WAS THERE

Ryan drives his Ford Escape off the county highway onto the small square of his once hometown. All is quiet and familiar in the afternoon light—but not the same: the Civil War statue on the grassy median with historical markers, the U.S. and state flags on high flag poles; the small outer shops with parked cars and trucks. He slowly circles the square, recognizing Dino’s Inn and Smith Drugs. The once Shell filling station is a Hands On Car Wash now with soaped windows and no gas pumps. Minnie’s Boutique is a New Life Consignment Store with an Infant Clothes Sale.

He turns down the one way street, past Sal’s Salon and Harris Hardware’s rock warehouse, to the church and church grounds of mowed grass and old oak trees. Ryan parks the Escape between a car and a truck at the curb and sidewalk. He cuts the engine and looks on the red bricked church with a white steeple and white Lilly wreaths mounted on each of the double wooden doors. He thinks of checking his iPhone for messages. But he doesn’t. Remember, you are THEY, Benjamin texted him as he drove. You are THEY.

Instead, Ryan sits and looks at the church, half expecting a choir come marching out the doors in robes behind a cross-bearer and loudly singing something like Gloria In Excess Deo. He takes a deep breath. He and Callie grew up here. They were in the choir. They climbed the trees and they played Hide N Seek. They kept horses on the farm by their houses. They saw each other almost every day. She wore his class ring. They went out on Friday nights. They went to the prom. Even now, he relives conversations with her.

Three years ago, and he feels the shame again. But not coming would have felt worse. Three years ago, he disrupted her wedding, stood up in his parents’ pew during the vows, before the Reverend could say, “speak now,” and shouted his objection on the grounds that he “loved her more”. The Reverend stopped and stared at him. Everyone turned and gaped at him in disbelief. His mother pleaded with him to sit down; his father muttered, “Now here!” But he stood, repeated himself, until Callie gathered up her gown, came down from the altar and hissed “NO” into his face.

A high school friend texted him with news of Callie’s maternal death, the memorial being today. What? his companion, Benjamin, uttered this morning, eyes wide in surprise behind his clear, round lenses; his blonde hair slicked back. You have to go? Benjamin stared at him. They stood in the kitchen, in their coats and ties for work. You have to go? Ryan watched Benjamin’s mouth, slightly open.

“She was a love of my life,” Ryan said. “She was my best friend.”

“Well—“ Benjamin stuttered. “Well, what about us?”

He watched Benjamin’s mouth close. Ryan kissed him.

“You know I love you, Ben. I’ll be back.”

He called the editor at the Tallahassee Democrat and begged off work, filling the car with gas and driving seven straight hours to Springs, Alabama, not stopping unless his bladder made him stop, taking a call of concern from Benjamin on the car screen off his iPhone and then not answering any calls or pinging messages but driving in the lonely fog of numbness and staring at the road, catching himself weeping to sudden songs like “Nothing Compares to you” or “My Heart Goes On” on the car’s satellite radio; visited with constant and random memories of Callie and himself; Callie’s thin, childlike smile; her mild gray eyes; her face as she mouthed words, the way she grinned and tossed her head. That brunette, Korean haircut. “You know me,” she intoned from the song, like a dare. “You know me.”

Ryan’s rumination is interrupted as a middle-aged woman steps out from the doors of the church in grey jacket dress and heels. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief. He doesn’t know her, watches as she goes around the church along the walkway and disappears. He sighs, inspects his tie knot and shirt collar in the car’s rearview mirror. He touches the iPhone in the cup holder (Call me Benjamin messaged on the screen. Call me), but leaves it, lifts the folded, black sport coat out of the front passenger’s seat, opens the driver’s door and steps out, pulling on the coat, brushing off the sleeves. He shuts the car door, locks it on the prim in his pants pocket, steps over the curb to the sidewalk and to the church.

He catches his breath at the double doors, lets it out slowly as he enters on hart pine floorboards to the church’s belfry and baptismal font; everything in calm light from the tall, stained glass windows, each window sill holding white Lilies around a single, standing and unlit candle. Ryan remembers the dual lines of wooden pews and the red runner carpet between them, up the aisle and to the altar. He has driven all day; he’s late. But that’s just the way he wants it. Six or eight people in solemn clothes are gathered at the sanctuary, below the altar, around a center table covered in white cloth with a tall burning candle in a stand before a platinum urn set at the center among three standing, framed photographs. A worn, weed Newsboy hat is set to one side of the table and a classic, cream on black fedora is set on the other side.

