Conversations With Jack and Diane


                              Oh Holy Night

	“Twas’ the night before Christmas, and all through the
house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

	Hey!, wait a minute.  That sounds plageristically familiar.  I
better start again.  Wouldn’t want any copyright problems now would we.  :-)

                                . . .

	The columned portico stood silent and lonely.  The house,
it seemed, was empty save for the telltale glow lingering in the
second floor window.
	“She’s home,” Jack whispered, the cold Kamuela wind
licking at his skin.  “Christmas,” he hissed.  “I fucking hate
Christmas.”
	He drew his collar up about his neck, trying in vain to
ward-off the chill, his legs taking him up the wide expanse of stairs
which lead to the stately double doors.
	He rang the bell.  Didn’t know whatelse to do.  His mind
was swirling, his thoughts ablaze.
	No one answered.  Perhaps she was truly alone.  Not even
the domestic help were about.  Gone home to be with their
families on this Christmas Eve no doubt.
	Jack stood there, images of warmer times mingling into
rivers of tears.  The howling winds taunted him, composing lost
words spoken so long ago.  Molding them into a voice taken from
him forever.
	He never heard the front door open as his body shook
violently, the cold wind, and more so the cold memories, chilling
him to the bone.
	“Oh Jack,” she cried, her voice a mere essence caught in
the marauding gusts.
	She knew what this was about, and she reached for him,
taking his arm and guiding him inside.
	The mammoth doors closed with a heavy thud,
reverberating high up into the vaulted ceilings.  Jack stood
motionless, arms to his side, trembling, a weak smile desperately
clinging to his worn and weary face.
	Diane rubbed his arms vigorously, her own lips trembling
from a combination of the cold winds outside and the weeping that
lingered close in her mouth.
	“Come and sit by the fire,” she offered, forgetting that all
the staff were gone for the night, and there was no fire.  “Damn,”
she snapped, concerned that Jack hadn’t stop trembling yet.  “I
turned the thermostat down on the first floor,” she explained. 
“Come up to my bedroom.”  She took his arm again and walked
him slowly up the marbled staircase.
	The golden glow he had seen earlier instantly warmed him. 
Inside the bedroom a small fire crackled, the howling wind outside
muted to a safe and non-threatening level.
	“Oh Jack,” Diane repeated, sitting him on her bed, her
fingers brushing back his tangled hair.
	He looked up at her, his fox-brown eyes red with
remembrance.
	“I miss him,’ he managed, his voice bearly audible, his lips
still trembling.
	“I know,’ she smiled, her heart breaking as she held him
close.  “I don’t know how I’d survive if I ever lost Becca.  So I
know Jack.  I know how hard it must be.”  She heard and felt him
chuckle.  “Are you laughing Jack?” she asked.
	He broke away from her, standing slowly, his legs weak
with sadness, his lips stretched and teeth bared.  He was laughing
all right, but there was only bitterness in his eyes.
	“How would you know Diane.  How could you possibly
know what it’s like to lose a child.”  He stumbled slightly and she
moved to help.
	“No!” he shouted.  “Don’t touch me!” he spat, his hands
wiping downward from his chest to his waist, hard even strokes, as
if he sought to cleanse something from his body.  His eyes blinked
rapidly, and his lips moved, but he didn’t speak.  Tears welled-up
in his eyes and the frantic wiping slowly ceased, his gaze cast upon
the floor.
	Diane had no idea what to do.  She’d seen him in this
condition before, but never this bad.
	“Jack,” she called softly.  “Jack...”  her words hung for a
moment, searching for connection.
	“Yes...” he answered, his body swaying slowly.
	“What do you want Jack?  Tell me,” she offered.  “I’ll do
whatever I can to make you feel better.”
	He raised his gaze, an almost evil grin taking hold of his
face.
	“Anything?” he queried, his voice still weak.
	“Anything Jack,” she reinterated sincerely.  The grin waned
as a profound darkness drew his features up tight.
	“What’s wrong?” she asked, her own frown deepening.
	Jack shook his head wearily.  “I was gonna say.  In
response to your offer of ANYTHING, that I wanted a good fuck.” 
he chuckled sardonically.  “But all I really want is to be dead...”
	“Don’t talk like that Jack,” she admonished, moving close.
	“I asked you once already tonight, not to touch me,’ he
cautioned.  “You’ll chase him away.”
	Diane’s brow furrowed.  “Him?”
	“Yes him,” Jack nodded, his eyes vacant, as deep inside
himself he held onto his son.
	“I don’t know what to say Jack,” she whispered, staying
back, afraid to approach her friend.
	“Don’t say anything Diane.  Just hold me.”  He held out his
arms.
	“But...” she began to protest, confused by the mood swing.
	“Hold me,” he repeated.  “Quickly!” he shouted.  “He
wants to leave!  Hold me Diane.  Help me keep him with us!”
	She rushed toward him but before she could he pulled the
gun from his jacket pocket and held it to his head.
	Diane stopped short, her cerulean eyes wide with terror. 
“No Jack!” she screamed, rushing forward again.
	He just smiled at her and closed his eyes slowly, his finger
squeezing the trigger.
	The blast was so powerful that Diane could feel the wash
of it on her face.  She reached up with her fingers, touching them
to her skin.  It felt warm and slick, an odd taste accosting her
tongue as she licked her parched lips.  In the golden glow of the
fire her fingers looked purple as she held them before her eyes.
	“Blood,’ she gasped.  “Oh my God!  Blood!” she screamed,
falling to her knees.
	“Oh Jack,” she cried, reaching for his silent form.
	He was still warm to the touch, but she knew he was dead. 
There was no denying it, his brains splattered everywhere.
	She leaned forward, cradling him in her arms, tears
streaming down her face.
	“I don’t want to be here if you aren’t,” she whispered,
reaching for the bloodied weapon.
	With a practiced ease, she pulled back the hammer and
lifted the gun to her temple, closing her eyes, the tears dripping
slowly from her face onto Jack’s sullied skin.
	In a moment of blinding clarity, she squeezed the trigger...

                                 . . .

	“Jack!” she screamed, bolting upright in her warm bed.
	“What’s wrong?” Fred asked, taking his wife into his arms. 
“What’s wrong darling?”
	She blinked here eyes confusedly, desperately trying to
catch her breath.
	“I...I must have been dreaming,’ she offered, sweat pouring
down her flawless face.
	“It’s alright now sweetheart,” he comforted her.
	“Yes,” she breathed.  “It’s alright now.”  She stood slowly. 
“I need to make a call,” she announced.
	“Are you okay?” Fred pursued, his frown one of true
concern.
	“Yes darling,” she assured him.  “I’ll be right back.  Go
back to sleep, I’m fine.  Really I am.”  She smiled down at him.

	Moments later she was in her study, phone to her ear, on
the other end Jack’s phone rang.  He picked it up after the third
ring.
	“Is that you Jack?” she asked anxiously, the Grand Father
clock behind her chiming-in the midnight hour.
	“It’s Christmas Diane,” he proclaimed, his eyes cast upon the
shinning moon hanging just outside the bay windows.
	“I know,’ she answered.
	“Diane,” he whispered.
	“Yes Jack?”
	“I miss him so much,” he offered painfully.
	“I know,” she repeated, tears filling her eyes.
	“Stay with me for a while,” he pleaded softly.
	“For as long as you want,” she promised.

	
                             The End


Unpublished Works © 1998 GJB

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