all about them; Erin and the Gentry brothers.
Conway had been Erin’s longtime boyfriend. However it was his brother, Stone, who’d been driving the car when a fatal moment stole Erin from all of us. I’d never been friendly with the Gentry brothers, not even when we were kids. There was something about their family, a dangerous undercurrent of violence and shitty luck that seemed to follow them through the generations. Those two had started going through trouble and girls long before they should have known much about either one. But they’d lived next door to my best friend and she’d been crazy about the younger brother, Conway, for years until he grew into some common sense and fell for her in return. I’d seen them together often enough to erase any doubt that they were truly in love. I even had a grudging kind of respect for Conway. No matter how reckless he and his hell-raising brother were, the way he treated Erin redeemed him a lot, at least in my eyes.
I could still remember the way her eyes shone whenever his name passed her lips, the way she would clasp her hands together and hold them close to her chest as if her heart was bursting.
And I remembered him too, how he would open his arms for her and rest his chin atop her head. Given my own history of romantic misfortunes I was far from an expert but I knew there was nothing fake about what Erin and Conway had together.
Maybe that was why it was so hard to merge the pictures in my memory with the brooding oversexed hood who’d shown up tonight.
For a few minutes I just stood in the middle of the empty kitchen, listening to the sawing sound of Emily brushing her teeth. Eventually I heard the creak of Emily’s bed and the fizzy noise of her sound machine.
This apartment building was mostly full of over-educated twenty somethings determined to prove how non-conformist they were beneath their expensive clothes. There was this guy on the first floor – Frank, I think his name was – who climbed up to the roof at least twice a week and belted out sad jazz on his saxophone. He must have had a bad night because he’d just started playing and the sound echoing through the walls was even more mournful than usual. I’d never met him but Emily had. She said he was an accountant.
The banana bread was still baking so I wandered into my bedroom. Every piece of furniture was a rehabbed item from a downtown consignment store, a far cry from the designer décor of my father’s house. I ran my hand over an antique oak dresser that I’d stripped and varnished. The top drawer tended to stick but fell out completely if pulled too far so I handled it carefully. The object I was looking for was right in front anyway.
I lifted the beautiful wooden keepsake box out and thought about the girl who’d owned it. Her father had given it to me, right before he’d moved out of state with his remaining daughters. I’d tried to talk him out of giving it to me, insisting that such a personal treasure should be kept for Erin’s younger sisters but the man shook his head and pressed it into my hands anyway.
“ You were a sister to her too, Roe,” he’d said and then he kissed me on the forehead like he had probably done for his lost child many times in her young life before she was taken from him.
The box itself was a beauty; hand carved and passed down from Erin’s grandmother if I recalled correctly. An elaborate cross was etched into the center of the lid and even though the Rielo family had never been religious to my knowledge, the box seemed like such a cherished relic that I felt almost reverent whenever I touched it.
Long ago I’d filled the box with all the physical memories I had of Erin. Pictures, childhood notes, wrinkled movie theater stubs, other small bits and pieces that would once have been discarded as trash but now were rare, cherished links to a beloved friend. In the corner was a
Conway had been Erin’s longtime boyfriend. However it was his brother, Stone, who’d been driving the car when a fatal moment stole Erin from all of us. I’d never been friendly with the Gentry brothers, not even when we were kids. There was something about their family, a dangerous undercurrent of violence and shitty luck that seemed to follow them through the generations. Those two had started going through trouble and girls long before they should have known much about either one. But they’d lived next door to my best friend and she’d been crazy about the younger brother, Conway, for years until he grew into some common sense and fell for her in return. I’d seen them together often enough to erase any doubt that they were truly in love. I even had a grudging kind of respect for Conway. No matter how reckless he and his hell-raising brother were, the way he treated Erin redeemed him a lot, at least in my eyes.
I could still remember the way her eyes shone whenever his name passed her lips, the way she would clasp her hands together and hold them close to her chest as if her heart was bursting.
And I remembered him too, how he would open his arms for her and rest his chin atop her head. Given my own history of romantic misfortunes I was far from an expert but I knew there was nothing fake about what Erin and Conway had together.
Maybe that was why it was so hard to merge the pictures in my memory with the brooding oversexed hood who’d shown up tonight.
For a few minutes I just stood in the middle of the empty kitchen, listening to the sawing sound of Emily brushing her teeth. Eventually I heard the creak of Emily’s bed and the fizzy noise of her sound machine.
This apartment building was mostly full of over-educated twenty somethings determined to prove how non-conformist they were beneath their expensive clothes. There was this guy on the first floor – Frank, I think his name was – who climbed up to the roof at least twice a week and belted out sad jazz on his saxophone. He must have had a bad night because he’d just started playing and the sound echoing through the walls was even more mournful than usual. I’d never met him but Emily had. She said he was an accountant.
The banana bread was still baking so I wandered into my bedroom. Every piece of furniture was a rehabbed item from a downtown consignment store, a far cry from the designer décor of my father’s house. I ran my hand over an antique oak dresser that I’d stripped and varnished. The top drawer tended to stick but fell out completely if pulled too far so I handled it carefully. The object I was looking for was right in front anyway.
I lifted the beautiful wooden keepsake box out and thought about the girl who’d owned it. Her father had given it to me, right before he’d moved out of state with his remaining daughters. I’d tried to talk him out of giving it to me, insisting that such a personal treasure should be kept for Erin’s younger sisters but the man shook his head and pressed it into my hands anyway.
“ You were a sister to her too, Roe,” he’d said and then he kissed me on the forehead like he had probably done for his lost child many times in her young life before she was taken from him.
The box itself was a beauty; hand carved and passed down from Erin’s grandmother if I recalled correctly. An elaborate cross was etched into the center of the lid and even though the Rielo family had never been religious to my knowledge, the box seemed like such a cherished relic that I felt almost reverent whenever I touched it.
Long ago I’d filled the box with all the physical memories I had of Erin. Pictures, childhood notes, wrinkled movie theater stubs, other small bits and pieces that would once have been discarded as trash but now were rare, cherished links to a beloved friend. In the corner was a
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