The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  “You named her Daisy?”

  Elton gave a knowing shrug. “Yeah. Not the most creative of names. I guess not. But she keeps me company.”

  They both watched the red-shouldered hawk flap and snap her wings, making adjustments to her nest.

  “You still fishing?” Alice asked.

  “I pretend to.”

  Elton played with his cane for a moment. Tapped the tip between his feet a few times. “So, kiddo. All this small talk aside, how you doing exactly?”

  “Fine,” Alice answered quickly. “How about you? You still killing rats?”

  “Naw. Gave that up two years past. I had my fill of crawling on my hands and knees in basements and attics and whatnot. Figured I should enjoy my golden years before I was too old to know any better.” He blew on his mug of coffee. “I see you’re still good at that art of deflection.”

  Alice just nodded.

  “The coping mechanism thingy, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guess you haven’t changed much.”

  Alice laughed, but there wasn’t a hint of humor in her voice. “No. I have. More than you know.”

  “Well, change can be a good thing, right?”

  “For some. Not so much in my case, though.”

  “I see. Well, kiddo, you’re here for a reason, I guess. Brought a friend along with you this time, too.”

  They both glanced over their shoulders toward Delilah. The girl was lying on her stomach on the floor now—shoes off, sipping on a bottle of RC Cola, her face three feet away from the television screen.

  “Your friend seems like a sweet kid. Just a young’un,” Elton said.

  “She is. Not really a friend, though. Just somebody I met along the way.”

  “Along the way to where?”

  Alice stared back at the river. “I don’t know exactly.” She ran her fingers through her hair and noticed how filthy and tangled it was. “I’m in some trouble, Elton.”

  “That right? A little bit, or a lotta bit?”

  “It’s not good.”

  “Okay. We’ll see about that. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  Alice’s first instinct was to lie to the old man. Make up something harmless, or at least a different version of reality. Tell him that she was passing through and thought she would drop in and say hello. Or tell him that she was pregnant and needed a place to stay for a few weeks. Something. Anything other than the truth.

  But then she started speaking, and all the ugly facts and details came spilling out. She told him about everything—Terry, the money and drugs, the shoot-out, the run-in with the junkie in Charlotte, locking the truck driver in his trailer. Everything. Too much.

  And the entire time, Elton just listened. Drank his coffee and didn’t interrupt once. No judgment in his eyes as he watched Alice unburden her soul and squeeze out shameful confessions.

  Alice didn’t take a pause. Ran right through the story from beginning to end, until her throat went dry. She sipped at her coffee and wondered if Elton noticed the tremor in her hand.

  “I’m tired of running, Elton. For over five years, that’s all it seems I’ve been doing. Running from one place to the next. Always hoping and praying that the next town will be different. That the next job will be better. But they never are.” Her voice sounded strained, on the verge of breaking. “I want real friends. A decent place to live in that’s mine, and not some crappy hotel room or the back of someone’s car. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of being unstable. Tired of distrusting everyone that I meet. I’m just tired of everything.”

  She looked over at him and waited to see what the old man would say.

  Elton took a deep breath. Shook his head. “All this breaks my heart, kiddo. It truly does. You deserve something better in life than all of that mess.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You might not know it, but you do.”

  “I want to believe that. I do.” Alice wiped a wisp of hair from off her face. “I don’t even know why I came here really. To you. The last thing you need is another headache.” She gazed out across the river. “I’m sorry, Elton.”

  “Shoot. Don’t be sorry. And the last thing that you are is a headache.” He twirled his cane between his palms. “To be honest, I’m tickled that you came back. And it means a helluva lot to me that you thought of me. That you needed my help.”

  “Again.”

  “Well, we all need some help every now and then.” He took a moment to clean his glasses with a white handkerchief. Once satisfied, he neatly folded and returned the cloth to his back pocket. “And all that money. You were hoping that it could change things?”

  She laughed. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  “Nothing wrong with money.”

