“Only if you want to. You have a place here if you ever need it.”
“Thanks, Scott. But I belong with my dad. We have a lot of years to make up for.”
“That’s true. He seems like a good man.”
“He’s married again, and I have a sister. Her name’s Laurel, and she’s six years old. And, he’s going to pay for me to go to college. He said money’s not an issue. He told me business has been good and he’s thrifty. His savings can cover college. No loans, no grants, no work study.”
“That’s wonderful. That’ll let you concentrate on studying, not partying, right?”
“You know me better. I’m not a party kind of guy.” His eyes darted toward Pete’s bedroom. “I’ve seen what alcohol can do to a person. Never again will I live on the streets.”
“I’m proud of you, Ty.”
He shuffled uncomfortably. “I need to bring up something else. Your documentary?”
“Yeah, did you read the part I left for you?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“It’s pretty good.”
“And?”
He continued to shuffle uneasily. “I’ll sign your paper.”
“Awesome!”
“Scott, I’m signing it for one reason. You’ve been good to me. Good to Pete and D.J. And I don’t think it’s because of wanting to write about us. I think it’s because you care about people.”
“I care about you three.”
“There’re things in every family that are…” He seemed to search for the right word. “That are ugly. Those are the things that you keep close to your heart, not the things that you show the whole world. When you publish that, everyone in the world will know my mother’s a drunk, who went from man to man, moving in with guys she barely knew.”
“But this isn’t about her. This is about you, a victim of a poor home life.”
“You can’t write about me without writing about her. Not much love lost, but it feels funny. I guess disloyal. And my dad—well he’s so sorry he didn’t take me with him from the beginning. He’ll be embarrassed for all of the world to know how that turned out.”
My excitement washed away. I didn’t want to embarrass Sam. Could I reword it enough to avoid that?
Tyler shifted then continued. “What if someone wrote an article and went national, one that talked about your childhood? Talked about your domineering father and your mother not acting like much of a mother, and what if it talked about Edwin falling in with the wrong crowd and how he OD’ed under the bleachers. How would that feel for the whole world to know?”
My throat tightened, and I struggled to get a breath. Tyler sat with his elbow on the table, his head down and propped on his hand, the profile of The Thinker, as quiet as that mass of bronze. Silence hung between us. I stood and walked toward the stairs but did an about face, came up behind Tyler, and ruffled his hair. I couldn’t be upset with him for speaking truth.
The doorbell rang, and Tyler answered it to let in the hospice nurse.
Shelving my concerns about the documentary. I pulled out the chart that we kept for logging medication and what he ate. “He hasn’t been getting out of bed,” I told her, “and he never wants to eat anything.”
“I’ll go check on him.”
I walked her up the stairway and listened in while she examined Pete. He whispered when she asked about his pain level.
“OK, Pete. I’m going to check your pulse and blood pressure, temperature, and IV line.”
After she was finished, we went back downstairs and gathered at the dining room table while she gave details about what the next forty-eight hours would look like.
There would be no Thanksgiving dinner for Pete. No reunion with his daughter. Just the final breaths from a jolly man with a gift for making people laugh.
31
Scott Harrington
The clock said 4:30 AM. as I slid in and out of sleep. Something felt wrong, and I couldn’t place it. A tangible quiet hovered over the house without the peaceful sense that often accompanies silence. Pete. That’s what I didn’t hear. I jolted out of bed.
I hadn’t heard Pete coughing or any raspy noises. When I opened the door to his room, D.J. was sitting beside the bed.
D.J. looked at me and answered my unspoken question with a shake of his head. “He’s gone.”
Old Pete had breathed his last on this side of heaven. It was a profound loss, even with the short time I knew him. How deep the loss must be for D.J. Grief had become his constant companion.
There’s an awkwardness for men that women don’t experience. Men don’t hug or cry or talk about hurting. I put my hand on D.J.’s shoulder, an unspoken acknowledgment of the loss.
Did he sit here all night, somehow knowing?
“Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll call hospice.”
When D.J. left the room, I stood over the body of Pete Simmons. His was not a wasted life. Yes, I’d heard the hardships from his daughter. I’d heard of the hurt he inflicted…and it was wrong. If only she could have known old Pete in these last months. He’d been a rich storyteller, a man filled with laughter, eyes shining like they had some amusing secret. The normal life hadn’t worked for Pete, but he’d carved out his own contentment. And he’d left a mark.
I eased the door closed and walked to the kitchen. Hospice would see to the arrangements since he had no family. He would be cremated and buried in a pauper’s grave while four people mourned at his graveside.
I sat down to wait for the ambulance that would transport Pete to the morgue. There on the table lay the waiver Tyler had signed. I stared at it for the longest time without picking it up. Such a good kid. He signed that for me, despite the cost. Once so coveted, it now radiated heat like a brimstone, carrying the acrid smell of sulfur.
I moved to the kitchen and set up the coffee, ignoring the paper that mocked me from the center of the table. The transport arrived at seven thirty, without any fanfare, but the movement in the house pulled Tyler and D.J. from their beds. D.J. needed to be awake. He’d have a visitor today.
