Jesse's Ashes

Approx. 900 words


I don’t remember what I was doing the day Jp called me from Arizona. I might have been studying for finals or cleaning out the garage; everything just melted away when his voice came through the line. It had been three months since we last talked, a year since he enlisted in the Navy. Still, we spared each other the pleasantries.

“Jesse’s dead, Luke,” he said calmly. “Last night he killed himself.”
         
As though addled in the dark, I groped for words to say. He too was quiet. We just sat there, connected through the airwaves over thousands of miles, suspended without articulation. Gradually the words came strained and it wasn’t long before we were both crying. For over sixteen years I had been friends with Jp and his younger brother, Jesse, and for sixteen years until now we had never heard each other cry.

“How did he do it?”
             
As soon as the words rattled from my throat, I struggled to regain them. So badly did I want to reach through to the satellite and snag back the transfer of energy milliseconds before it reached him. Still, he answered.
             
“It was gruesome.”
             
Cinematic horror-scenes of entrails and blood spilling over asphalt instantly filled my imagination. For some reason I thought of a tomahawk or a machete.
             
“How did he do it?” I repeated.
             
Silence ensued. Now, for some reason, I was desperate to know.
             
“He drove out into the desert and drenched himself in gasoline.”
         
Jp cleared his throat. I was reminded suddenly of when we were kids, walking to the gas station down the street with an empty paint can. Jesse stood at the pump, four years younger than us, and waited for the signal. We walked up to the cashier and asked for fifty cents on number four and a lighter, please. ‘Okay,’ she replied. We were all stunned.
         
With our gasoline and lighter, we marched towards some bushes and began filling anthills full of fuel. Of course we didn’t notice that we dripped a trail back to the paint can. When the hill lit up, so did the can. We stared dumbfounded as it burned until the bottom melted away and the fire spread in a circle around our feet. Kicking dirt frantically, we barely avoided burning the neighborhood down.
         
Jp’s voice came strained again through the cellphone.
         
“Jesse lit himself on fire in his car."

                             *    *    *

Two days later we were at Jp’s parents’ house, making small talk about anything but what had happened. I planned to come down a day later, but I was too upset. Drinking alone, I found myself suddenly with an empty six pack and a sudden urge to be there for Jp. So I drove, blinded by a foolish, intoxicated frustration. Three hours later I was there, opening up more beers with him.
             
At first his mother stared at us horrified. Her eyes darted from the beer bottles in our hands and back to our faces in disbelief.

“How can you drink at a time like this?”
           
Jp’s dad and I had never got along when I was growing up. He always thought I was up to no good. However right then, he cast us an understanding glance. He took her by the shoulders and told her that we were doing our best. Everyone was hurting, he said. Everyone was doing their best.
           
Later Jp was burdened with the dreaded task of scouring Jesse’s old room for a sign, a reason or a note. I found it impossible to sit and drink without helping him. Sometimes, anyways, I felt as though Jesse was as much my younger brother as his.
             
We searched for a while but ultimately gave in to enjoying his things with curiosity like we used to. Jesse was always taking apart mechanical objects: remote-controlled cars, television remotes and walkie-talkies. They were broken of course. He would take them apart, point at some electrical device with a screwdriver and say, ‘here’s the problem. Just need to recalibrate this.’
           
We knew he never really knew what was wrong, or what he was pointing at. Thus they always remained in pieces. He couldn’t remember how to put them
back together.
             
“What’s this?” Jp asked, pulling out a tin container from beneath his bed.
             
Jp’s dad was passing by at the time, and came in to look when he heard him. Jp stood back as his dad took the container inquisitively before him and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge.
             
“It’s super-glued shut,” he said, almost desperately.
           
We followed him down the hall as he rushed into the kitchen, tugging menacingly at the resilient top. Once in the kitchen, he grabbed hold of a knife and stabbed at it repeatedly. Still, the top remained obstinate.
             
“What are you doing, dad?” Jp asked.
             
“There must be something!” he slammed the tin onto the counter as he shouted. His face was red and his eyes moist. I had never seen him so frail in appearance before; frail in his loss of composure. “A note…” his voice cut out behind his words. “Or a reason, Jp. There must be an answer.”
           
Picking up the tin again, he pounded it on the counter until the top popped open. In a flurry, he tugged at the insides, tearing out teabag after teabag until all had been extracted. Silently, we all stared at the pile of teabags on the counter.
             
“Why was it super glued shut if there was nothing in it?” Jp asked.
             
We knew the answer instantly, all of us: not why Jesse had glued it shut, but we knew that that was just the way he was. Above all else, Jesse had lived and died a mystery.