Jasper Jones (38 page)

“Maybe. But I’m sorry. I just am. I feel terribly and I miss her and I
want to talk to her and I feel miserable. I feel awful and rotten inside. I can’t even
breathe
properly anymore. And I’m just … 
sorry.
” Eliza shakes her head, holds a hand to her chest.

“I’m sorry too,” I say. “For everything. For what we did. I don’t know. I know it was the wrong thing to do, but Jasper has this way of pulling you in. I didn’t want him to get into trouble. And he would have, too. He really would.”

“It’s all right, Charlie. I understand, I think. It doesn’t matter anyway. Laura’s gone. She died. And I don’t hate you. I’m upset you didn’t say anything, but I don’t hate you. In a funny way, though, it almost makes me feel a bit better knowing that you saw it. That you might know how I feel better than anyone.”

“I think I might,” I say.

“Do you care about me, Charlie?”

“I do,” I say eagerly. “Very much.”

She smiles flatly and her dimples bud briefly. I blush a little. She pats the grass next to her, an invitation for me to sit closer. I do. Our legs are touching. She leans forward. I lean back and look up.

“Why didn’t
you
say anything?” I blurt out suddenly. “Why didn’t you come forward? Through all the searches and the curfews and the newspaper reports, everything. You had Laura’s letter. You knew where she was, you knew what had happened. You could have stopped everything. You could have ended the whole thing in a day.”

“I was frightened,” she says quietly.

“Of what?” I say.

Eliza shrugs and leans further forward. Smooths her palms down her shins.

“Of your dad?” I ask.

She stays quiet. This seems to confirm it.

I wrestle with my next question. I sigh and tug at my ear.

“Has he? I mean, did he ever …?”

“No. No, he hasn’t,” she interrupts, firm. “And he won’t. Ever. What a bloody
creep
. What a …”

She suddenly shudders and shakes her head quickly, as if to shatter her thoughts back into brittle pieces.

Eliza stands up and shakes the grass from her dress. She turns and offers me her hand. I take it, and she hoists me up. We stand very close to each other. She seems to glaze over, like she’s turned into somebody else.

“Do you know how to waltz, Charlie?”

That curious accent has returned. She holds my shoulder and my hand, placing my palm on her hip.

“No,” I say, looking down at my feet. “I have no idea how to waltz. I dance like a penguin. I just sort of waddle from side to side.”

To my surprise, she rears her head back and laughs theatrically. I have to clutch the small of her back in case she falls. She keeps her smile, and I forget everything for a moment. Eliza takes her hand from my shoulder and playfully pinches my nose.

“You know what’s going to happen to you? I’m going to march you to the zoo and feed you to the yak!”

“The yak?”

“The yak.”

“I didn’t think yaks were that fierce,” I say as we sway on our feet.

“Oh, how wrong you are.”

I smirk to myself and rest my chin on the top of her head. I’m glad we’re dancing, strangely as it’s come about. It’s so nice being able to hold her, to smell her. To move to some absent rhythm.

I feel as though there is some kind of warm spotlight on us, and within this bright circle everything can be all right. I close my eyes and the spotlight stays with me, and it lances into my Manhattan ballroom scene. It settles on me and stays loyal. The presentations are over. The prize was for my father. Their praise was never for me. But here’s the rub: I’ve got the girl. I’ve got her like a skipping ball in a roulette wheel finds its fated number, held there still and safe while the world spins. And we move within this bright sphere like a single thing. People have stopped and they’re watching. They form a ring around us, admiring
how perfectly we move, how graceful our steps are. And I don’t care for prizes or praise, because I’ve got the girl and that’s all that matters.

The bubble breaks when I notice Eliza humming. I open my eyes, back to the gray glade. We’re barely moving now, just shifting our weight in time, lightly stamping the grass beneath our feet.

“Do you ever think of leaving here? Leaving Corrigan?” I murmur.

She nods her head slowly and sighs.

“All the time. I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate this town.”

“Well, maybe we could leave together. With Jasper, when he goes. Which might be soon. I mean, maybe we could go as well. The three of us.”

Eliza stops moving. She stands very still, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Do you mean that? You would do it? You would leave Corrigan?”

“Maybe,” I say. “If you wanted to. I would leave with you.”

She pulls back and holds my shoulders. Her eyes are searching mine.

“Do you
really
mean that?” she demands of me.

