Capítulo 35: Turn off the Light ch.35
"Peter, Leight, thanks for coming," the Captain smiles, but it's all an act.
From where he stands on the grass of an old and mostly forgotten graveyard just across the railroad tracks from a factory, John Smith doesn't look any better than he did the last time Peter saw him.
He looks tired, drawn, weary, worn. He's sporting a black armband on his left arm.
"We wouldn't miss it," Peter smiles softly, with what he hopes passes for empathy.
He's never been much better than Leight at condolence. He feels it, but he can't say it. It always sounds so impossibly stupid, worthless, futile. "You said you wanted our help?"
"Well," the Captain falters, "it turns out there isn't really anything for us to do. I thought there would be. But all the same—"
"You didn't want to be alone."
Peter stares at Leight. He shouldn't be so surprised. When has Leight ever behaved according to Peter's expectations? He bites his lip. He should know better.
The Captain nods. "Can you just—"
"Of course."
So they follow the Captain across the grass while the sun beats down upon them. They stop by the fence.
There's a freshly dug hole, six feet deep. For now, it's empty, but behind it stands a simple gray tombstone, which reads:
RAYMOND FISHER
1977 – 2011
"Not In Vain"
The gathering is small. It seems the Lieutenant didn't have much in the way of family or friends. There's an uncle, who appears to have a great deal of money and raised Raymond after some childhood family trauma that none of them ever could have guessed.
There's Jennifer and David Markoff, who came on behalf of the Captain. Then there's the Captain, Peter, and Leight, who have been standing by the open grave for the better part of an hour.
Of course, now there's also a priest, standing in front of a closed mahogany coffin that shimmers violet in the sun.
"I didn't know him." The priest is old; his voice is as cracked as his skin.
"But from what I've been told, Raymond Fisher was an honorable man and a fine detective who died in the line of duty."
It's a small lie, white and bubbly. It doesn't matter. Let corpses lie.
"I won't bore you with platitudes," thank god, "so now I'd like to invite the man who knew Raymond best to speak." He gestures with his crooked hand to the Captain.
The Captain takes on step forward. He clears his throat, but even so, his voice is rough. "I remember the first day I met Raymond," he says, his eyes trained steadily on the coffin.
"It was twelve years ago. He was fresh out of the Academy, and he'd started there straight out of college. He came into Captain Baker's office on that first day with a smile on his face.."
"I was a little resentful that I'd been partnered with this kid, and I remember telling him that by the end of his first day in Homicide, he'd stop smiling. He told me he wouldn't stop—not then, not ever. I shrugged, and then we got called out to a crime scene.."
"It was a dead girl, five years old, strangled by her own mother. It wasn't a difficult case, and we brought the mother in without any trouble. I remember sitting with Raymond in the stairwell after.."
"He didn't quite cry, but I thought he was going to. I told him that I wouldn't think any less of him if he transferred to a different division. Because him being a homicide detective was like a doctor being afraid of blood. It didn't work. Then he looked at me," the Captain's voice breaks, and he's not quite crying.
"He wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, and he put on this funny little smile, like he knew something I didn't. And he told me that that was why he had to stay—because he felt it more."
"And he did. He felt everything more. He stopped showing it, but he never stopped feeling. He's the only man I've ever known—ever will know—who could smile in spite of the tragedies he saw every day. He didn't change, not in twelve years.
"We used to talk about this," the Captain continues after a brief pause, a deep breath. "We figured we wouldn't make it to retirement alive."
"We thought about what we'd say at each other's funerals and what we wanted said at our own. He said that if he died before me, I had to read this poem. By Emily Dickinson." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, unfolds it, reads:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
"Let it be said," the Captain pushes the paper back into his pocket, "that Raymond Fisher did not live in vain. He may have," he coughs, once, twice, thrice, then presses on, "broken my heart by dying, but he did not live in vain."
The Captain stops, nods, and they all keep staring at the mahogany-violet coffin.
On the other side of the fence, a train speeds by.
.
They go to Café Cairo, everyone but the priest. They sit around a circular table that really isn't quite big enough for the five of them. They sit with their Turkish coffees and buttery pastries. They sit, and they talk.
"It wasn't supposed to happen this way," the uncle, whose name has been revealed as Winston Fisher, says. "I was supposed to die and leave him all my money so he could spend it on frivolous things."
"Raymond wasn't frivolous," the Captain sighs. "He was frugal."
"But eccentric," Peter adds, thinking of the neon yellow shag rug and the lava lamp in the late Lieutenant's apartment.
"Yes," the Captain puts on the barest of smiles, "he was that."
The chatter is harmless. They sing the Lieutenant's praises. Most of it isn't true.
Lies, white and bubbly, but harmless.
The coffee is strong, bitter, dark; it's so difficult to forget.
Best to let them lie.
