Merry Lo

C/W: mention of suicide

Note to the reader: I have written two versions for this story and I'm not sure which one works best. If you can, please read this version and the one in comments (at the end of the story). Please let me know which one you prefer and why - thank you! As always, you'll find the soundtrack in comments.

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"Merry Lo."

"I'm sorry. I don't know her," Will said.

"My sister jumped out of the window because of you! And you say you don't know her?"

Will locked the door of the porch as the stranger yelled and drummed her fists against the wood.

"Open up, coward! I'll kill you!"

He didn't want her to awaken Grace, his wife, upstairs but as he saw the woman's eyes from closer, he froze. He had seen them somewhere. They had terrified him before.

She brushed her running nose and pulled a thick envelope out of her bag, which she threw against the door, almost tripping over as she did. She stood back up and spat. Walked off and turned around a last time to show him her middle finger.

*

"Do you need my ID for the delivery?" Grace asked from the first floor. She was up. Had she heard the noise?

"All good!" Will shouted, still clinging and shaking against the knob.

Grace replied something but his heartbeat covered her voice. After a few minutes, his muscles eased, and he managed to unlock the door. He picked up the woman's envelope from the floor and slipped it in his back pocket, covering it with his now wet shirt. The air was compact outside, and the crops whispered in the fields around the house. That should have been a quiet summer morning.

*

Grace, in her usual pink shirt and light jeans, handed a glass of iced lemonade to Will as he stepped into the kitchen. She withdrew the glass from him as he stretched his hand to grab it.

"My parcel?", she said with a witty smile.

"Your parcel? Oh. Wrong address. They were looking for someone else."

"Someone else?"

"Yeah. Merry Lo or something."

Couldn't he come up with another name? He grabbed the glass from Grace before she could reply and kept his mouth busy with lemonade.

"You spent fifteen minutes outside because of a wrong delivery?"

"Crazy, isn't it?"

He opened the fridge door to avoid her eyes, but her foot closed it.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Will?"

"It's Sunday morning. Can you leave me alone?"

"What's up with Merry Lo?"

"Who?"

"Will?"

"I don't know her."

"Will..."

"Leave me alone!"

Will walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door of the porch behind him. He heard Grace call his name from the porch, but he kept walking through the fields of wheat until her voice died out.

The air was dusty and dry, and he walked past the windmill and the watermill. When he was far enough from the house, he opened the envelope. Inside was a batch of fifty pictures or more. Will inspected half of them. They were all pictures of him, from primary, secondary and high school. All ripped out of class photos.

Who on earth was that Merry Lo?

Had she really committed suicide because of him?

Or was her sister playing with his nerves?

Without understanding why, Will wiped off a tear from his cheek.

*

"Done?" Grace asked as Will stepped back onto the porch in the evening.

He hadn't seen her. She was sitting in her rocking chair with her guitar and the score she had last been working on. She didn't look angry, just quiet.

"Done?" she repeated as she cracked a match to light the candle on the table and shook the smoke off, still looking at him.

He ignored her and headed in.

*

Will locked the door behind him as he entered the fresh attic on the last floor of their country house. He opened the trunk where Grace and he kept their school albums and flipped through them. Faces and faces, that of Grace included, with her puffy red fringe and her round glasses. But nowhere did he find any that he could associate to that name. Merry Lo.

*

"You won't find answers there."

Grace's voice echoed from the other side of the attic door. Will's eyes opened.

"Let me in," she said with her quiet voice.

Will rose up slowly from the floor, shaking the numbness off the elbow he had fallen asleep on. He unlocked the door and Grace stepped in with a deck of cards.

"I have a deal. I help you and you tell me what happened."

Will shook his head.

"Deal or not?" she asked.

He looked at the five albums and dozens of pictures scattered across the now dark space and sighed. Deal.

Grace drew the thick curtains, although the night had settled over the fields outside, and asked him to sit at the center of the room on the old rug that smelt of tobacco. She joined him and their knees touched in the dark. Usually, Grace lit up candles before drawing out cards, but she seemed hasty on that night.

"Close your eyes," she said.

"What should I picture this time?"

"A dog."

"A dog?"

"Yes, a dog."

He heard her sort her cards and lay them down one by one as he pictured a dog. The one he saw was white and had black spots. All over. It was rather young and graceful. As Grace's last card landed on the rug, she touched his hand and the room around them started to spin. The touch of her hand soon dissipated, and Will felt a black tunnel was swallowing him from behind.

*

Will span around himself for long after he landed in the hall of a small theatre. Music was playing inside; a rehearsal was on.

Will pushed the wing door and stepped into the main room, with its worn-out velvet seats and its square stage were the lights heated. He settled in the right aisle, close to the stage, where three jazz musicians were playing.

He smiled as he recognized Grace at the piano, with her red hair and pink sweater, Tim, the singer of their band, at the front with an old mic and younger him to the right, with his cello. That was two days before the premiere of their first show in New York. He even recognized the song they were covering, La Soledad by Pink Martini. They didn't play that song in the end, did they? They never played any track from that band on stage, if he remembered well. How come? They used to like that band.

