“Hey dick, are you following me?” His eyes couldn’t focus on me and his words melted together like a box of crayons in a car in July. I tried ignoring him as I slid a ten to the clerk, voice wavering with fear of a brawl in her store. She glanced at the situation tenuously before sliding a penny out of the “leave a penny” bin by the register; she wasn’t about to point out the one cent missing from my money with a scene like this unfolding.
“Hey asshole, I’m talking to you,” Randy prodded, now physically poking at me. I instantaneously and unconsciously pushed him away, his back slamming into the newspaper rack beside the register.
“Watch your back. Don’t touch me,” he yelled, recovering into an attack stance. My heart sank as I realized that a confrontation was going to be unavoidable. I tried one more time to resist the incitation for a fight.
“Randy, look, I don’t want any problems. Not now,” I reasoned as I gathered my receipt from the clerk’s hand. I was turning to head out the door when Randy took a weakly powered and poorly aimed swing at me. This was too much. I turned and punched him square in the jaw, sending him to the floor as bones crackled from the force of my blow. The clerk, verging on the label of elderly, screamed and backed away from the counter, trying to retreat into a safe haven between the cigarette displays. Randy didn’t even attempt to get up, probably the result of his liquor. I headed straight for the door, stopping only to utter one more sentence. “If you touch me or Emma again, I’ll kill you.” These were not words to be taken lightly, for I wasn’t the type of guy who sought out trouble. But I had it with Randy. With a guy like him, you had to show dominance.
I threw the door open, cuing the chiming again. I made a decision. I was done thinking about Randy. He would get up from being knocked on his ass, be pissed, but probably forget what happened the next day when he woke up from his inebriation stint. Panting from the exchange, I climbed in my truck, assessed my face for potential damage, and headed toward Emma’s.
I tried to mentally prepare myself and turn my thoughts to Emma. I didn’t want Randy swaying another second of our night. At the red light near the gas station, I reached in my pocket to feel for that familiar ring box, only to find my heart clutching with panic for the second time—it wasn’t there. My chest felt heavy as I realized the intense possibility that this would ruin my night with Emma. I mentally retraced my steps until I remembered that life-changing detail. I hadn’t put it in my pocket. On top of forgetting gas, I had made a much larger mistake. I had forgotten the ring.
Now, all pretenses of calm, collected Corbin were kicked into the dust that I left behind my truck as I ran that red light, turning my truck around to head back home. The clock on my dash now read 5:02. I was going to be late. I stamped on the gas, truck hovering near illegal speeds as I made my way back to the house. I squealed to a stop, leaped out of the truck like I was in an action movie, and dashed up the stairs to my room. I rustled through the calamity that was my room, tossing dirty clothing and misplaced belongings in sheer terror; the most important item of the night was nowhere in sight and I was already late. I kicked over a stack of textbooks, rummaged through my laundry basket, and threw myself to the floor to peer under the bed in desperation. Finally, I found the ring box resting between two candy bar wrappers near my dresser and made a crazy run for it back to the truck. It was 5:14. I was officially late. But at least I wasn’t ring-less on the night of the proposal.
I took a second to catch my breath, pull myself together, and mentally assess the situation. I now had everything I needed. I was a few minutes late, some sweat beaded on my forehead, and I had somewhat of an altercation with Randy. It wasn’t perfect, but it also wasn’t enough to destroy the night. At least, I wasn’t about to let it. I would be at Emma’s in a few minutes. Maybe a little bit of anticipation would add to her excitement. All of this would be a distant memory in an hour or so, the optimism of a wedding blotting out these minor imperfections in the day.
“It’s fine,” I reassured myself again, out loud this time, as I aimed my truck down the driveway and the pathway to Emma.
As I maneuvered the treacherous curves in the back road and approached the straightaway on the way to Emma’s, I glanced over toward the side of the road. Something was lying in the ditch about twenty yards ahead, something big. I slowed the truck instinctively. At first, my mind thought it was probably a deer that had been hit and crawled to the ditch to die. As I was driving past, I slowed a bit more and realized that this “deer” was clothed. I slammed on my brakes, not even considering that danger might be lurking around. This was not a well-traveled road, so if someone was in need, I was probably their only shot for the next few hours.
Slamming my truck’s heavy door, I scurried toward the ditch. A sudden recognition sank into me. This was a familiar face. The name that belonged to the face—Randy Clark.
I skidded into the ditch, shouting Randy’s name. Gravel loosening my step, I slid down to the ground, taken back by puddles of blood pooling around him. Although he was clearly intoxicated at the gas station, he still didn’t even begin to compare to the rough, unhealthy appearance he was sporting now. His face was a sickly gray that warned of looming death. What the hell had happened? I wondered. My chest still tight from panic, I quickly surveyed the scene to rationalize the surroundings. Mind blurring and whirling, trepidation and shock paralyzed my physical and mental reactions. I couldn’t seem to think, to breathe, to do anything but stare. As the shock slowly waned, my eyes were able to catch the glimmer of something besides just the cesspools of blood. There was a knife sticking out of his stomach.