By eight, Pete’s body had been taken from us. D.J. had gone to take a shower, possibly planning his return to the city. Stella arrived with her bag full of breakfast foods. Bagels, muffins, and fresh fruit filled the table. I helped her set plates and silverware when the doorbell suddenly rang at eight thirty.
I told Claire nine o’clock. D.J. hadn’t come out yet after his shower. I answered the door, planning to suggest she give us fifteen more minutes.
But it wasn’t Claire standing at the door. Mary Anne Marshall, Pete’s daughter, stood before me. Her eyes looked fatigued like she could use a good night’s sleep.
“I hope it was OK to stop in.”
“Of course. Come in.” Had she somehow received the news? I waited, saying nothing.
“It’s been a hard few weeks with everything happening at home and thinking about my father. My daughter had her baby last night. They’re doing well. But being there. Seeing the miracle of new life. It seemed to make this whole thing with my dad a little easier. I knew last night I needed to come and see him.”
The silence was deafening. We had been standing when she came and hadn’t yet taken a seat. Tyler and Stella stood there with me. I knew I had to say something.
“Mary Anne, I’m so sorry, but it’s too late. Pete’s gone.”
She covered her face and a gruff cry escaped. Stella grabbed a chair and placed it near her, leading her into it. She pulled another to the entry and motioned for me to sit. They left me to deal with an unexpected grief. Did it default to me because it was my house? Stella would have done better.
“Mary Anne, I’m so sorry. Can I get anything for you? Water or coffee?”
“No. Thank you. When did it happen?”
“He died during the night. They left a little while ago to take his body to the morgue.”
“One day sooner. Why didn’t I come sooner?” She talked to herself but looked up at me. �
��I’ll be going now.”
“Do you need someone to drive you?”
“No, I’m OK. I…I didn’t think I’d be too late.” I walked outside with her, trying to assess her ability to drive. She seemed to recover from the shock.
“Scott, thank you for doing what I should have done. I’m glad my father didn’t die alone.”
I nodded and gave her a side-shoulder hug. Then, she got back in her car and drove away. Old Pete would have been so happy to see her. I could almost hear him saying, “Well howdie do, Missy. Ain’t you a sight for these sore ol’ eyes.”
But it was too late. Mary Anne had missed the opportunity to reconcile with her father. There’s a point in time when there are no more chances.
With barely enough time to catch my breath, I prepared for the next visitor. Claire Bassett would arrive in ten minutes.
Stella, Tyler, and I agreed. When Claire arrived, as much as I would love to be an invisible eavesdropper, we would all move over to Stella’s house.
D.J. came out of his room, cleaned and dressed. Yet my eyes were sharp and trained to observe. The cheeks still deepened, producing a gaunt, atrophied look to his face, a young man in an old body, draped in a blanket of sadness.
He took his coffee, sat in an easy chair, and flipped through a magazine and read one of my articles. I watched the window until Claire’s car pulled in the driveway and parked in front of the house.
Without notice, Stella and Tyler stole away through the back door, and I went to the front, stepping outside.
Claire’s cheeks held a rosy blush from the cold, and her eyes widened with apprehension. I squeezed reassurance into her mittened hand.
“He’s in the living room, to your left when you enter. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She shook her head.
I motioned to Stella’s house. “I’ll be next door when you need me.”
32
Claire Bassett
Closing the door behind me, I took a small step to see past the entry wall into the room where he sat. At first glance, I feared there had been a mistake. I saw a man seated there, thin, older, streaked with gray. The receding hairline and hollow look to his face did not belong to the husband I had known.
But it was Andrew. I silenced the cry that tried to leave my mouth. Breath caught in my throat, and I forced myself to inhale and exhale. I had waited so long for this moment.
His eyes buried in a magazine, he had not yet seen me, allowing me time to take a deeper look. There were the features I knew so well, hidden in this stranger. As I took a small step into the room, he looked up.
Neither of us spoke but stared as if seeing a mirage. He stood and took a few hesitant steps toward me. I stepped into the room and met him.
“Claire.” It was a whispered plea.
I raised my hand to touch his face, feeling weathered skin, protruding cheekbones. I brushed a fallen lock of damp hair back from his forehead, unaware of my tears until his fingers found them, absorbing the dampness from my cheek. I hadn’t spoken, but he continued whispering my name over and over.
Andrew’s arms wrapped around me, drawing me to him. I rested my head against my husband’s shoulder, his cheek pressing into me.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His sobs came, my hand circling his back, trying to still the racking that consumed him. Only once before did he weep in my embrace—the day of Ellory’s death.
We held each other until we both cried ourselves out.
I inhaled, remembering the scent of him, my fingers spread wide over the cotton of his T-shirt. He buried his face against my shoulder. I moved my hand to his hair, holding him there, never wanting him to pull away.
He stepped back to cup my face, and he kissed me tenderly. We moved to the chair where he had been seated, and I slid onto his lap.
A year’s worth of pent-up emotions collided inside of me, and I didn’t know what to do with them.
“Why, Andrew? Why would you leave me?”
