The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  Alice’s parents huddled side by side in the foyer of their home, both looking beaten down and exhausted. They were in their mid-forties now, but appeared to be approaching sixty. Hair mostly gray. Deep wrinkles creased the flesh around their cheeks and eyes. Alice’s father had a double chin, his face puffy and doughy from alcohol. Alice’s mother’s hair stood dry and frizzy on her head. Her plain blue dress hung loosely from her frail frame. But it was her eyes that were the most pathetic. Dark circles under a vacant gaze as if she had been lobotomized.

  “I should introduce myself properly,” Sinclair said. “I’m Mark. If you would allow me to come into your home for a moment, I’ll explain everything about myself, and the situation that your daughter finds herself in.”

  Alice’s father shook Sinclair’s extended hand—a glimpse of mild surprise crossed his face at how soft the small man’s palm was—then he invited the stranger into their home.

  * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. O’Farrell, Robert and Kathy, perched on the edge of their couch, leaning forward and clinging onto every word Sinclair so eloquently spoke. They pressed closely together as if attached at the hip, both appearing so fragile, so brittle, that they might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at any moment. Behind them, a long bookcase ran the length of the wall, lined with various framed photographs of Alice—as an infant sprawled out on a blanket in the grass, dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween, sitting on Santa Claus’ lap, school class pictures, swimming on the high school team—and there were just as many pictures of Jason, growing like a weed, until the photos stopped abruptly at the age of four.

  Sinclair deliberately alternated direct eye contact with both of Alice’s parents, maintaining a pleasant smile that somehow offered comfort without a sense of pity. He noticed the slight tremor in Robert’s hands as the man sipped from what appeared to be a cocktail.

  “What sort of agency do you work with, Mark?” Robert asked, tongue thick in his mouth.

  “We are a nonprofit group that specializes in working with troubled young women. Safe Choices, based out of the Philadelphia area. We primarily work with young women that are runaways. Girls that find themselves in situations that they are ill-equipped to deal with on their own. We strive to educate and attempt to reform bad patterns with the girls that have ended up living on the streets.”

  Alice’s mother covered her mouth at the mention of those four words—living on the streets. Her lips began to quiver silently and she tugged at the hem of her dress as she tried her best to keep a flood of emotions in check.

  “I know. I understand. It’s difficult to hear it in such plain terms when discussing your own child. But I can assure you that they are safe under our care. We put a roof over their heads, provide balanced meals, and of course, most importantly of all, we give them counseling.”

  Alice’s mother kept playing with the hem of her dress, fingers tearing at the material with a growing sense of dread. “When did you see Alice last?” Her voice barely a whisper.

  “A few days ago.”

  “I mean, what happened? Why did she leave your facility? Why did she run away?”

  Sinclair crossed his legs and leaned forward, pressing his face closer to theirs. He took a moment to consider what he wanted to say. “When Alice was found by our agency, she was living on the streets. An addict. Hooked on heroin. Doing whatever she could do to survive and maintain her fix.”

  Alice’s father set his drink down on the coffee table, then picked it right back up.

  “Since joining us, Alice eventually got clean and sober. For a little over a year now. Twelve months is quite an accomplishment. She made real progress. We were all quite proud of her.”

  “So, why did she leave?” Alice’s father asked.

  “Well, let me backtrack for a moment. To give you a better perspective of our situation.” He paused, pressed his hands together. “When we found your daughter, Alice had a criminal record. Two different arrests and convictions that included petty theft, public intoxication, assault and battery. After we convinced Alice to accept our help, she worked the steps, slowly made her amends, and devoted herself to sobriety. She was truly on the road to recovery.” Sinclair finally, deliberately, pulled his eyes away from theirs. He cast his gaze down toward his hands that were folded in his laps. “But, as often happens in a very high percentage of addicts, something triggered a relapse. Maybe something from her past. A moment of weakness. Possibly she came into contact with someone that she associated with in her previous life. Whatever the cause, she began using again.”

