Mary Jane Sorrow

    Rain changes everything. Over billions of years, persistent rain will tear down mountains, gouge canyons into bedrock, and wash away everything we've built. When you died in the rain, almost twenty years ago, Jane, those of us left behind -- I think, in a way, the people we were died that night too.
    I had just bought a new, used car, and I was very proud of it. She was a '68 California Special in cherry red, 335 horses and all of them at my beck and call. Sure, she was already an antique when I met her, but it was love at first sight. I slogged away at odd jobs I'd rather forget for two whole years before I convinced Dad to pony up half the asking price. I traded a sweaty fistful of cash and a slippery handshake for her just before graduation, with mad dreams of roaring up Pike's Peak in my head. Never quite got around to that.
    The Mustang had a handful of problems, but nothing more than you'd expect, and certainly nothing Dad and I couldn't handle. Within a week we had the Mustang running butter smooth, and polished so well you could see yourself in the finish. You made a joke about it, picking imaginary broccoli out of your teeth, hunched over the hood. I wish I could tell you that I was thinking about something profound, something worthy of you, but I can't lie to you. I was looking at your ass, Jane, staring so hard I'm surprised my eyes didn't fall out.
    I never deserved you. You were so brilliant, so beautiful -- I know, I know. You never thought of yourself that way, and any time I tried to take your picture you'd do anything you could to hide your scars, but I didn't care. To me, you were the definition of beauty. And even though I find it harder to remember your face these days, you still are. Me? I'm still the scary red-haired giant you loved. No. Maybe that's not true; I've killed so many people, Jane. Sometimes I wake up from the dream, always the same dream, the faces of everyone I've killed, and you're right there, with that silly mock-pout that you used to do, and I swear Jane, every single time I try to claw my way back into that dream, through the sea of faces, through my private hell, just hoping for another glimpse of you. But you always slip away, and if I do manage to fall back asleep, I only dream about the rain.
    "What's the point of having a convertible in weather like this?" I asked, throwing an arm around you. I thought I was so slick, but at that moment I had everything I ever could have asked for. You huddle against me, even though we were perfectly dry under the porch. Looking up at me with those stellar green eyes, you said, simply, "Let's go for a ride."
    No teenage boy could resist an invitation like that. We tried to use my jacket as an umbrella, but ended up soaked to the skin when I couldn't get the damned door unlocked. Inside, dripping all over my leather upholstery, you just shook your head, pretending you were 'very very disappointed' with me. I noticed you were scratching at your scars again; your forearms were angry red.
    "Stop that," I said, as if you would actually listen to me. It drove me nuts the way you were always so pig-headed, but I realize now that you'd just figured out life long before me. The scars you can reach, you just scratch when they itch. The ones you can't reach, you learn to live with. I think you had plenty of both, and I wish you would have let me done some of the scratching for you. There's no one I'll let scratch my scars now, though, so I understand Jane, I understand.
    And there we were, flying down Powers, having a heated discussion about some movie we'd watched together the night before... I can't remember which one it was, but I think it had Johnny Depp in it. I love the way you argued; you could turn anything -- toothpaste, sales taxes, cigarettes, anything -- into an intense, hour-long debate. I barely noticed the Mustang, the machine I had lusted after for so long, because you were there with me.
    At Constitution I geared down, feathering the brakes as I pushed the Mustang into the turn, then two, three, four heartbeats before I punched the accelerator to the floor. The Cobra Jet roared, pressing us back into the seat. I do have to confess, Jane, that I got a thrill from the concern that flashed across your face before you realized it was there, and hid it behind your "I'm judging you" face. I almost said 'I'd kill to see that face again' just now, but that's a bitter sort of irony, isn't?
    The sun had just vanished behind the Front Range, and the street lights were starting to flicker to life, when you asked me the question I had been asking myself for months.
    "What are you going to do now?"
    "I'm not sure," I said, reflexively, not really paying attention now because I had noticed a few spots of reflected green light at the side of the road. Easing off the accelerator, then applying the brakes gently, I grinned as a whole herd of deer, dripping wet but in no particular hurry, sauntered across the street like they owned the place. I suppose, in a way, they did. You were wearing the same grin. I wanted to kiss you, right then, but I figured we had all the time in the world. God damn it. I would sell my soul just to know you were out there somewhere, alive and happy, right now.
