It began with an icy, rainy night and a teenaged boy. Saul stood in the warmth of the music store, cursing the foul weather’s effect on business and staring out the plate-glass window into the dreary night.

He turned to look at Ivan, dusting the instruments on the wall. “You can go home, son.”

“We’re closing?”

Saul nodded. “I’ll stay till eight. But the weather’s not getting any better. You should go while the roads are still manageable.”

“No problem.” Ivan went in the back and got his parka and boots.

“Is your mother picking you up?”

Ivan was already at the door in his hurry to leave. “She’s a terrible driver. I’ll take the bus. See you tomorrow, Mr. Schwartz!”

Saul stuck his head out after Ivan. “Wait for the bus in here!”

“It’s only a few blocks away, I can see it.”

Reluctantly, Saul pulled the door closed.

A car lurched across both lanes and struck Ivan, pinning him to the side of the store.

The next few hours were messy, disturbing: rushing out to find Ivan bleeding, so much blood – a drunken man waving his arms at Ivan, as if this were Ivan’s fault – Ivan’s lifeless hand in Saul’s – flashing lights and policemen – Ivan’s weeping mother in Saul’s arms, cursing God, the drunk driver, and the policemen who couldn’t bring her boy back. Tears, blood, rain pelting them like bullets from the heavens.

After the funeral, Ivan’s mother came by. “May I – as a remembrance–”

Saul took the flowers from her trembling hands. “Of course. Let’s place them here at the corner of the store.” Where it happened, but he didn’t say this.

The flowers were young and vibrant. Just as Ivan had been. Saul choked back tears of his own and went back inside.

The next week, the bouquet was replaced by a wreath. Then two wreaths. Every week, the display got bigger. People didn’t want to park their cars in the spot on the corner, where the display was. Saul’s store had space for only four cars in its lot; this was no good for business. Saul Schwartz was not a greedy man, but he had to eat, too.

After a month, he confronted Ivan’s mother. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll just move your shrine to the front of the store–”

“This is all I have of my son! I wasn’t there for him in his last moments, Mr. Schwartz! This is as close as I can come to being there for him. Don’t take it away. Please.”

“It can stay. Just move it to the front of the store. Please.”

Mute, Ivan’s mother put the new wreath back in her car and drove away.

That night, Saul learned she’d killed herself. Driven into the side of a bank.

Saul stood in the plate-glass window of his store, numb.

In a way, he’d killed them both.

Outside, rain pelted down like bullets.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.