Chapter 21: Moving Pictures (page 2)
by Emmet
The bandit finished his account, and the wronged wife began to speak. Grace loosened her grip on my hand, and I opened my hand, already missing the comforting pressure of her fingers. But she left her hand there, and after a minute held my hand again, softly this time, gently, and I curled my fingers around hers. It was just a hand, I rationalized to myself. We both stared straight ahead at the screen, the hands between us having nothing to do with us, nothing to do with the spark I felt. The bucket of popcorn rested between us on both our knees. With our opposite hands we each ate popcorn, slowly, a puffed kernel at a time.
And then the end. Four stories told, the truth is what we choose it to be, balanced by an odd redemption at Rashomon Gate. Hope even in a hopeless world. As the credits came on, our hands fell apart. Grace licked her buttery fingers, and I passed her a napkin as I used one myself to removed the grease from my fingers.
Side by side we left the theatre. I felt self-conscious of the space between us now, aware of her hand dangling near mine over the sidewalk, empty as mine was. I opened the passenger door for her by hand, and Grace got into my car, looking up at me as I shut the door once she was seated. Her fourth and final ride with me. Did I think there would be others? Did I think there would be more movies, more popcorn, more lifts home from school? Or did I realize somehow things would have to end, that this would be the last time? I had stepped so far over so many lines, but I couldn�t stop myself because I didn�t want to. That night, I couldn�t think beyond each minute.
�That movie was amazing,� Grace said as I started up the car. �Really. It really makes you think. Because each character was a believable witness � even the bandit guy, in his way.�
�Right � so which version of the truth is correct? I think what was especially brilliant is that each storyteller blames him- or herself for the murder.�
�Including the victim,� Grace observed. �That�s what made it so interesting. Each time you heard another version. The mystery, too, of who did it, and why each one takes the blame. But I don�t really get how they all connect to the abandoned child.�
�Well, the priest and the peasant both seemed shell-shocked � �
�Yes!� she jumped in. �Like they were stunned. But the priest didn�t know exactly what happened any more than anyone else, you know? But he seemed the most judgmental.�
�Until they found the abandoned baby. At first, it was just another sign of the horror of the world. But what was the peasant�s reaction?�
She thought for a minute as we turned up the street to my house. �At first he wants to, like, get away. But then, then he says he�ll take it in.�
�And what about the weather?�
�The rain? Oh! The rain stops. It�s like, there�s hope now.�
�The way I see it, no matter how bad things are, there�s still an element of good in people, which means there�s hope for people.�
�It was just such a, I don�t know, full movie. Layered. A lot there. I�d like to see it again, to get everything that�s there, what I might have missed.�
�It�s definitely a movie you should see more than once,� I said as I pulled up in front of my house and parked the car. �We�re here.�
Neither of us moved. Finally, Grace said, �Thanks for this movie, for wanting to see it with me.� And she looked up at me, her hand on the seatbelt clasp. That intense feeling passing between us, those lips, those eyes, but I couldn�t let it go beyond the hands we held.
�Go home, now, Grace,� I said, looking at her directly.
She looked as if she were debating; would she say why again? Her car was parked right in front of mine. She undid the clasp, opened the door. Reached a hand to touch mine, which was resting on the steering wheel. The barest touch, branded onto the back of my hand. �Okay,� she said, and was gone. I watched while she got into her car, while she started it up, while she drove away. Only after I could no longer see the taillights did I undo my seatbelt and get out of my car.
I remember the times we parted as strongly as the times we had together, because they always came too soon, our time was always too short.