Instinct kicked in as I straddled Randy, still calling out his name. I checked for a pulse, ignoring the blood spatters that were drenching my clothes and my skin. Suddenly, the proposal seemed like a distant event. Right now my only concern was why Randy was covered in blood and how I was going to help him. Although I had just shouted out a death threat to him a few minutes ago, I hadn’t meant it.
Randy stirred slightly, almost undetectably, his hands clutching the knife protruding from his stomach as an animalistic groan trembled in his throat. I irrationally screamed for help, hoping against all odds that someone at the gas station would hear me. It was about four blocks from where we were, but the way the roads were situated, we were behind it, surrounded by wilderness and barren fields. It was unlikely that with the roar of the road in front, anyone would hear us. Randy was fading fast, blood slowly trickling from his lips as the sticky, hot liquid pooled around his gut.
“Stay with me, Randy, it’s going to be okay,” I uttered, giving up on attracting help and needing to hear the reassurance myself. Things were bad, and there was no help in sight. I couldn’t get him to the truck myself. I thought about dashing to my truck and driving the four blocks to get help, but I was afraid to leave him. Out of an instinctual, knee-jerk reaction, I did the only thing I thought I could do. I tried to free the knife so I could stop the bleeding. I yanked the weapon free, tossing it into the brush nearby, and immediately applied pressure. The blood continued surging, and so did my panic. My idea wasn’t working, not by a long shot.
I started seriously considering that the best chance Randy had was for me to go and flag down help. I delicately attempted to place his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, scrambled up out of the ditch, and stumbled toward my truck. As I slammed my body, which was frail from sheer terror, against the truck door and reached for the handle, I realized a car was approaching from the distance. Thank God! I thought as I leaped back out, preparing to wave the car down, not wanting to chance that it would pass us.
I didn’t have to beg for it to stop, though, because it was a police car. My mind didn’t panic or worry what the scene would look like. I was just so thankful to have backup. It was truly a miracle that this cop had been traveling the road back here, probably a mere matter of coincidence, or maybe a result of the fearful clerk after our altercation. Regardless, I waved my blood-soaked hands in the air as the c
ar slowed.
The cop pulled behind my truck, dashing out of the door with his weapon drawn. I threw my hands in the air in automatic response.
“Help! Please! He’s been stabbed!” I uttered almost incoherently. The cop evaluated the scene without moving an eye from me.
“Get on the ground,” he demanded, weapon drawn and aimed. Horrified, I slowly bent down on my knees, hands behind my head as I had seen in so many movies. The officer approached, searched me for weapons, and then jammed handcuffs on me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, tears now forming and blurring my vision.
The officer reached into his car without moving his weapon from me. He called for backup.
The next twenty minutes offered more chaos than a movie or television show could ever hope to capture. An ambulance slammed onto the scene, setting off an explosion of Emergency Medical Technicians and stretchers. Five more policemen showed up, searched the area, bagged up evidence, and evaluated the scene. I was quickly stuffed into the back of the car, read my rights, and driven to the station. This must be a mistake, I thought. How did I end up here? I was just trying to help.
I was taken to the station where I sat for several hours before I was finally awarded my phone call. Clearly, this had all been a huge misunderstanding. Looking back as I sat in that metal chair, I realized the police were probably confused. It certainly looked bad. The two of us on a back road, Randy stabbed, me covered in blood jumping into my truck. It was only a matter of time until things were straightened out. As I sat waiting for my dad to come and help sort out the mess, I felt the ring box bulging in my pocket and realized that night would be memorable, but not for the right reasons.
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Meeting
Emma
Memories
The dark, damp smell in the waiting area reminded me of the putrid smell of death. Mom and I had been poked, prodded, interrogated, inspected, and practically violated by prison officials to make sure that we weren’t smuggling anything into the prison. Like I would be capable of pulling that off. I didn’t even know what would be considered contraband. Then, we were led to a room, if you could call it that, to wait our turn. A churning in the pit of my stomach reminded me of how nervous I truly was.
When the guard finally turned to us and told us to go ahead, I sprang out of my seat, nerves increasing the intensity of all my actions. Mom stayed seated as I looked at her inquisitively.
“You go on. I’ll wait here. I can visit him later.”
I gave her a faint smile, appreciating her respect of our privacy. She knew we would want to talk alone.
“I’ll fill you in,” I called over my shoulder as the guard led me through a series of locked doors. We passed through a ridiculous maze until we came to the visitor’s room. It was a tiny room, dank and depressing, accessorized with only a stiff metal table and two lonely chairs.
“You have ten minutes,” the guard gruffly muttered. As I turned to say thank you, another guard led Corbin into the room.
What a difference a few hours could make. Gone was the smiling, carefree Corbin of my memories who had hidden a red dress in my closet for a wonderful surprise. In front of me stood a broken, hopeless man. He was wearing the traditional orange prison garb. Tears instantaneously streamed down my face. I rose to go to him when the guard crassly reminded me that there was no physical contact with prisoners. I lowered myself back to my seat.
