The Great Peach Dust

The light has a taunting, silver hue. I woke up vexed, a static in my head. I stretch, taking time to pursue the cause of discontent. I head to the fridge for a glass of milk. The door suctions shut, and I glare at the reason. Richie, I love you, and I know you love me. But I need to do this. Goodbye.

It’s frustrating that two weeks later, I still can’t take the note down. I’m irate that she showcased her self-involvement in just three sentences, all the while thinking, “you know where I’ll leave this? The fridge.” The hue transitions from silver to yellow, orange, dark-blue. Another day’s passed, and I can only but taste my milk the next day. I look out at the trees, and they’re grounding me. A twinge self-pity, a dash of loathing. I extract peacefulness from the deep richness that’s dying to burst through the glass barrier between us, applying all of its pressure, known and unknown, onto a collapsible border, the cooling acceptance of which my hot forehead now can’t live without.

Suddenly, my hypnosis is interrupted by a THUNK! It’s fast, I only catch a glimpse, but it looks like some dark bird has just as much desire to get into my ill-lit world as I do to get out of it – it flew into another window with intentional force.

Not grasping what happened, I catch the breath I didn’t realize I’d lost. I calm down, then…thunk, THUNK, THUNK! This time I was sure – three ravens with precise aim.

This attack’s just as unforeseen as the first, the deep blue now a black shadow. I back away, bumping a bookcase, some of its contents smacking the floor. I pick them up, noticing that one book does not have cover art or a title. It’s smaller and looks like it used to be black, now with tones of brown and grey, the colors of old age. I open it, half expecting some diary full of criticisms I expect people have of me, only to discover a list of names.

What’s odd is that all names were crossed off except for one: Richard Burnes. Now, my last name is not Burnes. But that is my first name. Near each crossed off name, there’s a patch of paper that looks like it’s been scratched off. But next to Richard Burnes’ name is the tiniest envelope you had ever seen, glued on. Inside it, the world’s teeniest vial and a note: Swallow. I’m completely absorbed, I’ve forgotten the ravens, I’ve forgotten the fridge-note. The pages yellowed, the envelope and vial felt like they would crumble between my fingertips. The vial’s made of greenish glass, sealed with the smallest cork, the contents still visible: a yellow, almost gold, powder. I look down at my slippers, trying to decide if I should attempt to process what’s going on. Look back up at the clock; its hands stopped ticking long ago. Whisper “fuck it”, cock my head back, and down the vial powder. Instantly, I fall back in my couch, smash my head into the wall, and everything got dark and quiet.

I wake up to my friend Tom, well-dressed, shaking me, panicked. He calms once I open my eyes and respond. For a second, I feel like I was hit by a truck, or maybe the worst hangover of my life…but within moments, I feel great. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. I check my pocket to find thousands, at least twenty, in cash, and other items I don’t recognize. Shocked, I examine the grandiose room: room-length windows, a mosaic balcony, billowing white curtains mingling with smoke from unfinished cigars and cigarettes sublimely laid into a crystal ashtray. “Where the hell are we, Tommy…”, emerging from the piled velvet pillows cushioning my existence. Tom looks up from the white residue sorted into lines on the glass and gold-detailed table, and gives me his familiar chuckle, “Good God, you really knocked out huh? You’re alright, Richard, but I nearly got worried this time ‘round. We’re at the house, maid’s coming with some water right now, alright? Just hang on, right?” Although a question, he always said it like a statement. He hasn’t called me Richard since we were kids and my mother introduced me, but it didn’t bother me: I feel great. Maybe it’s the house, maybe my being showered and groomed, maybe it’s the sunshine – I just don’t feel the typical weight. I hear heels clacking nearby and feel parched. The steps approach, and in walks one of the most outrageously exotic, terrifying, beautiful women I’ve ever seen – she gave me a vapid glance and sat on the armchair. “Where’re your manners, Richard, you remember Jordan, my wife’s friend?” – the clacking of a silver blade continues on the table – “y’know, the golfer?” Jordan, wearing a silk dress of a blue-grey shade with large, glistening gemstones and silver feathers in her dark hair, had an air of tolerated resentment. Not wanting to seem rude, although I have no recollection of her, I respond hoarsely (where’s the water?). “A pleasure as always. Your presence is humbling and bewitching, in the highest of compliments.” Jordan looks at me, now a hint of curiosity in her opalescent eyes, deciding whether my statement was moronic. Her lips curve upward on one side, and she came back with, “I don’t understand you yet, Richard, but I will before the day is done. Thank you.”; she lights a cigarette.

