When You Come Back

by Webb, Debra

  “Come this way.” Helen encircles her arm around mine and ushers me to the right where a small crowd is assembled. “I want to introduce you to Jake.”

  “Your priest,” I remind her. “Father Barnes.” I don’t know why it bothers me that my mother calls him Jake. She called Father Estes by his given name, John, for as long as I can remember. But he was a good ten years older than Helen. Her calling this younger man who seems to make her so giddy by his first name feels weird.

  “You’re going to love him.”

  As if the folks gathered around the priest recognize a force of nature is descending, the crowd parts like the Red Sea clearing a path for my mother. I toddle along a mere step behind her, mainly because she has a death grip on my arm.

  “Helen, good morning.”

  That deep voice seeps into my brain sending up warning flags and launching a powerful shot of denial before my brain interprets what my eyes see.

  Joey Beckett.

  My AA sponsor.

  Nooo that is just not possible.

  The black garb and the white collar confirm that he is indeed a priest but the dazzling blue eyes and killer smile remind me like a slap to the face that he is the man I kissed in the Home Depot men’s room about twenty-four hours ago.

  Sweet Jesus. I kissed a priest on the mouth with salacious thoughts roaring through my head…with heat exploding in the rest of my body. I am the latest scandal at St. Mary’s without having even set foot inside.

  This cannot be.

  “Jake, this is my daughter, Emma.”

  Panic flashes in those dazzling eyes for one split second and then he extends his hand, his face relaxing into a welcoming expression. “Emma, I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Somehow despite my horror my hand finds his and he squeezes it warmly. The spark of electricity rushes up my elbow. Even more shocking, I find my voice in spite of the adolescent reaction. “Ditto, Father Barnes. Mother talks nonstop about you—her new priest.” I tell him with my eyes what a lying sack of sheep shit he is.

  Our hands fall apart.

  Helen is going on and on about something but my stunned brain cannot process the words. We are staring at each other, this sneaky priest and I.

  He lied to me.

  And I lied to him.

  I suppose one could say that we’re even.

  No, no. Not even close. You see, I am a mere human and he is…a priest.

  Anger ignites in my veins. The first opportunity I have I am going to give this guy a piece of my mind—Boston style.

  * * *

  Ironically the homily is about forgiveness. Father Barnes hesitates more, I presume, than is normal for him, which convinces me that he is improvising. These are not the words he had prepared for this morning. Rather, he is openly, publicly pleading for my forgiveness.

  Not in this life, buster.

  I stare at him unblinking as I accept communion from his hand. Finally he announces ‘Go in peace,’ and I am the first person out the door. I need to get far away from him right now. Confused and struggling to keep up, Mother and Howard follow close behind me. I forgot that Howard the hardware man attends St. Mary’s.

  Lucky for me, as it turns out.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?” Mother senses my distress no matter that I haven’t lived in the house with her in fifteen years. I suppose it’s a mother’s instinct. The bloodhound thing.

  I wonder if that instinct failed to warn her that her new priest is a liar and perhaps far worse. After all, I admit to having started the kiss but he participated.

  I hesitate. I am a liar as well. No better than him on that score, but I’m not a man of the cloth.

  “I’m fine.” I pat the hand she places on my arm and tell another lie. “I totally forgot I promised Letty I’d come by and help her with…the case.”

  Helen blinks. “Oh. All right. Do you need my car?”

  Definitely a stroke of luck that Howard is here. “That would be great.”

  She nods. “I can ride with Howard.” She flashes him a smile. “We always go to lunch on Sundays.”

  “Okay.” I snag the fob she produces from her purse. “Have fun, you two.”

  I don’t look back as I rush down the steps.

  I know what I need and there is no putting it off any longer.

  * * *

  Johnny’s

  There is only one bar in the area that serves alcohol before noon on Sundays and it also features strippers. What the hell? If you need a drink badly enough you can deal with anything, right?

