5. Arit

Chapter five

Arit

I don’t know what compels me, but after sitting idle in my flat and getting nothing accomplished by way of reading, I find myself driving back to Nixon’s. I tell myself I’m only checking on him. After all, he looked rather distressed from his ordeal.

The sun is rising, and I can feel a pull to the east, but it’s distant enough that I can ignore it for a while yet. There’s a glare on the windows of Nixon’s apartment building, and I only now notice the intricate facade and brickwork of the older building. As is normally the case in developing cultures, older structures are typically torn down or destroyed to make way for newer, more modern structures befitting of the time.

It lightens my spirits to see an older dwelling still standing.

Since I’m masking—something that is so second nature I rarely even notice when I’m doing it anymore—I don’t hesitate to approach Nixon’s window and peer inside, figuring he’ll no doubt be asleep since it’s still early morning.

Sure enough, nestled in an array of bedding, Nixon is fast asleep. I can just make out the riot of freckles across his cheeks and nose and the reddish-brown mop of curls on his head. He looks quite peaceful.

Taking a moment, I study the inside of Nixon’s room. While the general atmosphere appears orderly, there are piles of clothes on the floor, stacks of books on the small side table, and an assemblage of papers scattered on his nightstand and hanging out of his satchel. There are also a variety of color-organized garments hanging in his partially opened closet. The only photos I note on display are those of a sun-kissed, smiling Nixon standing with three other people, whom I know to be his parents and brother.

The distinct lack of any indication of a significant other leaves a strangely satisfying contentment in my mind. I’ve been called to carry Nixon so many times over the years and never noticed anyone hanging around who seemed particularly close to him outside of his family. While I realize I should want Nixon to live a life full of love and family, there’s something in me that rebels at that idea. Not that I want Nixon to be unwell, just that it settles a part of me I have never given much notice to before that he is still finding his way on his own.

The last time I saw Nixon, he was a young adult. Seeing him now, filled out with a close-cropped beard and greater sense of self, fills me with desire and pride like I have known this man his whole life and attended to his needs. Despite his close calls with death, Nixon is thriving.

His soul is strong and familiar, and I’m pleased it has called out to me again.

Deciding this fire escape is as good a place as any, I settle down and tune in to my next charge. It’s been a quiet night, all things considered. Where sometimes us reapers are zigging this way and that, ferrying souls left and right, I’ve had a relatively peaceful few days.

I can sense, like a building buzz of static in my core, that the next couple of days will be busy. As is usually the case, when the weather warms up, so do the number of calls I attend.

I’m not one to keep regular track of time since, to me, it’s so fleeting, but a sudden knock on the door behind me has me sitting up straighter.

I listen intently to the conversation Nixon has with his flatmate. There are a few tidbits of information I glean from the exchange, not least of which is that I like Nixon’s sense of humor, and he’s wrong that he’s nearly died twelve times.

But still.

As the conversation wraps up, I hear the other man leave, and shortly thereafter, I note the rustle of bedding and softer footsteps. Not wanting to test this new and interesting development where Nixon can apparently see me now, I quickly dissipate and head up to the roof, just in case he looks outside.

As the tug across town to the east intensifies, I can’t help but ruminate on eavesdropping and my own curiosity. I’ve been wandering this earth for millions of years, and aside from doing what I was created to do, I’ve never assimilated. I’ve never been involved .

I’ve always looked in from the outside, never taking part in any celebrations, any defeats, or any matters of the heart. I’ve never been disappointed. I’ve never been elated. And something that suddenly sinks in, I’ve never had a conversation with anyone who wasn’t a reaper.

The mundane conversation I just overheard between Nixon and his flatmate is potentially one of the first human conversations I’ve ever cared about.

I mean, yes, I care about humans. It’s my purpose to treat them with respect, to be there for them in the end, and to ensure their eternal happiness. But have I ever gone to such levels as to sit near one specific person and listen in to their daily preoccupations?

Not that I can recall.

And for what? All because Nixon saw me?

Sure, that’s a new and interesting development. Sure, no one has ever seen me unless I’ve dropped my mask. I’ve been so diligent and focused on my purpose, I probably wouldn’t have cared if someone else had seen me instead of Nixon.