  “Then you think I should keep it?”

  “Do you think you should keep it? Is that what will fix things for you?”

  Alice didn’t answer.

  Elton reached over and patted her knee. Gave it a little squeeze. “This is a safe place for you, Alice. Always will be. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Alice said that she did.

  “Now, would you care to hear my two cents on this whole matter?”

  She smiled at him. A genuine smile this time. “I’m afraid to say yes, but go ahead. Give me your two cents.”

  “Fine. But before I do, I need to make a confession.”

  “You finally want to have kids?”

  Elton grinned and replied without missing a beat. “Yep. A little boy or little girl. Either one would do just fine.” He let out a soft chuckle and tapped his cane on the deck to accentuate the point.

  Then he set his coffee mug down and stared out over the same river he’d been staring at for thirty-some years. “I’ll tell you this, kiddo. Something has been eating at me for a long time. I regret not doing more for you last time you were here. I’ve thought about it almost every single day since you left. You were nothing but a lost little sheep, and I didn’t do a damn thing to give you guidance. I didn’t try to get in that head of yours and help make sense of your whole situation.”

  “That’s not true, Elton.”

  He held his hand up. “Hold on a second. I listened to you, now you listen to me. I know what I did and didn’t do. The truth of the matter was that I enjoyed having you here. Liked waking up in the morning and having someone to talk to. And I guess I didn’t want to rock the boat and have you slip away. I wanted the company and I put my needs and wants ahead of yours.” He pressed the cane’s wooden handle to his lips for a second. “I’ve thought about it a million times. Should I have called the police? Should I have at least tried to get a hold of your folks? Should I have sat you down and tried to talk some sense into your head?”

  He looked straight at Alice. “Hell, yes. I should have done all those things, but I didn’t. It was selfish and wrong and I’ve never stopped being sorry about all that.”

  Alice reached over and squeezed his thick hand—his fingers twisted and knotted with arthritis. “You did do the right thing. I needed a safe place where I wasn’t being judged. I needed some stability. I needed to know when I woke up in the morning that the sight of me wasn’t causing someone complete heartbreak.”

  Elton squeezed her hand back. “But then you up and left here. Like a puff of damn smoke.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why? Because your folks were looking for you? Because they were closer to finding you?”

  Alice took a sip of her coffee. Her hands rattling even worse. “No. Because when they found me, found me living here with you, you’d get in trouble. Not me. You.”

  Elton chewed on that for a few seconds. “Hell, kiddo, I ain’t afraid of what folks think of me.”

  “I was. Still am.” She sipped more coffee, but needed something stronger—something to stabilize her system. “Now, you going to give me your two cents or what?”

  “Fine.” He tapped his cane on the wood a few
times. “You just said it yourself. You’re tired of running. And you should be. Running’s no kind of life. You’re always hoping that the next place you run off to is different. That the next town is better. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Alice said that it was.

  “Well, maybe this is just too damn obvious, but maybe it’s time to stop running, kiddo. Maybe it’s time to go back home. This thing you’re running from, the real thing, is the one thing you’ll never get away from. I know. I did it, too. You can’t run from that reflection that stares back at you every morning. You can’t.”

  Alice’s hand still quivered as she finished her coffee and set the mug on the deck. “You have anything stronger to drink than coffee?”

  Elton nodded. “I do. Got a cabinet full of liquor bottles. But do you want it or need it?”

  Alice peered down at her trembling hands. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Kiddo, I might be as old as these hills, but I ain’t blind. I’ve seen it all.”

  “So, I take it you won’t offer me a drink?”

  “I’ll offer you another cup of coffee is what I’ll do.”

  Alice clasped her hands together and pulled them tight to her chest.

  “This here thing’s got you pretty good, huh? Really got you by the throat?”

  Alice nodded.

  “You’re a mess, ain’t you?”

  Alice started to laugh, but the tears took over pretty quickly. She tried to stop the flow, but it all needed to come out. She buried her face into her hands, embarrassed to allow herself such vulnerability.