  I need a drink. Not a glass of wine. A real drink. And I need a smoke. If I’m smart I can steer clear of the third part in my habitual unholy trinity—Alcohol, Smoke and Sex—since it usually makes an ass of me.

  Not a slip I want to make within a thousand miles of home.

  The alcohol and the tobacco are both readily available at Johnny’s. The guy sitting two stools away slid his pack of smokes and his lighter down the counter to me before I even asked. I guess he saw the envious way I watched him take a drag and exhale.

  “I think I know you,” he says.

  Not exactly original and not at all inspiring. “Well, thanks for the smoke but I’m certain I don’t know you.”

  “Emma Graves,” he says with a nod. “I do know you.”

  I cringe.

  Thankfully he makes no move to slide to the empty stool between us. “You don’t remember me, I’m Mark. Heather’s older brother.”

  Mark Beaumont. I look at him now. Then I remember, the blond-haired jock who was two-plus years older than my sister and who won all the best awards every year, including his senior year, before disappearing from the limelight. He vanished around the same time and almost as completely as Natalie. Natalie would be forty now, so that would make him about forty-two or three. His once trademark blond hair is peppered with gray and his face is a road map lined with bad choice routes and the subsequent unpleasant detours. The most startling part is the way his skin seemingly lies against nothing but bone and judging by the fifth of Vodka standing next to his glass, we battle at least one of the same demons.

  Maybe all the Beaumonts aren’t perfect.

  I rest my elbow on the counter, plunk my face in my hand and meet his bleary gaze. “Yes, I remember you.” Letterman jacket, full of himself, it all comes back in a rush.

  “Yeah.” He pours another double shot of Vodka. “I was an asshole. Now I’m just a drunk.” With that he knocks back the shot, then he looks at me again. “Strange you being back at the same time those girls are missing.” He jerks his head toward the mirror behind the bar where amid the liquor bottles are more of the missing posters.

  I stare at those two faces for a moment then quickly look away. “Strange, yes.”

  He slides off the stool and gives me a nod. “Good to see you. Keep the smokes.”

  “You, too,” I say automatically without really meaning it. Mark Beaumont, like everything else around here, reminds me of the parts of the past I’ve tried so hard to forget. “Thanks.”

  He staggers away and I wonder if he’s planning to drive in that condition. Lorraine probably has a car waiting outside for him. No member of Lorraine Jackson Beaumont’s brood would ever risk a DUI. I vaguely recall a third Beaumont, a younger brother. Maybe five or so years younger than me. I wonder whether he inherited the perfect genes like his sister or the shitty ones like Mark. I can definitely sympathize. Natalie was the one to get all the good genes in my family.

  The bartender plunks a shot of tequila and two lime wedges in front of me and I forget all about Mark, bad genes and the posters on the mirrored wall not ten feet away. I stare at the vices before me and swallow hard.

  This is the moment that has been more than a year in coming. I haven’t had a drink—other than the occasional glass of wine, maybe more if I count what I had at Letty’s—since before I went to Iraq. I did have a smoke while I was in the hospital recovering from surgery. The PT guy wheeled me to the smoking ar
ea with him.

  Right now, I need this more than I need to breathe. Another lie, of course, but it feels entirely true. The need tingles and twists inside me and I resist with the last, unraveling thread of fight remaining in my damaged soul. I lick my lips in anticipation of the burn I know will provide such wondrous relief—if only temporarily. Frustration and guilt and anger and all those other emotions I don’t want to feel will just slip away. I take a deep breath, remind myself just how good it feels to not give a damn about anything.

  The battle goes on this way until I’m unsure how long I’ve been sitting here staring at the relief I so desperately desire.

  Unable to bear the tension any longer I reach for the pack of cigarettes. I can do this one thing without having to worry that I’ll end up embarrassing myself. Only my lungs will know. I flick the lighter and draw the nicotine and the dozens of other chemicals into the farthest recesses of my chest. The urge to cough tugs at my throat but I ignore it, hold the smoke deep inside for a few seconds and then close my eyes. When I can hold my breath no longer, I exhale. The room spins a little. It’s been a long time. The tension leaches out of me like static electricity discharging into the ground with a harmless crackle.

