Blessed Are the Wholly Broken Read Free Page B

her back toward the car, which I’d parked just off of Riverside Drive.
    We’d spent the afternoon strolling around downtown Memphis, listening to blues bands busking in the park. Some of them were quite good, young people close to our age clearly on their way up, while others were older, the years etched into their faces, crashing back to earth after whatever small measure of fame they’d managed to claim had begun to seep away. The juxtaposition of the two ends of the spectrum was sobering, to say the least.
    I was keenly aware in those days that wandering too far into the night could be dangerous. Memphis is a beautiful city in many ways, rich with history and music, but a devastating poverty seethes just beneath the surface, and the accompanying resentments are never far away. Although the evening appeared peaceful, I was eager to get Anna safely back to campus before the last rays of sun disappeared. Given her most recent statement, I was also searching for a way to complete my mission without drawing attention to my motives. To be labeled serious at the age of twenty-one was bad enough; I didn’t want to also be labeled a worrywart. She might be rejecting me, but I’d protect her until the end.
    Luckily, she followed my lead without question, apparently too intent on our conversation to notice I’d quickened my pace. “Of course you’re fun; that’s not what I meant,” she was saying. “Maybe serious is the wrong word. How about earnest? What I’m trying to say is that you’re real, Phillip. I like it.”
    In the beginning, Anna always called me Phillip. I’m not sure when she stopped, resorting to the natural shortening of my name. I know I didn’t notice it until after Jeffrey died, when the act of speaking that extra syllable—when saying anything at all—seemed to require more energy than she could muster. As silly as it may sound, particularly given all we’d suffered at that point, it saddened me, as if I’d slipped a notch in her esteem, no longer worthy of those extra letters.
    But that balmy night in 1989 we were as yet untouched by tragedy; we had no way of knowing what fates awaited us, and I was beginning to feel the stirrings of hope. The night was young, the air was crisp, we had the world before us, and maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t rejecting me, after all.
    I opened the door for her, ever the gentleman, torn between asking her to explain what she meant, and enjoying what she’d said without testing my luck. As I settled myself beside her and adjusted the mirrors, she made the decision for me.
    “You’re different, Phillip,” she said, turning sideways in her seat to look at me, and my heart stuttered from the closeness of her. I could smell her shampoo, and I remember vividly how I’d longed to push her hair back from her face, anything just to touch it.
    She continued, oblivious to my angst. “You’re not like other guys. Like Brian.” That caught my attention, since I’d harbored a secret fear he’d steal her away from me. “I mean, I like Brian,” she said, “but he doesn’t let people get close enough to see who he really is. With you, I feel like I know you. Like I’ve always known you.” She smiled, tentatively at first, and I leaned over to kiss her, one quick little peck before I lost my nerve.
    For a moment we just sat and grinned at each other, until I finally came to my senses and engaged the ignition. I was beside myself with happiness, thrilled to drive down Poplar Avenue holding her soft hand within my damp one. This was a gesture that would become as comfortable to us as the old MSU t-shirt Anna wore to bed long after our graduation. Always, as we drove—crossing nearly all of the 48 continental states at some point during our marriage—I held her hand across the seat.
    This was true even on the day I killed her.
     

Chapter 5:  Summer, 1989
     
    Aside from his rough start at MSU, Brian was overall a good student; he was set to graduate on time