    "You're not still thinking about the Marines." Not a question. More of a challenge, really, but you were right. Right then joining the Military seemed like a bad idea, with trouble brewing in Iran after a long decade of uneasy détente. At that moment, with my girlfriend by my side in my car, the future looked bright and beautiful. You would laugh at me if I ever said this out loud, but somewhere in the back of my head I was even thinking about kids. A house.
    "What about college?" you asked right then.
    "Football," I said in my best dumb-jock voice. You just flipped me off, and laughed. "MIT maybe? I could build rockets with Jimmy."
    "You know, he'd love that, Jay-Jay. He really would." Two things right there that amazed me about you. First that you managed to make 'Jay-Jay' sound dignified, somehow, when it just sounds stupid coming from other people. My friends, the few that I have now, all call me Jack. I don't let anyone call me Jay-Jay anymore.
    The other thing I still haven't quite figured out was the soft spot you had for Jimmy. Unlike most people, you always treated us like individuals, and even in grade school when Mom was still dressing us the same you never had any difficulty telling us apart. I'm sure that got much easier in high school when I started to bulk up, and Jimmy withdrew into his own electronic universe. You never treated him like any less of a person for it, though. Sure, you gave him plenty of shit, and did everything short of lighting yourself on fire to try to get him out of the house, but you were never mean in the way that kids seem to fall into so naturally.
    "I'm sure he would, but I'd need to get an interpreter first."
    "Don't be mean." See?
    "You have to admit, he doesn't even try to be understandable. All I hear is accumulator this, decrement that."
    "We should all go to the beach."
    "California?"
    "¿México?"
    "Only if you convince him to leave his gadgets at home," I said, slowing automatically for a school zone, even though it was after hours. It was one of those spots I'd seen a cruiser parked many times before, just waiting, and I didn't want a ticket that night. I wonder how things would have been different if I had. We cruised past the school, and then I kicked it back up to forty-five, or tried to. Traffic got a bit thick the closer we got to Academy, and I found myself stuck right around thirty-five.     "A little bit of rain, and suddenly everyone's my grandmother," I said, not really upset to have an excuse to spend a few more minutes with my favorite passenger. The wipers were old, I noticed, leaving thick smears on the glass. I remembered thinking that I'd have to look into fitting the Mustang with one of those ultrasonic blades, the kind that vaporizes water as soon as it hits your windshield. Tom Wisniowski, one of my best friends in high school, once rigged one of those to a sheet of window glass, and poured maple syrup on it. The syrup just freaked out, turning itself into weird alien trees and bugs, never the same shape for more than a few seconds, until it leaped off the sheet, turning back into syrup when it hit the ground. God, we were such idiots then!
    "Have you noticed Jimmy's been acting a bit strange, Jay-Jay?"
    I ignored your question, and asked one of my own instead "Don't you think it's weird the way all of our names start with 'J'?"
    "Jane is my middle name, smart-ass."
    "You know I can't call you Mary Jane and keep a straight face."
    "You are such a child," you said. I have a mental snapshot of that moment, and what I'm stuck on right now is freckles; a constellation across your face, just splashed over that slightly too large nose of yours. In the hospital, a little later, going through your things, I found that parking ticket I'd written for your nose, all dog-eared and wrinkled, but it finally hit home then; this little piece of me that you held on to for a whole year, in my hands, threadbare and fragile, this shitty little joke at your expense that you kept like treasure, had outlived you.
    On my darkest nights, when I've found myself in Hell; Iran, Afghanistan, Mongolia, I find myself thinking about your nose. Somehow, Jane, your nose has been my own Virgil, my guide through and out of the abyss. Fuck Beatrice; I want my Virgil back.
    I suppose we don't get to pick our fates, Jane. Don't judge me.
    Oh, God! I heard you laugh just now. I could die tomorrow, and I would regret nothing if I could just hear that laugh one more time.
    Wasson Park flashed by, a blur of sodium lamps in the deluge. The Mustang kicked up plumes of water as she ripped through the rivulets that threaded across Constitution, and I remember thinking how amazing the All-weather tires I insisted on did in the wet. Maybe with the cheaper rubber we would have ended up in a ditch, and could have danced in the rain while waiting for triple-a. Maybe in another universe.
    Tom Petty erupted from my pants.
    "Jimmy," you said.
    "Not tonight," I slowed down for the light at Union.
    "It could be important," you said, probably giving me that sad-kitten, pouty-lower-lip look that I could never resist. Fortunately, I thought at the time, I'm driving, and I don't have to look at you.