  As I savor the cigarette I continue to stare at the shot. Enough of these and I wouldn’t care about handsome liars or missing little girls and I certainly wouldn’t allow thoughts of my vanished sister or my aging mother to invade. I would go off into that pretend world where nothing matters except the buzz…the feel of freedom completely uninhibited by rules and expectations.

  “If you have to talk yourself into it, maybe you shouldn’t do it.”

  I jerk my face to the right. The liar—the priest—slides onto the stool beside me. He still wears his uniform.

  “Really?” I glare at him. “You are aware what this place is.”

  He smiles, not the megawatt power show that first hypnotized me, something a little more subdued. “I am.”

  Jesus H. Christ.

  Before I can launch the fury that’s been building inside me since Helen introduced us, the bartender strolls up. “What you having today, Father Barnes?”

  My jaw drops and I am unable to close it.

  “The usual,” the liar tells him.

  I sit, mouth open, in stunned disbelief as the bartender pours a glass of cranberry juice and sits the virgin drink in front of him.

  “Thank you, Riley.” The liar smiles. “We missed you this morning.”

  The bartender—Riley, apparently—shrugs. “Cadence called in sick. I had to fill in.”

  When the bartender moves on, the liar leans toward me. “You should probably close your mouth.”

  I snap it shut, furious all over again. “You lied to me, Joey Beckett.”

  He gave a slow nod. “I did, Beth Taylor.” He lifts his glass and takes a drink. “And I’m sorry about that, but there are some things I prefer to keep between me and the Man upstairs.”

  I reach for an ashtray and stamp out the cigarette. “What about your congregation?” I glare at him some more. “What about my mother who thinks you hung the moon?”

  For a long moment he stares back at me, his eyes showing a weariness I hadn’t noticed before. “We all have weakness, Emma.”

  Hearing him say my name makes me feel exposed, naked and angry all over again.

  “The fact that I’m an alcoholic,” he goes on, “does not lessen my faith or make me a bad priest. It makes me human. I haven’t had a drink in ten years and I will never have another.”

  I want to ask how he can be a priest and avoid at least wine but I’m still too pissed to pretend to care. I suppose he’s like me and takes his chances with wine. It’s the hard stuff that always does me in. Just another way we lie to ourselves.

  “While you’re here visiting your mother,” he goes on, “I will do all in my power to help you in any way you need me. I only ask that you keep my secret.”

  To pretend what he is doing is any worse than what I do every day of my life is hypocritical. Something my dad hated, something I despise. I may be many things but I am not a hypocrite. “I can do that.”

  The showstopper smile that blew me away the first time we met appears. “Thank you.”

  He pushes the shot of tequila away and motions for the bartender. “Riley, my friend needs a…” He turns to me in question.

  “Coke or Pepsi. Whichever you have.”

  Jake nods. “Good decision.”

  The weight of anger and frustration lifts and I smile in spite of myself. “Thank you.”

  My cell rings and I almost don’t reach for it. It’s probably Helen wanting to know where I am and what I’m doing. Or maybe she and Howard drove past Johnny’s and saw her Cadillac in the parking lot. No, not likely. If she saw her SUV anywhere near this establishment she would have demanded that Howard come inside and see what I’m doing.

  “Is that your phone?”

  I nod as I drag it out of the small pink clutch Helen insisted I carry.

  Letty Cotton.

  A line of worry splits my forehead, making me aware of the headache that has begun there. I accept the call. “Hey, Letty. What’s up?”

  There’s a hesitation before she responds. I hear muffled voices in the background and realize that she is either listening to what someone is telling her before she can answer me or that she has butt dialed my number and is unaware I’m on the line.

  “Hey, sorry, Emma. Listen, we’ve got a problem.”