“I do. I mean it. I really do.”

“If I wanted to leave, you would promise to come with me?”

I nod, and give a short smile.

She holds my eye a little longer and then lays her face back into my chest and clutches me tightly to her, tugging the front of my shirt. She holds me like that for a long time. I’m unsure where to put my hands. So I run them through her hair. I kiss the barrette in her hair. And I think she begins to cry. She’s shaking softly. Not for the first time, I’m lost for words. But maybe they’re not necessary. I seem destined never to have the right words in me. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s better I stay quiet. Maybe just gently rubbing her shoulder blades is infinitely more useful than saying something right and trite, or reciting some stupid poem. Maybe I’m finally doing the right thing.

We stand like this for a long time. Eliza begins to breathe evenly again. I listen to the clicks and shifts of the bush, like small detonations
in the stillness, and I don’t fret. Everything is dislodged, everything is free of its mooring. But I don’t want to think of anything other than how pleasant Eliza Wishart’s hair smells, how warm her body is. I don’t want to let anything else in. Which seems easy enough to accomplish in this little patch of earth. It’s so private and sovereign here, so timeless and hushed and sheltered, it’s easy to forget the cold inclemency you’ve stumbled in from.

It’s leaving that seems the hard part. Heading back into it. Which Laura couldn’t do. She couldn’t ever go back, so she made sure she stayed.

Eliza breaks away. She takes my hand and she leads me toward the tree. She ducks and kneels at the hollow. Curiously, I’ve never seen inside it until now. Jasper has made it his own. He’s carved shelves into its walls, where he keeps all manner of items. Tins, tinder, cooking utensils, enamel mugs and plates, cards, pencils, tobacco, tea and sugar. There’s even a little Spanish guitar hanging from a railway nail high above me.

She crawls inside, still holding my hand. I follow, feeling as though I’m encroaching. Like I’m stealing a space that isn’t mine.

Eliza lies down. I do the same. We huddle together. I’m anxious and stiff, but Eliza wriggles her way into a comfortable position. She puts a hand on my chest and leans her head on my shoulder, and she whispers:

“Let’s don’t say another word. Go to sleep.”

I frown. Sleeping is the last thing I’m capable of. And, in a way, I don’t want to slow the whirring in my mind, lest I have to really consider all that’s come and all that’s coming. I don’t want to think about what we do now. Laura’s letter, Eliza’s account. Surely that clears Jasper Jones. But if we come forward with all this, what will happen to me? What will happen to Eliza? Will Jasper keep his word and keep me safe? Will Eliza even talk? And what might it visit upon her father if she did?

And what if we stayed silent? What if this place kept its horrible
secret at the bottom of its deep well? And if we walked away with it, kept it locked up? If we never breathed a word, would anything change? The mystery would evolve into a pile of lies that are bound to become truth anyway. And nobody would ever be burdened by the knowing.

What would my father have done? Or Mark Twain? Or Atticus Finch? It’s likely they wouldn’t be in this mess. But I’m not them. I’m an idiot. And a child. And I’ve done this all so very, very wrong.

I must have slipped away for a time, because I jolt awake upon hearing footsteps. Eliza is heavy on my arm. She doesn’t stir. But I freeze as a shadow is cast over us.

“Jasper?” I whisper.

“
Charlie
? What is
she
doing here? What have you done? What have you said?”

Eliza starts. She grips my arm and shunts back, kicking her feet. Something drops from the shelf and clatters. A fishing lantern. Jasper shows a palm and tells her to calm down. I feel like I’ve been caught out. Jasper looks hostile.

I emerge from the hollow.

“You broke your promise,” Jasper says plainly, standing over me.

I’m about to respond when Eliza steps out and interjects.

“No he didn’t.
I
brought him here.”

“
You
? Bullshit. How?”

“Jasper, she knows some things,” I say.

“Things? What
things
? What have you tole her, Charlie?” His lower jaw juts out.

“Not from me,” I say, my hand on my heart. “She knows, Jasper. What happened. She
knows.
”

“What, and you dint tell her nuthin?” He regards Eliza edgily.

“Well, no. I didn’t have to.”

Jasper takes a step back, still looking at Eliza, more uncertain now. “What d’you mean? What does this mean? Why is she here, Charlie? You shouldn’t’ve brought her here.”