A metal piece tinkled behind him and Will looked back. A woman sitting in the middle of the stalls drew thick dark glasses out of her bag to study the stage. Her eyes focused on two parts only: the piano and the cello. He thought they were alone at the rehearsals. Who was she?

*

Will followed younger him and Grace as they stepped out of the stage. They could not see him. Grace's neck was as delicate as ever and her brows as tense. Perhaps more, because of the upcoming performance. Will followed them as they stepped out of the theatre through the artists' entrance and decided to observe them from afar.

"What a show!" a voice in the dark said as Grace adjusted her hoodie and young Will his cello bag under the rain.

The woman from the stalls headed towards them with her dog, who was barking at her feet. She was wearing a trench coat, a beret and high heels.

"Merry and I were passing by and we heard the song. It called us in. So, we came in."

She laughed. "Best thing we could have done tonight."

Her laughter was too clear, too loud, too everything.

Grace's eyes narrowed under her hoodie and young Will smiled to ease up the air.

"Thank you," he said. "Glad you enjoyed it."

"I was particularly intrigued by your duet. There was something very... something so... how can I say?"

"Have we met before?" Grace asked.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Juliet. Music critique. I work for a local journal." She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What journal, Juliet?" Grace asked.

"You wouldn't know, it's a modest journal." Juliet opened her mouth as if she were suffocating. "Not everybody makes it as a music critique."

Grace brows did that little thing that meant "no kidding" and Will pinched his lips.

"Is there any way we can help?", he asked as the woman stared at him.

"Actually, yes. I have this critique I have to submit in two days. I write about emerging artists -"

"We're not emerging," Grace said.

Young Will laughed.

"How is that funny?" Juliet asked.

"Hm... A silly joke about...'emerging'. Not even funny, not even a joke, actually."

Juliet slipped a cigarette in her red mouth. "Maybe we can go for dinner, and you tell me more about your joke."

Grace looked at Will. And Will did it again. That thing when he knew what to do but did the opposite.

"Sure."

Grace opened big eyes.

"Great. I can also write your interview, for my journal."

"For your very local journal," Grace said, still looking at Will.

"There's a place I like nearby. They serve good apple pies with pecan nuts," Juliet said.

"Thanks, I'll pass," Grace said.

"Oh, I wasn't talking to you. Unless you can tell jokes?"

*

Juliet, under her thick mascara and red lipstick, seemed younger than he thought and might even be his age. Their age. As they walked under Juliet's umbrella, Will thought of Grace and pouted. She should have joined them. But she always declined invites. If she wasn't so reluctant about everything, he wouldn't be spending that evening with another female. Attractive as she may be.

The restaurant had red benches and metallic tables topped with turquoise plastic. The music had a rocky air, quite far from the jazz he would have expected Juliet to be fond of. But he liked that she could have eclectic tastes. Juliet removed her coat, her eyes glued to the TV screen at the opposite side of the restaurant.

"TV always has messages for me," Juliet said, "When the forecasts say it's sunny I get bad news and when it rains, my life takes a new turn," she laughed and removed her glasses.

"Are you expecting any news?" Will asked as he tried to squeeze his cello bag between the bench and the wall.

"Maybe." She turned around and raised her hand to call the waitress. "Two apples pies, please."

Will frowned - did she decide for him?

"So. Why did you accept my invite?", she asked pouring water into their glasses.

"I've never given an interview before."

"An interview?"

"An interview for a local journal."

"What are you talking about?", her tone was as sharp as her brows.

"Didn't you mention a local journal?"

"I'm an accountant. But if you want me to work for a local journal, I can do that."

"Accountant? Sorry, I thought-"

"You misunderstood," she winked.

Will frowned.

"But wait. Why did you approach Grace and I at the theatre?"

"Who's Grace?" Juliet asked and turned around to check on the waitress.

"My music partner."

"Your partner? Why are you sitting here with me, then?"

That one punched him. Right there, in the chest. Will opened his mouth to say something but Juliet was now browsing through her menu, as if alone.

"Too bad you craved an apple pie," she said, "their ice creams look really good."

"Sorry, Juliet. I..."

"Hm?"

She looked up. Her face had morphed, her eyes softened. He noticed a mole between her brows and a scar on her temple. She now looked like a Madonna from a nativity scene, especially with her tainted blond hair and pale skin. And despite her mascara and lipstick. Neither of which displeased him.

"I just... I won't be able to stay long. We still have to rehearse tomorrow."

"Are you leaving already?"

"No. I was just saying that -"

"You know what? We should get ice cream with our apple pies." She caressed his and raised her arm to call the waitress.

*

"You don't want to take the dog upstairs?"

"Merry? No. She'll be fine here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, nobody cares about that dog anyway," she said and pushed him towards the entrance door of his own building.

As they climbed the stairs, Will couldn't say whether he was uncomfortable or anxious. No stranger had come to his place before, let alone females.

