-1-
“World, Inc ?” Mira suggests.
“Lame,” Sev responds.
“Hey, how about Backslash!” Zain adds. “Like, just the symbol.”
“No. We need something kind of edgy,” Sev tell us. “Maybe something from a movie ? The winners in 08 were We Wear Pink on Wednesdays.”
“How about The Motherfucking Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane,” I throw out
“We’ll put it in the maybe pile,” Sev says, hiding her laugh.
Fact: The only thing worse than working in a team is coming up with a team name.
What was supposed to be a 30 minute meeting to pick our team name had turned into an hour long brainstorming session . We’d run the gambit from the witty E=MC Hammer and Red Hot Trivia Peppers to the desperately obvious 7 FOBS and a White Girl.
“You guys are taking this too seriously,” Morris says walking past us with tonight’s till. He let Sev keep the Thinking Cup open late so we could have a team meeting, but I could tell he was getting restless now. “In 40 years of the competition no freshman team has ever won, so you’re name doesn’t have to be memorable.”
“Afraid of the competition, boss ?,” Sev challenged him.
“Oh, god you’re in this too ?,” I roll my eyes.
“Third year’s the charm.” He quips. “We’re called Hell Yeah Skip’s Army this year, based off the guy who lead the first winning team. He died this year so we may get some sympathy points--,”
“Ooh, wait I like the idea of naming us after someone or something that’s gone,” Sev says.
“How about our social lives ?,” I throw out. “Binge Drinking, En Memorium !”
The door to the Thinking Cup swings open and Morris is about to tell the customer we’re closed but he stops himself and does that stupid guy acknowledgement head nod.
I turn around to see Jonah Morrow at the door, his face is bright pink and he’s out of breath. He scans the empty café before looking back at me.
“Did you run here, man?” Morris laughs
“Yeah…I had to…park the van…three blocks up.” He pants and turns around in a slow circle.
The Unamed Team is just staring at him, Morris puts his hand on his phone that he keeps on his belt. I know he TAs for Jonah’s Dad and knowing the dork Morris is, I bet he has Morrow’s number on speed dial.
“You alright ?,” Morris asks
Jonah nods and gives that Jonah Morrow Everything-Will-Be-Alright smile.
“Maybe you can help,” Sev calls to him. “We need to think of someone dead to devote our team name too.”
I wonder if we’re both thinking of the same person, but he doesn’t make any kind of eye contact with me.
“Well, um I really miss my Prius-- “ he starts
“Death by Drunk Taus,” Morris quips.
“Corinne,” Jonah says and finally looks at me. “I need to… ask you about something.”
Something was off, but I wished he hadn’t decided to do this in front of the group. I knew this was about Abigail, but I’d need a lie to tell Sev later. I didn’t want her or any of her friends to get the wrong idea.
Still, I’m glad to leave and pull on my bubble jacket and backpack.
Jonah attempts a casual good-bye to everyone in the coffee shop, but I can feel Sev ‘s suspicion. He starts at a brisk pace up the street and I follow him the three blocks to an ugly van. The doors are from a different car entirely. Jonah opens the sticky passenger side door for me and slams it quickly before ducking into the front seat.
He doesn’t start the engine, he just pulls out his phone for light.
“Okay, what the hell is up with you ?” I ask.
“Corrine, I know how Abigail died--”
“What ?,” I think I shriek. “ When? How--”
“This morning. I couldn’t get my mom’s car until now and I wanted to tell you in person--”
“Oh my god, Jonah ! We need to find Abigail--”
“No,” he says. “ We can’t tell her… yet. I don’t think she should know.”
“Jonah, I told you, you don’t get to decide what she knows about herself--”
“No, Corrine you don’t get it,” he sighs. “ She-- I think Abigail killed herself.”
My heart stops.
“ I think she jumped off the Strauss bridge and into Plymouth Bay,” he finishes.
It didn’t make sense.
“No way,” I tell him. “We went through the papers you don’t think they’d report if someone jumped off the bridge in the middle of campus--”
“The city and the media have this agreement where they don't report on any bridge suicides so people don't get ideas.” he explains.
My eyes feel damp.
Not Abigail, the girl who wanted to be alive so badly.
“Do you have proof ?”
“Well, there’s this journalist, Morton Gates he was going to do a story on bridge suicides when he was hit with a cease and desist letter. Out of respect he never finished the story, but he read a quote from one of his sources in this documentary. The source survived the jump and described it as cold, peaceful and scary…just like how Abigail described her death. Not to mention she appeared on the bridge—“.