Ryan stares. The end of Callie hits him. She’s gone. Tears rush to his eyes and he swallows, recognizing the older photograph of Callie in the short, brunette Korean haircut, her gray eyes and thin, daring grin. He doesn’t recognize the other two: Callie older, thinner, hair longer: one, she’s smiling with lipstick and earrings, in a white, formal dress, holding an infant in bright overalls; the other, a closeup of her made-up face, looking away, posing, calm and contemplative. The stark simplicity of the table setting is striking, solemn. Better than a computer screen flashing images, he thinks.

He realizes Reverend Fields is not there. He sees Callie’s mother, Juliette, to the far side of the sanctuary, in a stark black dress and a grey perm—her face pale, drawn, but, as ever, composed and proper, conversing quietly with a senior woman in a dark dress and hair wrap. He finds Jud, then, in black coat and tie, at the opposite side, near the wall, standing alone, his gaze on the floor, unfocussed, his face pale, too; a dark, mullet haircut jelled and short. Jud lifts his head, sees him, his look freezes. With a pause, he steps down from the sanctuary, marches down the aisle.

“Jud,” Ryan nods. “I —.”

“What are you doing here?” Jud sneers. “You damn queer?”

Jud’s palms come up fast and hard onto Ryan’s chest, shoving him back and off his feet.

Ryan’s back and head hit the floor. A flash of pain goes through his head, an utter comes out of his mouth. He winces and sits up, placing a hand at the back of his head. Ryan looks, the people before the altar are looking at him.

“I-I’m sorry, Jud,” Ryan says. He looks up at Jud. “I came to —.”

“Stop it!” someone says.

Jud glares down at him. “How dare you show your face.”

Ryan sees Jud’s lips press together, a twist of grief come over his face.

“You’re right, Jud,” Ryan agrees, nodding, pressing his hand to his head. “You’re right.

I’m sorry … I —.”

“Stop it!” Someone calls, coming between them in a blur of a navy blue dress.

It’s Annie, Ryan realizes, seeing the face of Callie’s older sister, her face heavier now, her dark hair short, wearing something like a silver heart necklace with family stones. Scarlet lipstick. Powder on her face. She kneels beside Ryan, her gray eyes alarmed—gray eyes, like

Callie’s.

“You okay?” she whispers. “You okay?”

“Get him out of here,” Jud orders.

“Jud,” another voice comes. Ryan looks to his left and it is Juliette, coming slowly down the aisle, large as before; dark eyes, gray perm, black gown, black onyx necklace and earrings. The people at the sanctuary look on. Juliette stops and gives Jud a slow, single shake of her head.

“No,” she says.

Jud sneers, doesn’t answer his mother-in-law, turns away. His hard and gaunt face comes over Annie’s shoulder at Ryan. “Every night we slept together, you understand?” Jud tells him. “We sweated and bled, we paid bills and wanted children. You understand?” He glares. “I knew her,” he says. “You didn’t.

“Don’t let me see him again,” he adds for Annie. Jud steps around her and Ryan, leaves the church through the belfry.

Annie keeps her eyes on Ryan, as though studying him. She grips his free elbow with both of her hands and rises, helping him up. “You’re bleeding,” she tells him. Juliette and the others look on.

“I am?” Ryan brings his hand around from his head. There’s blood on his fingertips.

“Oh, goodness,” Juliette says. “Sit down, Ryan."

“Oh … no, I’m okay,” Ryan offers. He tries a smile. The back of his head throbs. He is suddenly weak, grabs the back of the immediate pew to him with his other hand.

“Here,” both women say in unison, unsnapping purses: Annie’s blue one beside her on the floor; Juliette’s black one on her arm.

“Here,” Juliette offers, finding a tissue first. Annie nods, rises from her purse on the floor and takes the tissue from her mother. She folds it, goes to Ryan, presses the tissue to the back of his head.

“Here,” Annie says. “Hold it.” She guides his hand by the wrist to take over the tissue.

“Thank you,” Ryan says. He presses the tissue to his head, nods to each of them.

“My sister’s memorial,” Annie says.

“Annie,” Juliette shakes her head. “He can grieve, too."

Annie looks at her mother, turns and bends down, closing her purse, straightening, bringing the purse strap up and over her shoulder. Both women look at him in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am.”

“Yes. Well, thank you,” Juliette manages.

“You drove all the way from Tallahassee?” Annie says, giving him an incredulous look. Ryan nods. He keeps his other hand on the pew, closes his eyes and opens them. He realizes he hasn’t eaten.

“Where are you staying?” Juliette asks.

“Oh…“ Ryan shrugs. “I-I thought to drive back. I just … had to come.”

“Well,” Juliette adds, after a brief pause, “you can’t drive like that . . . Annie?” She turns to her daughter, “Walk him to the Parish House, will you? See that he sits down for a while.”

“Me?” Annie says.

“Yes,” Juliette says. “I have to stay here,” she reminds her.

