Gavin Broom lives in the Scottish countryside with his wife and his cat. As at time of writing, he doesn't own a house at the beach. Further evidence can be gathered at http://gavinbroom.co.uk.
A View from a Parking Lot in the Rain (July 20, 2009. Issue 7.)
We all knew it would rain. Days before we saw the forecast, the thought of the trip had been hanging over us like a cloud so I guess it made sense that it would choose today to finally burst.
Despite this knowledge and Marie's gentle nagging, Dad didn't dress for the weather. When we got to the parking lot, he insisted we stayed where we were and he left us in the car while he walked through the downpour, up the hill towards the clutch of chestnut trees. The absorbing rain quickly drained his clothes of color but he held his pace, almost as though he wanted to be drenched. With every care, he cradled the remains of his entire world as though it was a baby.
"We should be with him," Marie said once he'd become lost in the trees, but I was sure she was only saying it to avoid silence. "And he should've brought a raincoat."
"He needs to do this his way," I said.
I stared ahead at the trees that now looked as though they were beginning to sag and melt through the scattered drops on the windshield. Like most couples in this town, our initials were carved up there; Marie's and mine. A promise enclosed in an awkward heart. I wondered if Mom and Dad's still featured there, too, or if their aging tree had long since carried them off to the skies. Perhaps we'd all scratched some sort of enchanted spell that guaranteed our lifetimes together but then, just as I was about to reach for Marie's hand, I remembered Mom and what had brought us here in the first place. Such guarantees were seldom satisfied, I realized and so my hands stayed on the wheel.
As time passed, condensation began to mist up the bottom of the windshield, giving the scene an unnecessary ethereal atmosphere. There was no shortage of ghosts floating around here. They were everywhere.
When Dad finally reappeared out of the trees, our view was almost completely lost through the fog. The urn now hung empty by his side. As he approached, I noticed the reflection of my own face projected onto the windshield, hovering over him, semi-transparent as the last clear spot of glass shrunk against the tide of condensation. When he was no more than twenty feet away, the world outside the car was swallowed up and he disappeared.
That was when I took Marie's hand tightly in mine and I held my breath.
Baby Doll and the 101 (May 20, 2009. Issue 5.)
As usual, Baby Doll doesn’t have a lot to say. Instead, she sits in silence by the remains of the pyre, her skin gray despite the glow that crawls from the embers. Her eyes are fixed and they try to talk but John’s not interested in listening. He’s heard it all before.
Like some decaying guardian angel, Baby Doll follows him everywhere. The others never show up. No matter how many additions are made to the collection, no matter where he goes -- and it feels like he’s spent a lifetime traveling this road -- she’s always there, always with an expression that’s somewhere between surprise and anger; boredom and thought. There’s even a little jealousy in there, too.
Soon, the smell of cooked meat starts to attract hungry animals, so John abandons the ceremony and climbs over the dune back towards the 101. In the darkness, maybe a mile away, a set of high beams stretches out to him like a savior. Baby Doll’s already there, sitting crooked against a tree on the other verge. Shaking his head, he slides the gun, all bloody and sticky, down the back of his jeans and covers it with his shirt.
He hooks out a thumb as the car approaches and winces through the holy glare until it passes, heading north. Just when it looks as though it might not stop, the brake lights ignite.
“Last one!” he shouts over to Baby Doll. “Promise!”
“Don’t kid a kidder,” he hears her say, but they’re words from an age ago, a thousand miles away, a different conversation.
He laughs. “Don’t shit a bull.”
Up ahead, the car idles, its brakes shining red, lighting up the road and giving the cloud of dust in its wake a hellish tinge. In the rear view, he knows he must look like a demon.
She’s lying at the roadside now, still angled and broken and her eyes plead for him to stay. In the glow, he can just about convince himself that although the eyes are dead, they’re filling up.
“Don’t cry,” he says. “You’ll always be my number one.”
He throws the bag on to his shoulder and jogs towards his ride, while behind him, out of sight, Baby Doll starts to scream.