There's a lull in the conversation, and that's when Leight taps the Captain on the shoulder, murmurs, "A word, John?"
The words are just loud enough for Peter to hear; he realizes that Leight hasn't said anything the entire time they've been here. He watches as the Captain nods, and the two of them make excuses and go off to a distant corner of the café.
They're too far away. Peter can't hear what Leight is saying. He can, however, see Leight's face; the expression has become all too familiar in the last week. It's the guilty frown with the too gray eyes, and everything about it is wrong.
Leight's lips stop moving every so often, and presumably the Captain responds to what has been said. Each time Leight starts up again, his jaw is set firmer, his eyes are grayer, his whisper is harsher.
This goes on, and it's easy to ignore whatever gibberish Winston, Jennifer, and David are speaking.
Then, entirely without warning, the Captain's fist makes contact with Leight's right eye.
"I deserved that," Leight says when he and Peter have safely found their way onto the appropriate subway. "But not for the reasons John thought."
"Shit, Mal." Peter shuts his eyes so he won't have to look at the bruise blossoming on Leight's skin. "What the hell did you say to him?"
"I apologized," Leight shrug, glancing at the empty seats all around them. "I said it was my fault, that it never would have happened if it hadn't been for me, that I was sorry."
He lets out a low laugh. "It's funny."
He looks to the ceiling, stares straight into the fluorescent lights.
"I never used to be sorry about anything. Now I seem to be apologizing constantly, about everything, and people keep telling me it isn't my fault."
"It isn't," Peter insists. He takes Leight's hand in his, laces their fingers.
"So John said."
"What else did he say?"
"That I shouldn't try to take responsibility for the actions of a mad man. What he fails to recognize is that I made the mad man mad. First cause, my fault." Leight shrugs again.
"He told me to give up the Atlas complex. I said I couldn't. Then he punched me."
"Mal," Peter tries again, "this isn't you."
"Well, being myself hasn't exactly produced favorable results."
"Mal—"
"What do you know," Leight puts on the wriest of smirks. "This is our stop."
"Here," Peter says, brining over the sole cold compress he found in the freezer. "Let me help."
"I don't deserve your help. I hurt you. You should hate me; you should—"
"Stop it, Mal," Peter snaps.
He presses the compress to Leight's rapidly developing black eye. He slides to his knees in front of were Leight is sitting on their shabby couch
He takes Leight's hands in his. "What do you want, Mal?"
He looks up at Leight, tales in the guilty frown and the too gray eyes. He sees Leight, and for once, he sees nothing (no one) else.
"Do you need absolution?" he asks softly. "You have it, I swear to god, I—"
"Peter." Leight smiles down at him, eyes full of sadness.
"It won't be enough," Peter says suddenly, epiphany flooding through him. "It won't matter that the rest of us have forgiven you; you can't forgive yourself."
Leight stares down at him, expression thoroughly unreadable. He's a closed book.
"I don't know what to do, Mal. I don't know what to say. I mean, I thought this was about Charlie, but you said it wasn't. You think this is about me, but I know it isn't. But this isn't about anyone but you, is it?"
Leight's eyes flutter shut. "God, Peter, it hurts."
"I know, Mal," Peter whispers. "When it hurts—"
He lets go of Leight's hand and raises his own to Leight's chest, places his palm over Leight's heart.
He feels the beat beat beat against his skin. "That's the proof that it works."
.
When Peter wakes, he sighs. He can tell from the light spilling through the open curtains that it's late afternoon. They're on the bed (he barely remembers how they got there), and Leight is still asleep.
He runs his fingers through Leight's unkempt blonde hair, studies the innocent unguarded expression on Leight's face, finds himself thinking that everything he felt this morning (about fault and Saffron and eggshells) seems so far away.
He keeps close (just a little closer than necessary) and relishes the heat of Leight's body so near his own. It's too hot, given that it's a sunny summer day, and their air-conditioning leaves something (everything) to be desired, but he can't (won't) pull back.
(It's like staring at the sun)
He doesn't get up. He isn't tired. He doesn't want to disturb Leight. He isn't thinking straight.
He doesn't want to.
When Leight wakes, he groans.
Gently, Peter asks, "How's your eye?"
"Swollen shut."
Peter can see that, but he doesn't say so. Even more gently, he asks, "How are you?"
Leight rolls over onto his side. He's facing Peter, staring steadily at him with his good eye.
His eyes are clear. "It still hurts."
Peter nods. "That won't change over night."
"I wish it would."
Peter laughs. "So do I, but it doesn't. It takes time."
"I know." Leight looks solemn. "We'll be okay, won't we?"
"We are okay. You're asking the wrong question."
"Will I be okay?"
Peter smiles. "You're brilliant."
.
..fin..
.
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PENSAMENTOS DOS CRIADORES 
valluca
valluca Thank you for all the love and support you've given to this story. May this become one of many things that make your day.
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