“Okay,” Annie says.

“Oh, no. You don’t have do that, Juliette,” Ryan says. “You don’t have to do that.” “Don’t be silly,” Juliette tells him. “You grew up here, remember? Before your mother and father moved, they were my friends.”

Ryan doesn’t know what to say. His head throbs. He can only nod. He looks up the carpeted aisle to the few people still standing at the candle, urn and table, looking on, dressed for mourning. He recognizes one of the men as the former postmaster. One of the women was his Ninth Grade Algebra teacher. And three years ago, they were at Callie’s wedding, too.

Pressing the tissue to the back of his head, Ryan follows Annie up the aisle toward the sanctuary, the people watching. “How is Douglas?’he tries, feeling the eyes on him, remembering Annie’s husband now and how, three years ago, she and Douglas were newlyweds. “He fine,” Annie replies, without looking at him. She sets her purse down in one of the pews before the sanctuary and Ryan follows her out the side door of the church, down the steps into the yard and onto the walkway to the Parish House.

Annie slows to walk beside him, as if to be sure he doesn’t fall. Ryan feels the awkwardness between them, the gap of time. He wonders when Callie told her he was gay. Ryan searches for something else to say, half expecting Jud to be in the church yard, standing akimbo, say, eyes glaring and clinching his fists.

“The fucking audacity,” Annie says, staring ahead. “The fucking audacity,” she repeats under her breath. “We bury my sister tomorrow—and you have to show up."

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says.

Annie looks at him. “Three years ago,” she reminds him. “You made a damn fool of yourself.”

Ryan avoids her eyes, stares ahead as they walk. “I was foolish,” he admits.

“In front of the entire church,” Annie emphasizes. “And what? One third of the town? You stood up in the middle of the wedding and said that you loved her more.”

Annie pauses. Ryan feels her eyes and looks ahead.

“You did it,” she says. “Fucking audacity.”

Annie stops him with a hand on his arm before the Parish House doors. Ryan meets her eyes then, her eyes and nose like Callie’s, the cheeks larger.

“In a moment of a holy union,” Annie says, “the minister demanded something lawful from you—and you only stood there and repeated what you said.”

“I was foolish,” Ryan says.

“Why did you do it?” Annie wants to know.

“I loved Callie.”

Annie pauses. She shakes her head.

“And we watched her,” she continues, “bless Callie—gather up her gown, come down the altar to you, shove her face into yours and hiss something, before you sat down.”

“Yes,” Ryan says.

Annie eyes him. “I’ve always wanted to know just what she said.”

“No,” Ryan answers. “She said, ‘No’.”

“And she returned to the altar with Jud,” Annie concludes,” the minister, the groomsmen and the bridesmaids … and she married.”

“Yes.”

“Sooo, that’s what did it,” she says.

Ryan catches himself. He brings his hand down from his head and lets the tissue fall. He wants to tell her what did it, how in their sophomore year, both home for Christmas from their colleges and sitting in his used Mazda pickup at the Dairy Queen, she told him she was no longer his. She had met someone. After days of anguish and no sleep, his text messages unanswered, he walked to her front door and called her out from family dinner to confront her with Why? I want to marry him, she said, simply. I want to have his baby. He wept for nights, curled in the pain of her rejection, endured the harrowing grief of following her on Facebook and Twitter until he could no longer stand words not meant for him, and how it brought the beginning of the memories, talks he often recalls to this day, revisiting and seeking solace in what was.

“I had a moment of belief,” Ryan says.

Annie turns to him. “A moment of belief?”

He wants to tell her how he felt won’t go away. It’s always the night before the prom: how they danced between their houses, in a breeze under silhouettes of the poplar trees, slow-stepping in the sage and whisper-singing to “Make You Feel My Love” on his portable Music Box. She kissed him. And he never felt more completely loved. He thought things would not change—that blind belief would live forever. And whatever love is now, it hasn’t felt the same since.

“I would have been better,” Ryan insists.

Annie shakes her head, sighs. “It’s not about better, Ryan,” she says. “It’s about what a woman wants.”

But she came down from the altar, Ryan thinks. She came down.

Annie goes forward to the Parish House doors, places a hand on one of the doorknobs and stops.

“Tell me,” she eyes him, “how does one love a woman and then a man? Tell me the truth.”

Ryan shrugs. “You love one, then you love the other,” he says.

“Ah,” Annie says, in mock surprise.

His head is not throbbing so much. He follows Annie through the doors of the Parish

House into the open dining area and a leftover buffet near the kitchen door and service window. Ryan remembers the tall picture windows and the gray, linoleum floor; the small wooden cross on the wall above the line of church banners, framed quotes of scripture and photos. At the buffet table is an electric coffee urn and a large and empty glass dispenser beside stacked Styrofoam cups, napkins, paper plates and plastic utensils; a line of leftover, homemade dishes along the white tablecloth, their lids removed and heavy serving spoons or forks in them.