Months go by, I have a beautiful home, courtesy of Tommy, old sport that he is. I’m rich. I’m in the swing of things: dinners at Tom’s, parties on the weekends, and each piece of mail I receive is donned with a calligraphic handwriting of my name, Richard Burnes. I wake up to a pressed suit and the scarlet-detailed Phantom in my driveway, and head to the city to work with Tom. I will say, the drinking holes are not as I remember. These are beneath the ground and dazzling inside. The men there are each one richer than the last, men of Yale, men of Oxford, men of Bliss – men of their own destiny. I’ve never seen this much cash in my life. One day this week, we were with some partners at one of our spots, and, feeling wistful, I said, “This is great, man, we haven’t spent this much time together in a while… Funny though, having a cocktail out isn’t the same as it used to be, you know?” Tom gave me a drunken, bewildered look, and then burst out laughing: “Richard, you old joke, alright? The government has gone to shit, we’re here in a blind pig, but at least we have this, right. Yeah, it’s not the same as it was in our college days. But you’re still my brother, alright. That isn’t changed. Right?”, a note of desperation in his voice. I looked him in the eye for a second and laughed, “Of course, ya old bastard, we’re alive!”

Tommy, his wife, Jordan, and I are meant to have champagne and then head to a housewarming party. Haven’t seen the house up close, but man, this one’s a masterpiece. Huge. Bigger than Tom’s. The air thick with excitement, like before the debutante ball and I’m being deployed the next day. As we drive to the house, I glance at him, the girls in the back, laughing. An alpha, he’s stressed coming to a wealthier man’s home, the nature of manhood being so fickle in such moments.

The party roars on forever. I’m meeting all kinds of people, and many women: models, travelers, lovers. Some say they’re close with the homeowner, some say they’ve never heard his name, but I did hear he was a bachelor. How bizarre to buy a house so clearly meant for sharing, only to be alone. Maybe that means he’ll have people over often, I’d get used to that. Wandering to the bathroom through a hallway scattered with coup glasses, I stumble upon the man of the hour. “Good man, how are you. Pleasure to meet you, pleasure to have you, call me Jay. Are we neighbors?” I look down at myself at my undonee tie and cuffed sleeves. “Goodday, name’s Richard. I’m a friend of Buchanan’s – Tom that is, have you met? He lives down the road.” A sparkle appears in Jay’s eyes, and he knocks his mahogany walking cane against the sparkling tile three times. “Haven’t had the pleasure yet, sport, but I hear his name around the city. Well, I do hope you enjoy yourself, look forward to speaking, Rich”, he walked away.

Some days later, Tom comes to my office, shutting the door behind him. “Listen to me, Richie. We’re brothers, you know that, right. Look here. Remember that party? Last weekend, alright?”, the brow tension now spread to the rest of his face. I nod. “I’m gonna keep this short. That man, Jay. We have history. He doesn’t remember me, but I need this taken care of.” Beads of sweat collect at his hairline and temples. “Listen to me Richard, it’s got to do with Daisy, you understand. I need to protect her. It’s just…” He stops pacing and leans onto the chair across from me. “What’s goin’ on, Tommy, you’re scarin’ me, man.”

“I need him gone. Gone, but y’see, everyone knows me, everyone knows my name here, y’know, and I can’t be risking that…my life, it’s my life…” He looks me dead in the eye. “…I need you to kill him, Richard. I need you to kill Jay.”

I felt the color leave my face. But something in his eyes…he wasn’t just pleading, he was testing me. Looking at him in that moment, I know there’s only one answer I can give. “Yes,” I let out loudly. He has me convinced.

We know Jay takes a daily swim, and we know that Tommy’s got a gun. We know Jay has no family, only a strange past. I could sense the panicked urgency in Tom, his attempts to hide it failing. We decide on a day. He pauses, then resolvedly says, “I need to be there. See it happen.” I, without doubt, agree with everything he says. I’m losing myself, more rapidly and surely than ever before.

We creep through the bushes surrounding Jay’s pool. We’re here, with clear visibility. Right on time, Jay exits the backdoor and walks to the end of the diving board. Suddenly, in his blonde hair and soft skin I see the innocence of youth, the tenderness of one who has lost. I release the safety, giving Tommy one last look. Both crouching, he nods at me, and three ravens caw in the sky high above the pool. He whispers: “You cannot have two lives. If you want to go back, you must do this. A life for a life.”

I am hit by a whirlwind. The taste of despair, the static, the fridge-note…I look at Tommy: “I can’t do this.”

“If you want something done right, I do it.”

The only thing I can do is try to be the best man I can be, passing this story onto my sons, and they onto their sons, and so on.

Wide-eyed Tommy snatches the gun from me, whispers something, and without a blink, shoots the man mid-dive. The crystal blue pool introduces swirls of deep red, and Jay’s body floats slowly through the divine chlorine clouds. We start racing through the bushes, then the orchard full of peaches that glistened in the sun, their layer of dust glittering gold. I feel something drop out of my pocket mid-run and retrace my steps to look in the dewy grass. I kneel down and pick up a matted black notebook, and get struck with the feeling you get when you find a piece of jewelry your mother used to wear. I open it. All I find is a list of names…