    Idiot! Look at her! Listen to her! But I don't, I didn't, I never will again.
    The light turned green, and I spun the back wheels because I could, because this wasn't the Toyota, this was rear-wheel drive American steel. Even still, some jackass in a Subaru whipped past me in the right lane, and didn't even signal, cutting me off. Plus one in the Traffic Game, Captain Subaru. I looked over at you and said "Now there's someone I hope dies in a fiery crash." In my more superstitious moments, I wonder if that's when I sealed your fate, Jane. As I've gone on living, though, I've learned that the universe is capricious, and cruel, but it doesn't give a damn about the things we say.
    Just over your shoulder, on the side of he road, a single headlamp lit up; a blazing nova in the rain. Probably a motorcycle, I remember thinking.
    At Paseo I noticed for the first time that the street lamps here were dead, but I figured someone had crashed into a transformer, not a big deal, right? It had happened across the street from my house when I was eight, and the power was out for maybe three hours before the utility company sent out a van to fix the problem. We told ghost stories and ate marshmallows. It was fun.
    Tom Petty sang from the vicinity of my crotch yet again.
    "Power has to be out all over town, if he doesn't have his head glued to a screen," I said, trying to justify myself.
    "Something must be up." You leaned closer.
    "I'm not going to answer it. I don't want to talk to him."
    "It might be important!" you were so close then that I could smell peppermint on your breath.
    "It's not. Trust me," I said, accelerating. You leaned over me, started fishing around my jeans, trying to find the pocket I kept my phone in. The golf course dropped away on the left, flat and inky black, almost invisible except for the pale light cast by the moon. I looked down at you, seeing nothing but brown hair between me and the wheel. Fontanero and El Paso intersected in darkness ahead, only the light from the Mustang's headlamps slicing through the emptiness.
    I feel so empty, so worthless when I remember this Jane.
    "While you're down there," I whispered, leaning forward, trying to find your ear.
    Then.
        The.
            World.
                Ended.
    With.
        A.
            Bang.
    The van appeared as if out of nowhere, but in retrospect ... obviously not. He had been traveling south on El Paso, responding to a call about a smashed transformer. An electrician, on his way to a simple service call. We both reached the intersection at the same time, in the dark, going much too fast in the rain.
    While you were dying, I was trying to make sense of the strange new angle the universe had assumed. I don't remember much.
    A sign that insisted 'NO TURN ON RED.'
    A van that seemed to advertise 'HAM Electricution Service, LOL.'
    A traffic light, neither red, nor yellow, nor green.
    You, folded across my lap, under the dash, your head at a weird angle.
    Blood.
    Your blood.
    Another indelible snapshot. Anytime I get close to someone, anytime I let myself think it might be time to start living again, I see your blood, Jane. So much blood. So much blood.
    There was a man, with a receding hairline and a bad mustache, standing over me. I can't remember anything he said, not a word of it, but I remember him pacing, shouting into my phone. I was sitting on the curb, staring at the wreck, with no memory of how I got there.
    Red and blue lights. I remember the lights, and the flurry of activity after the lights arrived. Someone pointing a flashlight into my eyes, asking me questions. Easy questions. What was my name? Was I driving the Mustang? Had I been drinking? Is there someone I wanted him to call? Did I want to lie down?
    John Foxhunter. Yes. No. Maybe? I couldn't think of the number. Jimmy? My phone. Lay down? Why did I sound funny?
    I was in an ambulance then. You were on the other stretcher, your eyes open, looking at me, but they were grey, not green. I tried to say 'I love you,' maybe the third time I'd ever told you, but my jaw wasn't working quite right, and I'm not sure it sounded right, either. But you blinked at me, like you understood, and then you didn't blink again.
    The EMTs pulled out the paddles, shocked you once, then I passed out. I remember fluorescent bulbs rolling by above me, and faces behind blue disposable masks. And then a lot of faces, and brighter lamps, in a cold room. A woman's voice, I swear she said, 'Use the ceramic prosthetic. The Fed-Ex box.' Another voice, disagreeing. The woman said, 'I don't care if it's a shipping error. It's here; we're going to use it. GO!'
    Turns out that's how I got my 'glass' jaw. I would find out later that it was a prototype field prosthetic kit, DARPA gear, part of an initiative designed to keep soldiers in harm's way, slinging bullets again shortly after shattering a bone. Osseointegration, they call it. Basically, a titanium mesh replacing the broken bone is set, and then infused with a ceramic/polymer paste, molded to the correct shape. An enzyme triggers a chemical reaction to harden the whole thing. Living bone tissue loves something about titanium, so everyone gets along fine. Common procedure today, but back then, that kit probably cost someone a hundred grand, easily.