“Where’s Jud?” Ryan wonders.

“He’s gone to see the baby,” Annie answers. “You didn’t know it lived, did you?”

“No,” he says.

“Come here,” Annie says. She goes to the buffet table. He follows. She takes up a napkin, plastic fork and paper plate and walks quickly down the table, spooning up what’s left of the potato salad and Cole slaw. She adds two pieces of chicken and a biscuit, turns around.

“Come here,” she says, leading the way across the dining area, into the small lounge with worn leather sofa and chairs, a small coffee table, the single window with blinds, the framed map of Galilee on the wall between the book shelf and the steel filing cabinet. Ryan sees the same, wooden trashcan in the corner. He remembers Youth Group meetings, Reverend Fields’ red nose, gray head and thick, black framed glasses; his pointed lectures on God and living. He and Callie sat here with others. A new map of the Middle East is pinned to the wall behind the sofa now and a new brass standing lamp is beside one of the chairs.

“Sit,” Annie says.

Ryans seats himself on the sofa. Annie hands him plate, napkin and fork. “Eat,” she orders. “I’ll be back.”

She leaves the room. Ryan lowers the napkin and plate with fork to his lap. He hasn’t eaten and food at the moment seems odd. He lifts the fork, tries a bite of potato salad. The taste of it fills his mouth; he’s suddenly hungry and begins to eat. Annie returns with a quick glance to him and a white First Aid Kit in her hands. She sets the kit on the coffee table in front of him, unsnaps it open, lifts the lid and removes a pair of clear, disposable gloves.

“Bow your head forward,” she says.

Ryan chews and swallows, sets the plate with the fork beside him on the sofa and bows his head. Annie pulls on the gloves, stands over him. The back of his head feels tender. He feels her parting his hair, probing. “Stopped bleeding,” she remarks. “You don’t need stitches.” He looks up, watches her turn to the First Aid Kit, remove a cotton ball and pour something from a mini bottle on it. “Be still now,” she says. He bows his head as she comes, presses the wet cotton to the back of his head. It stings.

“Ow,” Ryan whispers. He looks up. Annie steps away and drops the cotton ball into the trash can.

“Follow my finger,” Annie says. She comes back, brings a clear-gloved index finger up to his face. He follows her finger with his eyes, slowly to one side, then to the other. She watches him.

“Okay. How many fingers,” she says. She flicks three at his face.

“Two and a half,” he tries a laugh. Annie barely smiles.

“Okay,” she says, matter-of-fact. She lowers her hand, peels off the gloves, tosses them into the trash can and looks at him. “I have to go pick up my little girl,” she explains. “A friend has been keeping her. Okay?”

Ryan nods. He looks, finds the wedding band on her left hand..

“You didn’t know I had a little girl,” did you?”

“Not specifically.”

“Yeah. No matter,” she says. “Wait here until I get back, Okay? That way, we’ll know

you’re all right.”

“Okay,” Ryan says.

“Listen to me,” Annie says. “Don’t you come to the funeral tomorrow.” She gives him a bland stare. “If you cared about her, at all, don’t come. Don’t do that to us. You understand?” He nods at the eyes and nose like Callie’s.

“She’s gone her way,” Annie warns. “You’ve gone yours. It’s life. Don’t torture us any more than you have.”

“All right,” Ryan answers.

“I’ll be back,” Annie insists. She snaps the First Aid Kit shut and leaves the room.

He wakes with a start, his cheek resting on the near arm of the sofa and his feet on the floor. The room is dark with only pale light from the window blinds. Ryan sits up in the stillness. He can’t remember falling asleep. The First Aid Kit is gone and so are the plate and fork he had placed beside him on the sofa. He looks around, touches the tender spot at the back of his head.

He knows Annie’s not coming for him.

Rising from the sofa, Ryan goes out of the room and into the dim dining area. The tables are cleared, folded chairs are stacked against the rear wall and there’s the faint smell of soap and Pine-Sol. Ryan crosses to the Parish House doors, steps outside into the evening and to flickering lights, like candles, in the church windows. He looks, hears faint music. He tilts his head, strains to hear. I was there once, he thinks.

The iPhone is in the car. This time, he’ll drive slow.

A native of NE Alabama, Theron Montgomery is the author of The Procession (short stories), Driving Truman Capote (memoir), The End of the Legend of Jared Snead (novel) and Was There (Award winning short drama). His new novel, The Street of Yearning, is due out under Pegasus. He resides in Winter Garden, Florida.