  Alice’s mother stood. Clenched and unclenched her fists that dangled at her side.

  “After Alice ran away from our facility, I thought maybe she would come home. I thought maybe this would be the safe haven where she chose to return.”

  They shook their heads, but it was Alice’s father who finally spoke up. “Alice hasn’t been home in over five years.” He sipped his drink. Drank until the glass was empty. “There was an accident at home. Her younger brother. She took it badly. Felt responsible. We haven’t seen her since she left. We searched for her. The police. Private agencies. Everything. But, we don’t know where she went … or if she is even … you know.”

  Alice’s mother paced the room for a moment, chewed at her lips. “We have to call the police. She’s alive. She’s out there, Robert. She’s still out there.”

  Sinclair nodded. Uncrossed his legs. “Yes, but I’m sorry to say that matters are a bit more complicated. Like I mentioned, Alice has two convictions against her.”

  “So? What does that have anything to do with going to the police and finding our daughter?” Alice’s mother snapped at the stranger. She glared at Sinclair, then at her husband, waiting for him to speak up, waiting for him to support her unconditionally. “Robert? Say something.”

  Alice’s father cleared his throat, but all he could do was stare into his glass.

  “If I may,” Sinclair coaxed. When Alice’s father didn’t object, he continued on. “A few days ago, Alice broke into our administrative office and stole some money. Not a lot, but for a nonprofit like ourselves, it was a substantial amount. After she took the money, Alice fled Philadelphia. She left the city, and based on the information we have gathered, we strongly believe that she was either coming home, or possibly, to a town called Shallotte.”

  Alice’s mother sat back down and continued to tug at the hem of her dress. “Shallotte? What’s in Shallotte?” Whatever strength and defiance she had a moment ago quickly dissolved into doubt and despair.

  “I don’t know, to be quite frank. I really don’t. But we think she might be headed there.” He stood and held his arms out before him, as if making an offering. “Could we bring in the police on this matter? Certainly. Should we go to the police? Probably. But my dilemma is this. If the police are involved in this matter, Alice would face charges and most likely earn her third strike.” He began to pace the room, waving his arms as he spoke. “I am fond of your daughter. Very fond of Alice. I believe she is this close to a full recovery and turning down the correct path. I was hoping, possibly foolishly, to avoid involving the authorities and to resolve this matter another way.”

  “How?” Alice’s father whispered.

  Sinclair reached out and ran his finger along the top of the bookcase as if checking for dust. “How? By finding her as quickly as we can. By having her return the stolen money before she crosses the line. Before it’s too late. And, more importantly, by finally bringing Alice home where she belongs. Back to family.”

  Alice’s mother clutched at her husband’s hand. From Robert’s reaction, it was both unexpected and excessive. “Do you really think you can find her?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Tell us what we can do,” she urged.

  Sinclair turned and glanced at all the photos of Alice. He smiled, his small teeth exposed, as he picked up a photo of Alice with a small boy riding on her back. “Alice’s brother?”

  They both n
odded. What little light was left in their eyes faded away like a wisp of dust.

  “Jason. Jason was his name,” Alice’s mother whispered.

  “Ah,” Sinclair replied. “What a sweet-looking boy.” He studied their faces. Observed the devastation that ravaged them from the inside out. “You can help Alice before it’s too late. You really can.”

  They stared at the strange man in their living room, unsure of what exactly he meant.

  “When I find her, and I will, I promise you that, I will need you to come at a moment’s notice.”

  “Of course,” Alice’s mother pleaded.

  “Good.” Sinclair tapped the photo of Alice and Jason with his index finger. “May I borrow this? Sometimes memories of what used to be good in someone’s life can help encourage that individual to finally accept help and go back to the person that they’re meant to be.”

  Alice’s mother finally broke down and cried, unashamed to do so in the presence of a stranger. Her husband placed his hand on her back and patted her like soothing a fussy infant.