“Fine” I say harsher than I mean to. “ So what if she did ? Jonah, we still have to tell her”.
“I know,” he said. “But we should also be able to tell her more. Like her last name or who she was. I want to talk to Gates, he must know of someone who can tell us something. Are you going to come with me ?”
I pause, still taking it all in.
“I just…,” I start. “I can’t believe she’d do that to herself.”
“That’s the other thing,” Jonah says quietly. “You know the poets she admires; Emily Dickinson, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath,Elan Browning ? They all committed suicide.”
***
-2-
“Shit!,” Jonah swears as the van lurches and we go up on the curb.
“I miss your Prius.” I try lighten the mood.
He silently reverses the van harshly and attempts the space in front of The Bostonian again.
I pull on the suit jacket he gave me and it’s actually a little small on me. Which is embarrassing considering it belonged to his mother. But, I didn’t have one of my own and we both needed to look somewhat professional.
Last night was hard, I’d been on edge thinking Abigail would pop up and I’d end up telling her what we found out. Only I hadn’t seen her, which made me afraid that maybe she just knew and was angry with us.
“So ,what’s our story ?,” Jonah asks when he finally gets the van in the space.
“We’re students. End of story, let’s just be as honest as possible.”
“You don’t know his type,” he tells me. “People who used to be the best in their field need to be flattered, they’re mostly arrogant assholes. Let’s say were grad students studying his work.”
“I am not lying,” I tell him. “Let’s just ask our questions, we don’t have to tell him anything.”
“Fine,” he agrees.
The Bostonian office is inside of an office park just outside of downtown Boston. The building is a walk up and the directory leads us up 2 flights of stairs to get to their floor. Jonah pushes open the door and the office is practically empty. There are a few people sitting in cubicles in the back , but the receptionists desk looks like it’s been empty forever.
I notice a display case near the front filled with shiny trophies, including an Emmy.
Jonah hesitates for a moment, then nods his head to the right. I follow his gaze a glass enclosed office with Morton Gates name out front. Jonah sighs and walks straight to the office, no one tries to stop us or ask questions.
He knocks softly on the closed door and after a few moments, Morton answers. He looks like he’s been a Morton his whole life, he’s older and round with salt and pepper mustache. When he sees me, he gives me an extra smile.
“I’m sorry, did we have an appointment ?,” Morton asks.
“Um, kind off. I left you a message last night. I’m Jonah. This is my friend, Corrine..”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. My, if I had friends like you in college,” he says with a chuckle to me. “Are you at Eastham as well ?”
“Yeah,” I answer
“Smart too,” he adds. “Now, Mr. Morrow I can’t help but to think I know your name.”
“My Dad donates to the Bostonian foundation a lot. He appreciates your work, and so do I,” Jonah explains.
Kiss ass.
“Right, right,” Morton remembers with a flick of his hands. “Aris Morrow. You know your father got the Pulitzer the year my former editor at the Globe won. You come from a great family.”
Morton turns to me and raises his eyebrow.
“You should hold on to this one,” he quips.
I make a point of rolling my eyes.
“Yeah, um, like I said in the message…we came to talk to you about that story you never got published The Last Fall.” Jonah continues. “Because…one of our old friends is…missing. We think they may have jumped--.”
Morton’s eyes light up
“Now, how do you know about that one ? That story had to be before your time,” Morton asks.
“The documentary they made of you, I just saw it and you mentioned it as the story you wish you’d published.”
He nods his head and walks us further in the office.
“Yeah, those Waverly County officials were a piece of work. The bastards threatened to sue me if I didn’t follow the media guidelines and not discuss suicides. Said they were trying to keep the numbers down. Lucky for them I was a pushover back then--”
“I don’t get it,” I speak up. “If jumping off this bridge is so common how come no one just talks about it ? How is this not an epidemic?”
“Exactly, sweetheart!,” he booms and turns to Jonah. “That’s why I wanted to do the story. Nowadays people kill themselves everyday, it’s not the news it used to be.”
“Well, Mr. Gates,” Jonah starts.” We really want to find out if our friend jumped. It would have been recent can you give us some advice--,”
“Did you check missing persons ? That’s what some papers code the suicides as--”
“Yes. She wasn’t there,” Jonah responds.
Morton sits in his chair and cradles a phone between his neck and chin.