    I woke up with a catheter in my urethra, a tube in my arm, and enough pain in my jaw that I wished it had been wired shut. I also had a whopping headache. My face felt swollen and numb, like it was made out of foam. I decided that meant I was alive, at least, but I wondered about you. When I tried to sit up, my head swam, spinning in directions I had never met before, so I figured I'd wait a while before trying that again.
    There had to be a call button somewhere, though. I took a moment to look around the room. A single, I was relieved to see, no second bed to be filled with another moaning wreck. A view of traffic, some houses, the mountains, all lit up and sparkly. Too cheerful; I would have to ask a nurse to close the shades. A TV set, currently off. A bathroom, which may as well have been a mile away, but at least there was the catheter. A chair in the corner. A tray on wheels, with something entirely unappetizing cooling off sullenly.
    My mouth was dry, though, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. The orange juice, lukewarm now, helped a bit with that. Someday I will find the man who thought up the two ounce serving cup, and put a bullet in his head. No, forget that. I think I'll chain him to a rock in the desert with a water cooler just out of reach. Maybe deliver one of those foil-topped cups of juice every four hours.
    The door clicked open. A tall brunette in jeans and a leather jacket walked in, not bothering to knock, obviously engrossed in my chart. I didn't figure her for a doctor, but it didn't hurt to ask.
    "No, but I play one on TV," she said, with a subtle accent I couldn't place. She tossed the chart onto the chair in the corner, and said, "The good news is that you're going to live, Jack."
    I didn't want to ask, but I couldn't not.
    "What's the bad news then?" She leaned in real close, so we were eye to eye. When she blinked, at this distance, I could tell that her piercing blue eyes were contact lenses, because her iris would swim subtly each time. Who wore contacts now that laser surgery was cheap, fast and safe?
    "Your girlfriend is gone."
    My heart dropped like a stone in a well. I knew it was true, Jane, but I was holding on to hope -- now even that was gone. I wept, Jane. I wept until my lungs burned and my ribs ached. When I was able to breathe again, I noticed the woman was still hovering over me.
    "Dead?" I asked, lamely.
    "No. I cured her broken neck using ancient alien technology, but you can't see her again because I owe said alien a favor, and letting you think she's alive would fuck that up. What do you think?"
    I hated her. I tried to sit up, with the vague idea of throttling her, or at least cracking my forehead across hers, but I was overwhelmed by nausea. Instead, I said something I think would have disappointed you, Jane, but it at least gave me a moment of satisfaction.
    At least until she laughed.
    "You and your brother are nothing alike, Jack."
    "My name is John," I said, trying to sound stern, authoritative, but I think the effect was ruined somewhat by the few ounces of urine that gurgled into the bag hanging from the bed.
    "Let's not get pissy now, Jack. It's a diminutive of John. Maybe you're not familiar with the concept. Let's say my name is Lincoln Wilson..."
    "A pleasure to meet you, Link," I said through clenched teeth. The name seemed familiar, maybe someone I'd met, or emailed? It seemed unlikely, but then again, I didn't care.
    "There you go, Jack. Fast learner. Have you seen the news?"
    I had no idea what she meant. I didn't even know where my remote was until she plucked it off the floor. The ancient plasma screen clicked on to chaos. Apparently while we were in the middle of our own tragedy, the world was starting its own. Details were sketchy at first, as they always were, but it seemed that someone had set off a nuclear device near Ben Gurion Airport, just outside Tel Aviv.
    "Oh shit." It was all I could muster. It later turned out that the device was an Iranian suitcase nuke, a very small yield bomb designed to scatter radioactive material over a wide area. A textbook dirty bomb; or it would have been if it had been configured correctly. It wasn't configured correctly, though, and only directly killed a couple hundred people, and maybe gave a few thousand more cancer.
    As an excuse for war, though, it was more than adequate. Ancient grievances boiled over, arms stocks quadrupled overnight. Lying in that bed, I knew that my life had taken a hard right turn, and cliché or not, there was no going back.
    Dr. Wilson must have seen the look in my eyes, and understood the fire that had been ignited at that moment, the fire that almost consumed me, Jane. She turned to leave, shaking her head. Before the door clicked shut, I heard her say "Keep your head down, Jack."