  “I will keep this safe. I promise,” Sinclair whispered over the woman’s disturbing sobs. “And I’ll find your daughter. You have my word on that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE SMALL TOWN remained pretty much how Alice had left it six years ago, a place frozen in time. As Larry guided his truck down Shallotte’s Main Street, Alice watched through the window, recognizing stores and shops that she used to frequent when this was her home for a few brief weeks. Roberts Grocery was still there. As was Lucy’s Diner and Stan’s Pub. A Burger King had opened up on Main Street. A new coffee shop, but not much else.

  It all seemed familiar yet foreign at the same time. She felt like an outsider, an unwanted guest traveling in a distant land. She had never really been part of this community and she probably would never be. Alice didn’t know what she expected to find here. There would be no definitive answers or solutions waiting to be revealed. What she hoped to recover was the feeling of being safe once again. She wanted to watch Elton fish, ride in his truck, and help him set rat traps, make him coffee, and not think about everything else—Jason, her parents, her lack of purpose, her drinking problem, and now, a bag full of stolen money. As she sat in Larry’s old Ford truck—in a moment of reflection—she silently regretted that she had taken the money in the first place.

  The truck passed the last of the commercial buildings at the outskirts of town, and the road narrowed as a section of dense woods pressed in on both sides of them. Sweetgum, river birch, and slippery elm all seemed to compete with one another, standing tall and reaching toward the road. The truck began to wind this way and that way, and the turns got sharper and sharper, and Larry coughed and cussed, and slowed the Ford to a crawl, barely traveling ten miles per hour.

  “We getting close yet? Just where the hell we goin’ anyways?”

  Alice stared out the window, trying to recognize the turnoff to Elton’s house. “It’s been a while, but I think we’re almost there.”

  “Gonna be gettin’ dark soon, and I don’t like driving all over creation when the sun gets to settin’.”

  “Left here,” Alice said and pointed toward a dirt road on the left-hand side.

  Larry thumped on the brakes and the cat went flying down at his feet, and in the process, knocked the oxygen tubes straight out of his nose. “Goddamnit, Lilly. Watch yourself now.”

  Lilly clawed around down at his feet, and Larry braked harder, jerking the truck forward and causing all the junk in the back to slide forward. Delilah banged up against the glass and Alice could hear her mutter. Lilly finally managed to right herself, then hopped back onto the seat and right into Alice’s lap.

  “Don’t think so, kitty,” Alice said. She promptly lifted the twenty-pound tomcat and deposited it back upon Larry’s lap. “It’s down here about a mile. Next to the river.”

  “About a mile?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next to the river?”

  “Yes.” Alice couldn’t wait to be done with both Larry and Lilly.

  “Damn wild goose chase.” Larry wound the oxygen tube around his neck and stuffed it back into his nostrils, all the while smoking a crooked cigarette.

  The cab of the truck darkened as the trees that hung over the dirt road swallowed them up. The path got rougher, deeper ruts and potholes, and blackberry bushes clawed and scratched at the sides of the truck.

  “Damn wild goose chase is what this is,” Larry spat out again.

  They cut around another turn and the trees finally opened up to a clearing, and there it stood: Elton’s single-story brick house with newly painted white trim around the windows and doors. A few birdfeeders hung from the low-hanging limbs of sweet birch trees. The well-manicured lawn, mowed in neat rows with nary a weed in sight. Rosebushes had been planted along the sidewalk that ran up to the front door. Resting up on the front porch railing, a dozen fishing rods stood at attention.

  Larry stopped the truck and motioned toward the house. “This here the one?”

  Alice stared at the place that was like a home to her for a few moments in time. “Yeah. That’s it.”

  Delilah poked her head up, her hair wind-whipped and standing on end, with bits of leaves and chunks of paper sticking out of it.

