It seemed too fairy tale, tooPretty Womanto even believe.
When he scrunched down even farther under the covers, he felt a scrap of paper at the foot of the bed, buried beneath the bedclothes. Thinking it was probably an old receipt or takeout menu, something like that, he managed to snatch the piece of paper with his toes and bring it up to his face.
Jasper let out a gasp that bordered on a scream when he saw what the paper was. It was a note from Lacy.
She began with a snatch of poetry:
The last scud of day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow’d wilds;
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
And then she went on to say,
My dear Jazz,
I’ll start with the old cliché, “if you’re reading this, I’m already dead.” And I am, huh? Was my funeral nice? What did you wear? More importantly, what did I wear? I hope you didn’t allow my mom to dress me.
Anyway, I just wanted to say goodbye to you and to apologize. I figure you’ll be the one to find me and I know how hard that will be. I’m crying and having second thoughts as I picture you.
Jasper held the piece of lined notebook paper away, trying to breathe. “Why didn’t you act on those second thoughts, then?” he cried out to the empty room. “You could still be here.” Sobbing. “You didn’t have to go.”
After a moment to calm himself, he read on.
I had to go, though. I know you’re thinking I left because of you, because you think I pined over you, imagining what we could never have. I’d say “don’t flatter yourself” but there is kernel of truth to it. You would have made a great husband, except for the fact, as we said many times, you like dick as much as I do.
Jasper allowed a weak laugh to escape.
But really, I needed to go because I couldn’t live anymore with the secrets and lies, the ugliness that’s my past and my childhood. I’ll spare you. It won’t do any good to drag those shadows out now. Let’s just leave it at there was a reason I always wore black and looked like some Anne Rice character.
But those were my scars. And they just wouldn’t fade. Many nights, as you snored beside me, I would cry into my pillow. Tears are supposed to be a release, but all mine ever did was remind me of the black hole my life was.
Jazz, I’m almost thirty-three. I’m a shopgirl. I live in a one-bedroom practically on the L tracks—with mice and cockroaches. And you. You’re a cut above those critters, rest assured. I assert it on my deathbed. My ‘boyfriend’ is a handsome, young, kind, smartass, and very vibrant young man who shouldn’t be bedding down with me, but instead should be building a fabulous life for himself.
You’re free, Jazz. So, and you have to do this because it’s my dying wish, so go out there and find someone who cares about you as much as I do, but who can also give you the intimacy and the kind of love you really need and want.
It’s okay. I just don’t want to go on. I’m good with that.