“You’re not listening,” Eliza says. “He didn’t bring me here. I know the way. I’ve been here before. I followed you.”

“
Follered
me? When?” Jasper looks suspicious; he glances from her to me. My heart has kick-started and it’s revving hard. It’s all about to come out again. I’m afraid of what Jasper might do. Eliza reaches into her shallow pocket. She extends her hand. Blankly, she tells Jasper that she’s sorry. She took something that wasn’t hers. It was meant for his eyes.

Jasper shifts his weight from side to side, like a boxer. He looks at the square of paper, but he does not take it.

“What is it?”

“It’s a letter. From Laura.”

He kicks his chin up and folds his arms.

“What does it say? I can’t read it. It’s too dark.”

I stay quiet. I glance at Eliza. She looks the strongest here by far. She holds his eye. She takes a breath. She keeps the paper closed. And she tells Jasper Jones all that she told me. It’s worse knowing what’s coming, knowing how it ends.

And Eliza doesn’t curb her bitterness. She doesn’t conceal a thing. It’s clear she’s still angry at Jasper Jones, despite what I said to exonerate him. But she spills it all, down to Laura’s feelings of hurt and betrayal. Jasper stands and receives it, still and quiet.

He doesn’t react, not a flicker or a twitch, until Eliza recounts that horrible moment when Laura swayed back and fell. Then he moves. He shuffles, he slopes back. And his shoulders, broad for so long, they dip and round, and he cups his mouth and his nose, like he’s caught a sneeze, and he just slowly backs away, clearing his throat and groaning, staring at Eliza Wishart. I watch him the way you would a cornered animal. I can’t help but crouch slightly. And then he bursts. Snaps like a trap. He breaks out and I flinch as he runs past us both and dives straight into the waterhole with a sharp crash and he disappears, leaving nothing but ripples.

Eliza and I are motionless. We watch the surface grow smooth. He
hasn’t come back up. What is he doing? How deep is he digging? He’s not coming up, he’s not coming up. For a moment, I think of him tying his own leg to that rope and I panic. What has he done? I look at Eliza. Then back to the water. Frantic, I tear out of my shirt and I shuck off my shoes and I drop my glasses. The ground is cool as I cross it, and I dive into the darkness, I follow Jasper Jones. I kick and I flail, carving my arms into the murky water, but I’m getting nowhere. I can’t see. My air is spent. Just as I wriggle to ascend, I am clubbed in the jaw by something unseen. I thrash at it, afraid. But it grips me by the arms and drags me up with it. And when we get to the surface, Jasper Jones gags and gasps for air and he holds me to him, hard. We clutch each other, kicking under the surface, churning at the water. I cough hard, hoarse and ratchety. Jasper tugs hard at the hair at the back of my head, grabs it in his fist and pulls my head toward him so forcefully I think he’s trying to drown me. And he bites down on my shoulder and I dig my nails into his slick back. And I know him. I
know
him, and it’s the saddest thing of all. As the lost boy who has lost everything. And as much as I was always aware that he was Randall McMurphy and I was every bleating, frightened barnacle that clung to him for their share of counterfeit boldness, I know now that he needed me in this too. Not because I’m smart or reliable or loyal or good, but because he needed someone, anyone, so he didn’t have to be alone with it. He sought me out, he came to my window that night, because he was shit-scared and he didn’t have a clue what to do. That’s all. I think he saw my lamplight and he was drawn to it like an insect to a bulb. He had to share it, to spill some of it over with someone he felt he could trust. He couldn’t hold it alone, he couldn’t go through it alone. He couldn’t drown Laura alone, couldn’t face Jack Lionel alone.

And if Jasper Jones is just as scared as the rest of us, I wonder if I’ll ever be without fear. But then I think of Jeffrey Lu, and our discussion about Batman, and the light that Mark Twain had shone upon it. Maybe it’s not about being without it. Maybe it’s about how well you walk with the weight. It makes sense to me now. That’s what courage
is. Bruce Wayne is still afraid, but he gets it done, because he’s bloody Batman. But for the rest of us, it’s working out an honest way, that’s the trick.

But how? How to balance it all out, between the blues and the Mean Reds? See, it seems to me there’s a familiar fork: you can either learn about things and be sad and restless, or you can put your head in the sand and be afraid. But maybe that’s where Eliza Wishart comes in, to level it all out with love. And look. She’s here, now, standing on the edge of the dam.