  Alice reached into her duffel bag and counted off five twenties and handed them over to Larry. “Thanks, Larry. An extra hundred for you.”

  Larry accepted the cash and slipped it into the center pocket of his overalls like he expected nothing less. “All right, then.”

  Alice climbed out of the truck, stretched stiff legs, and noticed Larry doing the same. “Really appreciate you driving us down here.”

  “Uh-huh.” Larry reached back into the truck and grabbed a hold of his oxygen tank. “Like to have me a beer before I head on back.” The old man spit onto the sidewalk and shuffled up the walkway toward the house.

  “There’s a market down in town, Larry. Passed it on the way here,” Alice said.

  Larry kept shuffling. “I’m sure there is. But I ain’t paying no two dollars for a can of beer.”

  Alice slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and winced—she kept forgetting about her bruised rib. She took a quick breath, then quickly caught up with the old man.

  “I’ll tell you what, Larry. I’ll give you some extra cash for a few beers. My treat. I don’t even know if my friend is home.”

  Larry sidestepped his way up the porch steps and stopped to catch his breath. “I ain’t in no hurry. Got to relieve myself anyways.” The old man plopped down on a wicker chair and held the oxygen tank on his lap while he searched for his pouch of tobacco.

  “Well, well, well. Howdy, kiddo.”

  Alice looked up toward the front door and there was Elton, wearing a pair of khakis and a powder-blue button-up shirt. His face looked thinner than she remembered. He still wore a pair of glasses, but the lenses were much thicker and they magnified the creases that swarmed around his eyes. He hunched over a bit and leaned against a hand-carved wooden cane. Alice could smell a pot of coffee brewing from inside the house, and for the first time in far too long, she felt like she was finally home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE RIVER CHURNED brown with tiny whitecaps the size of summer melons, breaking under the glow of red from the setting sun that dipped quickly to the west. A slew of recent rains had widened the river considerably—the waterline pushing much higher up on the banks than usual. The sounds of a woodpecker going after stubborn bark echoed through the damp air with a rapid tap, tap, tap.

  Alice perched next to Elton out on the deck in the same set of green-and-white folding chairs that they sat in so many years ago. The wood-slat decking appeared newly sanded and stained, the color of soft cherry. Behind them, the glass sliding doors were pulled closed, and inside the house, Delilah sprawled on the couch, flicking through the channels on the television and making herself completely at home.

  Elton sipped from a mug of cof
fee. Alice had yet to touch hers. They sat in silence, slowly adjusting to one another’s company once again, and taking their time in doing so. They listened to the river push past, the constant rush and gurgle with its easy, soothing water song. Everything in front of them perfect—the setting sun, a handful of soft clouds, and a slight breeze that wasn’t chilly enough to warrant sweaters.

  Elton finally broke the lull of comfortable silence. “That Larry fella sure was a character. Where’d you dig him up from?”

  “You should have seen his wife.”

  Elton snorted out a laugh. “Well, he comes from a different time, a different way of life, and it takes all types, I suppose.”

  “Thought he’d never leave.”

  Elton shrugged. “Shoot, bringing the likes of you two young gals down here was probably the most excitement that old-timer’s seen in years.”

  Alice nodded and another prolonged period of silence passed between them.

  “River looks higher than I remember,” Alice finally offered.

  “Yeah. She is. Been raining here pretty much nonstop for the last few weeks. And from what I hear, more is on the way. That’s what the local weatherman says anyway, but that doesn’t usually mean diddly-squat.”

  They watched as a red-shouldered hawk seemed to appear out of nowhere, swooping down low, skimming the surface of the river, wheeling and calling, searching for crayfish in the water. Kee-ah, kee-ah. The hawk’s wingspan must have measured three feet across, the tips of its feathers nearly grazing the waves, then the bird made an abrupt turn, soaring up and settling into a thick tangle of white pines.

  “That there is Daisy. She’s been nesting in that set of pines for the last four seasons now.”