Instead of answering my question, his tears returned. He lowered his head into his hand. “Claire, I think I need help.”
“You needed help then. Why did you have to leave?” I wanted to speak love to him, but I ached to have answers.
“The guilt was so huge, I couldn’t see anything that would help me but punishment.”
Were we still here? Still having this year-old discussion? “But it was an accident.”
Andrew took my hands in his. “It was my fault.”
“No, Andrew. You weren’t held responsible. The investigation found you faultless.”
He shook his head and squeezed my hand. “I’m not faultless.”
“Honey, you are. It could have happened to anybody. Ellory ran behind you.”
Andrew flinched at the sound of her name, pain visible in his eyes. His hands rubbed his head, and he held it as it sagged to his chest. His next words came so soft they were almost imperceptible. “While I was reading a text message.”
My mouth opened, and I tried to look into his eyes, but he refused to look at me. Had I heard him correctly? “What did you say?”
He made eye contact with me and spoke with clarity. “I heard a text message come in and reached for my phone. I was in my driveway. I glanced to read it while I was backing out.”
My throat burned with nausea. “Oh, Andrew, you never told me.”
“I never told anyone. They never asked for my phone, and I never offered it.”
“Oh, Andrew.” I held him.
“I was in my driveway,” he repeated.
A few minutes passed before either of us spoke again.
“Claire, I’m trying to do what needed to be done. The legal system had no justice, so I punished myself. I had to.”
I moved and sat on the ottoman facing him. “Why?”
“I couldn’t forgive myself. There was too much guilt.”
I tipped his chin so he’d look at me. “What did that accomplish? Have you forgotten everything you once believed?”
“God forgives. I know that. But there had to be a consequence.”
I stood again and paced. “Why, Andrew?”
“How could I go on and be happy like nothing happened? That isn’t the way it should work.”
I sat down on the ottoman again, taking his hand in mine, and softened my voice to counter the bluntness of my words. “Could you make atonement by punishing yourself? That was already done for you. Don’t diminish the cross by living in false humility.”
Andrew’s eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open. He started to speak but was stopped by a cry in his words. His eyes darted to the Bible on the table beside him. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer. “God forgive me. Is that what I was doing?”
A spark of hope filled me for the first time since that awful day.
Andrew opened his eyes and turned them toward me. “My guilt and confusion squeezed out the truth. It felt way too simple for the weight of what I’d done.”
“The beauty of the gospel is in its simplicity.”
Andrew leaned forward and captured my hand in his. “Claire, I’ve made such a mess of things. Would you take me back after all this?”
My hesitation stunned me. I had cried and prayed and searched, longing for this very moment. Though I felt the beginning of hope, I still stared at a year’s worth of rejection, the pain of being abandoned.
“Why didn’t you come to me? Why did it have to be me looking for you?”
He rested his head on the chair. “I figured you moved on—wouldn’t want me back after so long.” He studied me, presumably appraising my expression to see if his statement held any truth. Jonathan’s face flashed before me, a yoke of guilt.
“I’ve been looking for you for a year. I love you, and I want you back—want our family back. I know you’ve suffered, but I’ve suffered, too. You left me, left our children. I need to know what’s going to happen now. I can’t live every day wondering if you’ll take off again.”
Andrew s
at forward, elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his hands. “It was never you. I tried to run from myself, but I guess that doesn’t work. Grief doesn’t go away, but it does fade. I still grieve over what happened, and I still feel guilt. But it’s not the same intensity. It’s a numb grief.”
“We’d still have to have counseling, Andrew. There’s too much hurt for us to deal with alone.”
“I know. I guess I’ve left us in a financial mess.”
“We can’t think about that now. Counseling has to come first if we’re going to get past this.”
He reached and took my hand and his eyes reflected a lifetime of pain. “Claire, can you ever forgive me?”
I reached forward and stroked his cheek. Then I leaned in and placed my lips on his. “I forgave you long ago. That doesn’t erase the hurt. I need to know you’ll never leave me again.”
“If you’ll have me back, I’ll do everything I can to make things right.”
I needed an answer to my question. “I need to hear the words. Tell me you’ll never leave me.”
“I promise, I’ll never leave you again. Never.”
The tension left my face, my mouth forming the start of a smile. “Then please come home, Andrew. We’ve missed you.”
He drew me toward him, holding me again.
There was a soft knock at the door, and we pulled apart. Scott poked his head around the wall.
“Everything all right here?”
We both nodded. Scott nodded, too. “Well, I’ll just head on back next door.”
And he softly clicked the door closed.
33
Scott Harrington
Ginger hopped onto the sofa and curled her body into a space smaller than she should have fit. With the lights dimmed, the small Christmas tree in the corner threw a pattern of stars on the ceiling. I hadn’t planned on a tree, but Stella wouldn’t hear of it. She came toting a disheveled four-foot pine.
“It’s sad and needed a home. I happen to know this place opens its doors to the downtrodden.”
We got a tree after all, Ginger and me. The dog rested her head on my lap as I stroked her rich brown fur.
“Just you and me, girl. Things are back to being quiet around here.”
The Least of These. Page 19