Countless thoughts swirled through my mind and attempted to overthrow my sanity. I had so many questions I wanted to ask, so many worries to cover, so many fears to divulge. However, at this moment and with only ten minutes to talk, it seemed like Corbin’s physical and mental well- being were of more importance.
“Corbin, how are you? Are you okay? When are you getting out of here? What happened?” Once the questions started, they leaped out rapid-fire.
Corbin gazed at me, a sense of blankness permeating his face. I could still see the same old Corbin hidden deep within the stare. However, I also sensed the distance between us. The drawbridge had opened smoothly, but neither of us had noticed the flashing sign warning us to stay away. It was too late—we were crashing into the depths of the river below.
Corbin began. “Emma, listen to me. We don’t have much time. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this. For ruining your night. I’m so sorry…” His voice trailed off as it began to crack.
“Don’t worry about me or last night. It’s you that I’m worried about. What’s going on? It can’t be that bad. Just some mistake, right?”
“Yeah, it’s a mistake. But good luck explaining that. It’s bad, Em. Really bad.” His eyes darted from mine as he uttered those cursed claims.
“Corbin, whatever it is, it’ll be fine. We’ll clear it all up and then no big deal, right?” I pleaded for reassurance. He sat in silence as the seconds ticked into minutes. He finally glanced up at me, tears welling in his eyes.
“I don’t think this is getting cleared up. Randy died last night, died, Em. They think I did it. They think I killed him. The whole situation looks really bad, and I don’t know how to prove them wrong. Dad got me a lawyer, and he’s good and all. But even he thinks it doesn’t look good. It’s just a mess, a huge mess. If only I had gone for help right away, or if I hadn’t said those things. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Corbin’s words pleaded for understanding, understanding that I was certain he had. He was wringing his hands through his hair, true despair coursing through his words. It looked like a dramatic scene from a movie, but it wasn’t. This had become real life.
“Look, it’s going to be fine, okay? Just tell me what happened.”
Corbin nodded, although he glanced at the nearby guard suspiciously. He weighed his options and then began to speak.
“I wanted to surprise you, to do something truly memorable to celebrate graduation. I just wanted to do something classy. So, I worked with your mom. I had her sneak the dress into your room, the notes, everything. I wanted it to be perfect. I was getting everything ready to go for five o’clock. I had spent so much time on all of the details that I forgot about getting gas for my truck. I decided to stop and get some on my way to pick you up. While I was paying, that’s when I saw him.”
Corbin’s eyes got a hazy look to them. I could feel his pain, his sorrow, and his regrets. Tears continued to run down my face. I was getting ready to reach for his hand. Although it was illegal, I didn’t care. Suddenly, the dreaded words burst from the guard’s mouth like a cattle bell.
“Time’s up! Let’s go, Jones.”
I leaped to my feet, “Sir, wait, just a few more minutes.” I might as well have been a piece of lint on the floor, for they completely disregarded my appeals and led Corbin away before I could even say goodbye. He squinted back at me with a tearful look. Then, he was gone. The guard led me back through a series of complicated gates and locks. I aimlessly put one foot in front of the other until my mom was in view. Without a word, I crumpled into her arms and began sobbing.
It was a long ride home. It would seem that the rides to and from the jail would get longer and longer as the weeks turned into months.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Separation
Emma
Memories
At first, I had thought this was just a short nightmare stemming from miscommunication and confusion. Once Corbin’s lawyer cleared everything up, he would be released and we would move on with our lives. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be released. Those doubts would vine their way through me in the months to come, but one thing would stay constant even when things looked worse than bad—I knew Corbin didn’t do it. The Corbin I had spent countless days and nights with, the guy who cried over his sister, who brought me flowers just because he wanted to, the guy who shared dinners with my family and holidays, was not a guy who could stab another guy, even if that guy was Randy Clark.
The rest of the town, though, didn’t know the Corbin that I knew. They saw this kid who’d been through hellish ordea
ls, who had somewhat of a temper, who had threatened to kill Randy just moments before, and they stamped him as guilty. They peered at me, even in those early days, as a victim of love and naivety. Their eyes beckoned me to see the light, to save myself and my pride while I still could. But I didn’t listen. I became alienated from the world around us because of my commitment to Corbin, to the truth. The real world and its inhabitants became a distant place from my world of jail cell visits and prayers for the truth.
Days passed. Weekends passed. June passed. The absence of Corbin from my daily life beleaguered me like a lingering illness. Everything lost its luster, even in the summer sun’s gorgeous rays. Letters about college visiting days and orientations piled up on my desk, but all I could think about was Corbin. I had already forfeited my job at the mall because I had called off so many days to visit the jail. Suddenly, folding sweaters for superficial teenagers to peruse didn’t seem to matter as much as the ordeal we were going through. In actuality, nothing mattered. When I wasn’t visiting him, I was sitting by the phone hoping he would earn a phone call, or on my knees praying for a swift reveal of the truth. I hardly recognized myself in photographs from just a few months before. Where was that illustrious, smiling girl who had everything ahead of her? What had happened to our lives?
Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 18