“You’re in luck Mr. Morrow. I keep notes for all my stories. I’ll have my secretary Marjorie make copies , they’ll have the number for Glenn Masters, the bastard county official that used to handle the Strauss Bridge. It’s been over 20 years, but knowing those bureaucrats he probably still works there.”
“Thank you,” Jonah says.
“Maybe you’ll get farther than we did,” he says. “I can only imagine how the numbers climbed.”
“Mr. Gates,” I ask. “Did you ever figure out why so many people chose that bridge ? I mean it’s not iconic or anything and there are better ways.”
He shrugs.
“You go to Eastham, you’ve seen the bridge. It’s a beautiful last sight,” he says.
He makes a call to his secretary, who I decide not to point out is listed on his directory as an editorial assistant , and he walks us to the door with two identical folders of his notes.
He hands Jonah his card.
“I’d love to do a story on your Dad,” Morton says, handing Jonah a business card with a phone number on the back.
“I’ll make sure he gets this,” Jonah says, but Morton doesn’t let go right away. He starts talking about how much he wants to do the profile and Jonah lingers to listen.
Seeing that Morton has barely acknowledged me while I was in the room I head to the car. Looking through the notes I see an address for the Waverly Parks Department.
By the time Jonah makes it inside I have our next destination in his phone’s GPS.
“You’re not actually going to give your Dad his card are you ?”
He shrugs and starts the engine.
***
It’s a two hour drive back to Waverly in the Boston rush hour traffic. I have to practically stage a hostage situation to get Jonah to stop at Taco Bell. The Waverly Department of Parks closes at 6:00 and we arrive to the sleepy looking row houses that comprised the office just at 5:54 .
I’d called and we’d learned that Gates’ source has retired 10 years ago, but his assistant at the time, Cara Shipley was now in charge and she seemed familiar with what we were looking for, but also completely disinterested.
Not that any of it mattered.
The office had locked up early.
Lazy bastards.
“Shit,” Jonah sighs as we stood in front of the padlocked doors.
“This is a public building,” I mutter. “They should be open until 6:00, just like their damn sign says.”
“I have to get my Dad from campus at 7,” Jonah tells me. “I can come back first thing in the morning--,”
“No.” I say. “ If there is any proof of Abigail’s life or death it’s on the other side of that door and I’m going to find it.
I run back to his van and pull out what looked like a piece of a flexible PVC pipe. I hoped his mother wasn’t attached to it and looped it through the padlock and pull. The lock finds the grooves and pops open.
“Corinne,” he hisses at me.
“Come on,” I say as the door opens. No alarm sounds.
“What the hell--”
“This is our right as Waverly citizens. We pay for this building, we should be able to enter it.”
“You aren’t a Waverly citizen--”
“Fine. A Waverly citizen and a Waverly expat.”
The building was worse than the Bostonians’s, it was leaking in places and the broken alarm system was hanging from a water damaged wall. I use the directory to find Cara Shipley, Director of Country Landmarks’ desk . Her computer is still on with her browsers minimized.
She’d been posting photos of her daughter’s homecoming on Facebook.
“She might still be here,” Jonah whisper from behind me.
“Hello ?,” I shout, just to calm him down.
There’s no response
“See ? No one is here. I’ll look through the computer,” I say sitting at her desk.
Jonah is standing with his arms around himself looking guilty.
“I don’t like this…”
“Get a grip,” I hiss. “ It won’t take long. We just need to find their records on Strauss. As long as we don’t take anything they can only charge us with trespassing. Don’t tell me your Dad doesn’t have fancy lawyer--”
“If my Dad finds out about this, he will literally kill me. He will literally get a gun and shoot me.”
“Fine wait outside. I didn’t make you come in.” I whisper typing search terms into Cara Shipley’s computer.
Jonah is still for a moment and then bends down and starts opening the cabinets, he thumbs quickly through the files.
“Morton’s notes said they’ve been keeping the same log of the suicides since 1960’s,” Jonah says. “So it’s probably printed.”
I abandon the computer and we carefully open Cara Shipley’s drawers, most of them filled with candy wrappers and pencils. My hands find a thick old fashioned looking purple binder with metal teeth to hold paper and I know this is it.
It’s unlabeled, but I open it to a careful grid with hundreds of names on each page in faded typewriter letters. Jonah sees me flipping and comes over closer.
It’s a simple system, with just a name, age, date and approximate time.
