WE GATHER TOGETHER by Edward L. Woodyard

We Gather Together Chapter Six

Scott McCulloch stared out at the rooftops of San Francisco. He wasn't thinking anything about them in particular. It was just another morning and he had somehow made it through the night. He had shaved, showered and dressed himself in a green-striped shirt and blue jeans, and then climbed two flights of stairs to the roof of his apartment building. He knew he'd be leaving soon, so he decided to take one last view of the sun peering past the Coit Tower and creating the first morning shadows on Filbert Street. He wasn't sure yet where he would be going next, but he knew he couldn't stay there any longer. The pain was too great. Everything he saw and did reminded him of her.

He had loved San Francisco when he got there. Drew had dropped him off at LaGuardia after his fight that Thanksgiving with their father. He had entered the terminal, looked up at the departures board, and saw "Now Boarding" flashing on a TransAir flight to San Francisco. He trudged through security with his duffel bag and then headed for the departure gate. The flight attendant sold him a ticket when a no-show opened up a seat on the flight. His duffel bag was stowed in the hold and he was soon airborne into his future, whatever that might be.

San Francisco was far enough away from everything that was haunting him. Scott would be forced to make some decisions, about how he would live his life, determine who he was, and discover whom he was going to be. The booze and random sex weren't solving any problems; they were creating them. He had to stop drinking, find a place to live and figure out what he wanted to do with his life. He only knew what he didn't want to do. Thirty years old wouldn't be that far off and he'd better have his act together by then because forty wasn't too far beyond that milestone. He found a hotel room south of Mission and a job, paradoxically, at a copy shop. It was a start. That irony alone made him realize that he couldn't get away from whom he was.

As he looked over at the support towers of the Bay Bridge from the roof, Scott knew he had done everything that he had set out to do before he reached thirty. He had made himself healthy, started a company, set up the deals, got investors and bought a home. He had done it all on his own, with no help from anyone. And soon after he had turned thirty, he had fallen in love when he least expected it.

But now he had to leave, to go somewhere else. Everything about this city triggered a memory of her. Especially this rooftop where he had proposed to her. He had strung Japanese lanterns between two rusted, long-abandoned TV antennas, dropping an extension cord down the side of the building to their bedroom window in order to provide electricity to the lights. There had been a linen tablecloth on a small card table, two lawn chairs and a bottle of Evian cooling in a metal sand pail they'd found together at the beach. Why didn't that memory stop her?

Scott's cell phone pulsated in his pants pocket. He looked at its screen and saw that it was from Brian Gardner. He didn't want to talk to him just now. He let the call go to voicemail.

Scott strode to the edge of the roof and gazed straight down the front of the building to the sidewalk, then scanned all the cars parked on the street perpendicular to the curb. Scott knew that his height and build could make him off-balanced if he peered over too far. He suffered a sense of vertigo and finally stepped back from the edge.

Would he ever know what really happened? Had there been an accident? He needed to believe that it wasn't his fault. Tears welled up in his eyes and he used his shirtsleeve to wipe them away. He couldn't go through all this again. He had to get out of there.

He glanced at a wristwatch. It was a round gold Hamilton with a pigskin strap which had been his grandfather's; it had been willed to him and was the only thing of his family's that he cherished. He referred to that watch out of habit. It didn't matter what time it was. He still had to get out of there.

He noticed again that there was no longer a ring on any of his fingers.

As Scott started down the stairs from the roof, he listened to Brian Gardner's voicemail on his cell phone. "Scott, it's Brian. I got your message about Wendy. I don't know what to say except that I'm so sorry. Please let me know if there's anything we can do. And I promise I won't say anything to your parents. Scott, please know that Nina and I love you. Call us."

He put his cell phone back into his pants pocket and opened the door to his apartment. A couch, tables, chairs and a bed were placed against a far wall. Curtains on the street windows were pulled shut; the morning sunlight was now filtered, providing the only illumination to the what had been their home. Some twenty cardboard boxes and plastic storage bins were stacked in the bedroom; several shopping bags were piled next to them.

There really wasn't all that much there, he thought, once it was all packed and stowed away. Is this all there was to show for a life and marriage? What remained there was his. All of Wendy's clothes and possessions had been shipped to her parents in Pennsylvania. He'd deal with all of his stuff later, when he had to. The worst part had been folding and packing clothes from her closet; her smell was still on them.

His eyes searched the apartment one more time. In a far corner of the ceiling by the living room window, he saw part of a blue and pink crepe streamer he had taped there. Why hadn't he taken down all of it? Had she seen that? Had she kept looking at it? Had it kept reminding her? Did any of that matter anymore? It still wouldn't change anything.

Right then, Scott needed to go somewhere, anywhere. He grabbed his bomber jacket, duffel bag and a large backpack he used for camping in the Sierras. They were filled with what he thought he'd need to get by for a while: clothes, shoes, his Dopp kit, his laptop, a pillow, other essentials, even a necktie, just in case.

He stepped into the hallway, locked his apartment door, went down three flights of stairs to the street level, and found his black BMW sedan right where he parked it. No need now to trade it in now for a Pathfinder, he said to himself.

Scott put his duffel bag and backpack in the trunk and looked back again at his building. He then sat behind the wheel of the Bimmer but hesitated. No, he would not second-guess himself. He started the car and drove down the Filbert Street hill to the corner. It was a clear and cool morning in San Francisco, but he had other things to think about besides the weather.

Or things not to think about. If he tried not to think about them, it meant that he was actually thinking about them. All was turmoil. One thing was certain: he would stay sober. He owed that to her. Without that, all of it would have meant nothing. And it had meant everything.

He wavered at a stop sign at the bottom of the hill. What did he do now?

He decided to turn right toward the 101. After that, Scott McCulloch didn't know what he'd do. He didn't really care either. He was convinced that his car would decide for him. It would take him where he needed to go.