Will turned on the light of his small living room as they stepped in. He hushed Brooklyn's honks and sirens by closing the window and put his cello near the green plant that had been begging for water for the past two months. He asked Juliet if she wanted a drink - a tea, perhaps? But she didn’t hear. She was inspecting the musicians' biographies on the shelves.

"The first song you played at the theatre..." she started and paused as if for him fill in the blanks.

"La soledad by Pink Martini."

She let out a brief laughter and her face became serious again. Her lips marked a tight smile, and she came closer.

"Would you play that song for me?"

Sure. Wait, no. Grace's face flashed his mind, and he knew he shouldn't.

"I can't, I'm sorry." As Juliet's brows rose slightly and her head tilted to the side, Will added, "but we can play another one, if you want. Do you have any preference?"

"Souvenirs."

"I must have it somewhere." Will said, kneeling down to search his vinyl collection.

Juliet fetched the vinyl from his hands and slipped it onto the record player. She took him by the hand and led him to the center of the room.

She pressed her palm against his and they slid to the side. Her perfume was spicy. Patchouli and pepper. Thick and sticky like caramel. Her eyes were two dark holes that had nothing appealing anymore. Will closed his eyes to avoid them and felt her soft curls against his chest. She made him match the tempo of the music and, at the same time, kept enough room for free swaying. Will couldn't say whether he enjoyed it. The closer she came, the blurrier the melody in his ears. Her moves were precise and on point. Had she rehearsed before?

"Do you know what the song is about?" she asked.

Her right-hand fingers tapped his shoulder to the cajon of the song. As he didn't react, she paused and looked at him.

"You'll be my precious memory. To see you again, I close my eyes. That's what it means."

She shrugged her shoulders with a witty smile as if hinting at the obvious he had missed for too long. A flow of cold water washed him down, from head to toes, and as she looked at him again, the only thing he could think of was, why on earth he had never seen Grace with that face before.

He let go of her.

"Juliet, I think you should leave."

Her face morphed, again, just like in the restaurant.

"Oh, really? Why?"

She came closer and the scene turned dark. He heard a long cry as his head started to spin. Spin and spin again.

*

Will landed in front of his primary school. By the wooden gate, the one that reached his forehead at the time and his waist at that moment.

Cries arose from the bicycle garage where a boy dragged a crying girl with dark hair to the side while another one picked up shattered glasses from the floor and put them back on. She adjusted her red fringe and lifted up her chin as she mounted her pink bike and took off. The boy watched little Grace leave on her bike, sad that once again she didn't look at him, and turned around to help the crying girl pick her books from the floor.

The girl rubbed her eyes with her two fists and removed them to look at Little Will as he handed her her bag. She gave him a shy smile and Will smiled back, although helpless. She had a mole between her brows.

Was she Juliet?

As she slipped her headband into her dark hair, it uncovered a deep scar on her right temple that Old Will remembered seeing at the restaurant in his previous memory.

Had anything happened to that little girl? Was it why she was violent and had attacked little Grace again?

"Merry!" a voice grunted, and Little Will froze even before seeing who was yelling.

A teenager rushed towards them and grabbed Juliet by the wrist, who started to cry and scream. Will recognized the fierce eyes. That teenager was the stranger from that morning, the one with the envelope.

Little Will watched the two sisters head off, while the older shouted at Juliet, whose real name, he now understood, was Merry.

From her tiny bag that was sliding on her meagre shoulders, a picture flew off and Little Will picked it up from the floor. Somehow, he knew pictures mattered to her and he knew that mattered more than his fear of his sister. His ran behind them until he reached them. The picture had a little Dalmatian on it, just like the one she had left outside his building in the previous memory. Didn't she call that dog Merry by the way?

As Little Will reached the sisters, they both turned around and the teenager recognized the picture. She yelled. Again, a stupid Dalmatian, how stupid could Merry be? Again, a stupid obsession. Had she thought about their father, uh? What would he say?

Merry cried, Little Will froze, and the sister ripped the picture apart. As her hand smacked the back of Merry's neck, the scene turned dark, and Will's head started to spin again.

*

Will's eyes opened in the dim attic. Grace was sorting her cards in front of him in silence. She noticed he was back but didn't say anything.

Will fetched the envelope from his back pocket and checked the second half of the batch which consisted of news clippings about their music band, pictures from their shows in Brooklyn and a letter with scrapped words, that he could barely decipher and didn't want to.

Last in the batch was the picture of the Dalmatian dog, taped and restored. He now remembered that he had fixed it and given it back to Merry the following day. He felt something in his throat and put the picture back in the envelope.

"Why did you ask me to picture a dog when you drew the cards?" Will finally asked Grace.

"Because I remember her. And her obsessions."

Grace looked at him. And Will looked down.

He could feel the tempo of her Souvenir song in his chest. Its melody infinitely weak, just like the final beats of a heart. He pressed his eyes closed, recalling the words of her sister that morning.

He pressed his eyes tighter.

And felt Grace's arm wrapping around his.