looks sick. I cock my head and pull the mug from his hand. I put both our mugs onto the table. It’s nearly 8 am and so the sun is blinding from all sides, from Forest Street and from the reflection off the roof. If the day stays warm I’ll take Bindle for a long and leisurely evening walk.

“Did he go straight to The Bear, then?” My belly does a little flip. It’s been doing that a lot, lately, but no morning sickness. I smile to Bindle, panting underneath the table.

“No, Bella, he didn’t make it.” JP throws a hand out towards the backpack, leather and the color of molasses, slumped in the chair.

He didn’t make it?

“He misjudged…” JP looks down and I feel my breath leave my body and I drop to the floor, the linoleum floor that George has promised to replace every summer when it gets soft in the heat. Near the stove is the corner I pulled up to look for mold.

JP slides onto the floor as well, so that the table and the chairs and the backpack, George’s backpack, are between us and I can really only see his boots, size 10 like George, but these are regulation police force boots and George’s are Carhartt and lined for cold nights.

“He left me a note.” The words rush from my throat. I pull the note out of my pocket, hold it in hands suddenly cold.

Illustration by Rod Hunting

“He said he’d be back before summer.” I taste metal in my mouth, watch the letter as it seems to waver in the streams of dust particles in the kitchen. “He hasn’t been gone longer than two months since 2000.” I look towards JP’s boots. His head and arms are resting on his knees, his crisp uniform folding and creasing, not crumpling.

I catch my breath. If this is a dream, I will wake and then re-start this day. I will take a shower and get dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt. I will get in the car and drive down St. Johns to the plant. I will park in my spot, go to the locker room and punch in. I will lock my purse and my sandwich in my locker and will pull my uniform on over my clothes. I will pull the slippers on and the hair net on and I will head onto the floor for my shift. I will smile and nod at everyone as they move hands in a blur of blue gloves over the product as it bumps and jiggles along the belt. I will mark numbers on my clipboard. I will go back to the locker room when the break whistle blows and I will know that George is heading to The Bear for his shift.

Except that this is not a dream. Except that he didn’t make it.

“How did it happen?” My voice sounds like my lips feel, cracked and foreign.

JP leans his head back against the cabinets.

“He must have misjudged the jump.” I watch JP’s throat as he talks. “We found him at Coyle Street.” He looks at me, his eyes red like the kitchen’s made of ragweed. “Bella, he didn’t make it.”

I let myself look at the backpack. It is filled with George’s notebooks, his camera, his pens, his travel phone charger (battery powered!) that I force him to carry when he goes hopping. Bindle has snuffled it, his drool leaving wet spots on the leather. I stare at my knees.

“Where’s his sleeping bag?” I ask. Where are his boots? Where is George? I need to ruffle his curls. Smell his smell that even after a double shift at the bar smells like ylang ylang and soap. I decide this is a dream. I know that it is not.

I pull myself up, careful not to fold the note beyond its careful square. It had been underneath our copy of The Dharma Bums on the kitchen table, with a bottle of Three Blind Moose waiting for me when I got home last night.

I stagger to the bedroom, to the bathroom, to the shower to force this away.

“I’ll call the plant and tell them you’re not coming in.” JP struggles through his words, his voice thick. I can not look at him.

“I’m going in.” I wave the words behind me, towards JP still on the kitchen floor.

I’m naked before I reach the bathroom, nearly blind from looking inward, from trying to blank my mind, from taking inventory of my last 24 hours with him. Our long walk along the promenade with the dog. Our trying out of baby names; Henri, Lawrence, Jack. Our wine in the open window, listening to spring try and seep into the breezes.

I turn the water on too hot, then switch it too cold and get in anyway. Once the water hits me I spin the faucet back, leaning against the tiles until my skin tingles back to room temperature. I stare at my hands flat against the tile. The tiny lines, the pores large in the heat, my skin pink against the slick white, is too much like the chicken on the belt I monitor every shift. I stagger to a crouch and vomit up my tea, the half of my toast and egg breakfast I had swallowed before JP came up the steps.

I grasp the edges of the tub. He misjudged the jump? At Coyle Street? He would have jumped the 4:10 as it went past at the bottom of the hill. He would have run from Forest along the tracks, thrown his sleeping bag, then his backpack into an open car, then grasped the rungs and thrown his long legs in. He’d done it a million times. Coyle Street. One block from home.

I got home at 5:40. I changed clothes. I took Bindle out for his evening walk. We crossed the tracks like we did every night.

I grip the edge of the tub harder and vomit again, until I can not feel anything and have nothing left in my stomach.

I try to get angry at George. Angry at a 36-year old who wanted to be a hobo and hopped trains. Instead, I feel empty.

Bindle barks and I turn the water off. I see a shadow in the bedroom and for a moment, my heart leaps. But it is too thick for George, being the more slender of the two brothers.

“Bella?”

I cough in response. I can not find my voice.

“I called the plant, told them you’re not coming in.”

I watch his shadow shift in the bedroom. I hear Bindle panting. I see George’s razor on the counter near the sink. I try not to think of George, lying dying, dead on the tracks as I walked past unknowing in the half-dark of evening.

I lay my hand on my belly, wanting to feel full.

I listen to JP call my sister. I listen to him ask her to come stay with me. I listen to the silence when he hangs up, try to hear George’s things in the house. I will not be left alone. I rub my belly. I am not alone. I pull myself from the tub, pull George’s battered terry cloth robe onto me. Inhale the smell of him. Stagger to the bedroom.

I will sleep for the rest of the day. My sister will come and JP will go to work, glassy-eyed and slow. Our copy of The Dharma Bums will be placed on George’s night stand while I am curled asleep, dreamless beneath the sleeping pills my sister will bring. The dog will get an early walk and my sister will make calls from her cell phone.

I will wake to the bells of the crossing signal. I will wake to blood on the sheets and the empty house will echo with the whistle of the 4:10 train.

Originally published in the “Bells & Whistles” issue of glasses glasses, April 2009.