“He was right,” Jonah breathes.
After the 1990’s the names are handwritten, but as I get closer to the 21st century, the names disappear. They are replaced with quick handwritten descriptions or just identifiers. When I find last year I scroll with my finger, but Jonah spots the listing first and put his finger on it.
*2/15/10 | Girl, black hair, 15 -21, Pink coat, black dress shoes
“We need to make a copy,” Jonah says, trying to be calm.
“Fuck it,” I say ripping the page out. Cara Shipley probably wouldn’t notice.
I walk out and I am just so pissed off. Jonah grabs my arm when we are outside I jerk away.
“Corrine,” he says. “This shouldn’t change anything. Why are you so upset ? Don’t cry.”
“I’m not--,” I start, but realize I am. Not sobbing, but my stupid eyes are moist.
I have to think about it. I’m upset for the reason I’m always upset.
“I like her, Jonah.” I say. “She’s weird and too nice and too positive, but I like her…and she killed herself and there is nothing I can do about it. How are we going to tell her ?”
He doesn’t answer, but just starts the car. I turn on the radio, but it doesn’t pick up anything. I press the play button on the CD and it plays piano music. The music is soft and quiet, it fits the backdrop of the day.
“I like this song.” I tell him, just to say something.
“It’s Matty,” he says taking the CD knob. “You should hear the last track. It’s less melancholy.”
The song switches to a song that is still piano, but it’s a more upbeat modern song with a bass guitar in the background. It feels like a power ballad and I do like it. It makes me feel better.
“The violin is about to come in…” he tell me.
“Is that you ?,” I guess.
“No, it’s still Matty.”
I smile when I notice he is playing the notes on the steering wheel.
***
-3-
Jonah drops me off at my dorm and we agree to meet in the morning to figure out how to tell Abigail.
Sev has a late class so I turn to the rock station on the radio up and for the first time I notice the strings in my favorite Bon Jovi song.
Is Anyone Anywhere Happy ?
Is still written on the dry erase board on my room door. I pull my sleeve down to erase it.
“Hey!,” I hear Abigail’s voice under the music.
I turn to see her sitting on the couch,
I scream.
I can’t even force a smile. I am not going to be able to keep this lie together.
“You don’t like it anymore ?,” she asks and I can’t respond. “Corinne ?”
“Abigail-,” I start but don’t finish.
“It’s okay,” she tells me . “I liberated Anne Sexton’s Live or Die from the library there are some amazing quotes in here--”
“Abigail, why do you like these poets so much ?,” I ask sitting next to her. My voice is breaking.
“I don’t know. Sexton was kind of a badass, writing about all the topics considered taboo, but still keeping it classy--”
“Abigail, did you kill yourself ?” I blurt out abandoning my segue.
I don’t know how long she’s been crying, but there is suddenly a river of tears in her eyes.
“No,” she says quietly. “I would never do that.”
I reach into my pocket and take out the folded up record. She recoils.
“Stop it. I would never jump off the bridge,” she whispers, putting the book down.
That’s strange.
I clear my own eyes and look up at her.
“I never said you did,” I tell her feeling betrayed. “…You knew ? How long ?”
It looks like it takes all her strength to look up at me.
“I remembered the water a while ago, after we went to the cemetery. That’s all though, I don’t know why I—I mean I’m not like that--”
“Maybe you were just sick or something--,”
“I just can’t deal with this.” she says through labored breaths. “I don’t want to talk about this…can we just go back to how it used to be--”
“I don’t think we can--”
“Yes you can. Stop looking into my old life. I’ve completely forgotten it and It must have been awful if I chose to do that. I don’t want to know why I did it---it’s why I never said anything about remembering.”
“What if they never identified your body ? We can give your family closure--”
“I’m not ready. I’m scared.” She quivers. “I don’t like this--”
“I know, but--”
“No. Corinne I can’t. I’m sorry—“
“--Don’t apologize--”
“I have to. I’m sorry. I’m not ready for this. Sorry,”
And she’s gone and so is the book, faster than I’ve seen before.
“Abigail come back,” I shout. “We can figure this out together.”
She doesn’t.
I text Jonah everything and I stay up all night waiting for her.
It’s not until morning I realize my dry erase board has been changed.
----
A/N
So, yeah...I put the cause of her death on the cover image.
Oh, also Elan Browning isn't a real poet...I just couldn't find a male poet who'd committed suicide.