So what is it about him that’s piqued my interest?

I don’t have the answer to that right now. I’ve never had to ponder such things before, and perhaps that’s part of this puzzle that has me intrigued as well. It has to mean something that he can see me, right?

Or is there something wrong with my gifts?

The sudden thought that my powers might be dwindling has me on edge and a touch panicky.

I leave my perch on the roof and head down to the street. Nixon’s apartment is on a relatively busy street, with shops, banks, and eateries lining the way. If I stand in the middle of the bustling crossroads, someone is bound to see me.

Yet, as I stand, arms spread and directly in the center of the road, no one honks, no one swerves, and no one looks my way. I should be an imposing figure, dark and mysterious—and with a chariot for crying out loud—yet everyone totally ignores me and cars zoom right on by. I may as well be a ghost for all the attention I’m drawing.

But it appears my powers are not dwindling and there is merely something going on with Nixon. Something I can’t help wanting to know more about since this is a first for me.

I spend a few minutes reflecting on what I should do—if anything—about this situation, but the tug in the east draws my focus, and I leave Nixon’s to attend to Mr. Colin Washburn, former high school principal, grandfather to six, and former Navy pilot.

Directing my chariot, I set thoughts of a certain human aside. The situation with Nixon really is nothing more than a passing fascination. There might be something odd at foot, but in another hundred years I’ll have forgotten all about it.

Maybe.

But as my day progresses and I find myself back in Nixon’s neighborhood, it seems my determination to put my purpose first is waning. I’ve carried two more souls—one, a young single mother, and the other, a middle-aged city councilwoman—since I attended to Mr. Washburn. And since I can’t seem to stop myself, I end up outside Nixon’s apartment, wondering if I should see if he’s home.

“What are you doing?”

I jump and barely contain a shout as I spin around and glare at Rai. I’ve been so lost in contemplation over my next move I didn’t sense another reaper in the area.

“Nothing,” I snip. “Just waiting. Why are you in town?”

Rai raises one of her elegant eyebrows, knowing full well I’m full of shit. Reapers don’t usually stare up at buildings mindlessly, and we’re never caught unaware. “I was following my next charge, who was being transported to the nearby hospital. Why are you so jumpy? And why are you standing here instead of meeting your charge?”

“I didn’t say I was meeting a charge. I said I was waiting. I don’t have anywhere to be at present, so I’m just standing here.” I’m short with my friend, and it irritates me. Despite what we do, despite our purpose and our ceaseless proximity to death, reapers are generally genial beings; we’re compassionate and patient by nature.

But I don’t like that I let myself get so carried away by my distraction I zoned out and am now on the defensive.

Rai’s frown makes me feel quite belittled. “Arit?”

“Sorry,” I soothe. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be short. You caught me off guard, and that’s upsetting to me. I’ve been distracted of late, and my mind is elsewhere. I apologize for being terse with you.”

Rai places her delicate hand on my shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m not vexed. What’s troubling you, brother? I’ve never known you to be this distraught.”

I sigh. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was distraught, but I am off balance. Just as I’m about to explain the situation with Nixon, the man himself exits the front door of his building, looking beautiful but slightly unhinged.

Automatically, I snap to attention, immediately standing taller despite knowing my mask is in place. There is a very real possibility Nixon will see me, and that prospect makes my life force thrum faster.

Even though I’m no longer looking at Rai, I can tell she’s startled and curious about my reaction. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice as she turns to see what’s captured my attention.

Nixon is adjusting his sweater and the satchel over his shoulder as he mutters something about his annoying housemate while glaring daggers back at the door. I can’t help wondering if he’s feeling okay or if he’s suffering some ill effects from his concussion.

When he finally turns away from his death stare, he winces and squints, quickly pulling out a pair of sunglasses from his bag.

“Who is that?” Rai asks, and I have the sudden urge to shush her even though I know no one will hear her.

“Nixon Everhart,” I whisper, but I wasn’t as quiet as I thought because Nixon looks our way. His eyes widen at the same time as mine, and a flood of questions pour from Rai as Nixon takes a step our way and speaks.