  Immediately the image of a brutal car accident looms in my mind. Has Mother been in an accident? A band tightens around my chest. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember those two lost cavers?”

  I nod, realize she can’t see me and say, “Yes. Of course.”

  “Well, the rescue unit found them and they’re a little dehydrated and a lot delirious but I’ve got to check out their claim anyway.”

  I’m confused. I can’t imagine what this has to do with me. “Okay.”

  “Our coroner—Glenn Wallace—has cancer and he’s in the hospital in the middle of a chemo cycle so I can’t call him. If I call the state lab it could be days before they get someone down here. I can’t wait that long, Emma. I need to do this now. I need to know if these guys are full of shit or if there’s really something down there.”

  I’m thinking if she needs a coroner there must be a body. Images of the two missing girls zoom through my head. I stare at the missing poster and a knot ties in my gut. I’m an anthropologist. My training could be of assistance and I’m certainly not afraid to go down into a cave. “What can I do to help?”

  “I need you to go down in this cave with me.” There’s a lingering moment of silence. “It may be nothing, but these guys both swear they found bones down there. Human bones. Bones and graves.”

  For a moment I can’t speak. Images of Natalie smiling and Stacy whispering in her ear flood my mind. Then I remind myself that these could be animal bones or the bones of a civil war soldier who hid in the cave or a centuries old native inhabitant who died there. It happens. Bones and other artifacts are frequently discovered in the area. Could be the remains of a long lost caver who wasn’t so lucky as the two recently rescued.

  “Text me the directions. I’ll run home and change and be right there.”

  “I’ll pick you up at your house.” She hesitates a moment. “Thanks, Emma. I will owe you big time.”

  Excitement rushes through me. Now this is something I can do and keep my mind off all this other stuff while simultaneously staying clear of both Helen, the handsome priest and that persistent reporter.

  I am very, very good at digging up bones.

  12

  HELEN

  Emma didn’t tell me what is going on, only that Letty needed her assistance. Though I try not to, I can’t help but worry that this has something to do with the missing girls. If anything, I hope they’ve been found alive and unharmed. No mother should have to go through the agony of discovering her child ha
s been murdered. Sometimes I am torn about which is worse, learning the horrible truth or never knowing exactly what happened.

  Either way is an unbearable place.

  I stare out the kitchen window as the sun starts its drop westward. I smile at the mason jar on the windowsill full of pink tulips. They remind me of how pretty Emma looked at church this morning. We haven’t had a minute to ourselves for me to ask what all the tension between her and Jake was about. If I didn’t know better, I would say they have met before though I don’t see how.

  The clatter on the table has me turning toward my phone. It vibrates against the wooden surface. My pulse jumps at the possibility that it’s Emma. She’s a grown woman and I know it’s foolish but I can’t help but worry. I rush to grab it, read the name and my hopes fall.

  I muster up a lighthearted tone. “Hi, Ginny. Are you home from church already?” Ginny’s congregation usually has lunch potluck style and continues on with an afternoon service. I’m surprised to hear from her this early in the afternoon.

  The mewling sound that whispers out of my dear friend reaches deep inside me and twists my heart into knots. “What’s happened, Ginny?”

  “They found bones, Helen. In a cave…just like he said.”

  Misery lances through my chest. The words I want to say feel frozen on my tongue. I struggle to expel the words from my mouth. “Has Letty made any identifications?” The idea that Emma is with her presses against my sternum.

  “She didn’t say.” More of those painful sobs echo across the line. “She and Emma are going down in that cave to bring the bones out.”

  Tears roll down my cheeks. My heart is racing and it’s difficult to breathe. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Somehow I manage to steady my voice. “We’ll know soon I guess.”

  Ginny clears her throat, struggles to speak without breaking down again. “Letty will tell us.”

  The idea of Emma in some damned hole in the ground uncovering her sister’s bones makes my head swim. I pray she can handle it. No matter that she does this all the time, this time is different. This time it could be her sister.