  “It’s okay, kiddo. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been through hell and back a few times. You’re entitled to a few of them eye drops.”

  Alice still couldn’t look at him. If she did, she thought she’d cry that much harder.

  “Tell you what, kiddo. I’m gonna brew us two fresh cups of coffee. Make ’em nice and so strong that we’ll have to chew rather than swallow. Then you’re gonna tell me about that young missy that’s making herself at home in my living room. I’m betting there’s a story behind that one.”

  Alice wiped at her eyes, then cleared her throat. “There is. You’ve got two train wrecks staying with you.”

  “Everything’s always better in pairs. You hold tight and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Alice watched him struggle to his feet, grip at his cane good and tight, then amble back into the house on a pair of knees that had seen better days.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ALICE ROLLED OVER in the bed, couldn’t get comfortable, and rolled over again. Finally, she lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep, her mind racing like a flock of crows, wild and unpredictable. It wasn’t until she got ready for bed that she remembered forgetting her suitcase back in Harrisburg—she left it in the back of Terry’s truck at the train station. After packing up everything she owned, she left it all behind to be discovered. Clues and evidence that would eventually catch up with her. How could she have been so stupid?

  Because you were drunk.

  But the thing she was the most upset about was the fact that she left Elton’s old blue T-shirt in the suitcase. She didn’t care about any of the rest of her stuff, but Elton’s beat-up shirt had been her security blanket for five years. The thing might be worthless—a worn-out piece of material—but it happened to be the one possession that was the most precious to her.

  After a few more minutes of trying and failing to fall asleep, she sat up in bed and stared over at Delilah, curled up in a ball beside her, dead to the world. The young girl had stuck to her side all night—like she was afraid that Alice might run off. Then she’d fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

  Alice hadn’t been so lucky.

  She pulled off the new T-shirt that Elton had given her, the material sopping wet and sticking to her skin from the cold sweats. Her hands and feet tingled and pulsated with an unwanted energy. She felt edgy and restless. Her heart pounded faster than it should. Her brain desperately wanted to shut down and go to sleep, but the rest of her body needed something else.

  It had only been twelve hours or so since her last drink, but it was time to feed the beast. Being in between sobriety and intoxication was the worst—a mental tug-of-war where abstinence never triumphed. She needed to rid herself of the jitters. Block out the pain and doubt. Stabilize. She just wanted to stabilize. Maybe a shot of whiskey or a few sips of vodka or a cold glass of beer. Something to take the edge off and help her sleep.

  She stood up. The wood floor creaked under her, but Delilah didn’t stir. She let her feet carry her out of the bedroom, down the hall past Elton’s bedroom, and into the kitchen. Elton hadn’t changed a thing since the last time she was here. Same refrigerator and stove. Same kitchen table and wood chairs. Same curtains over the sink with a colorful pattern of tiny cornucopias, spilling over with fruit and vegetables.

  She checked the kitchen cabinets one by one, and it didn’t take long before she found what she was looking for. A bottle of rum and vodka, both unopened. A few bottles of red wine. Behind them stood the prize—a bottle of tequila. The kitchen fluorescents sparkled off the light amber liquid. Over half full. Plenty to do the trick and get her over the hump.

  Stabilize. Stabilize. Stabilize.

  She stared at the bottle of tequila and her throat went dry and her fingers trembled and her stomach churned, desperately wanting to feel the familiar burn. It would be so easy. Twist off the cap, tilt back the bottle, and wait. Her mind already anticipated the next few steps. The first drink would tell her it’s all right, that this was the way to go, that everything would be better soon. The second drink introduced the boldness, that the process had started and that there was no turning back. The third would make her forget about even trying to stop; shutting down the voice inside her that always tried to interfere and tell her to stop, stop, stop. Then the rest was easy. Everything downhill from then on. The swallowing became automatic. She would keep going until the present wasn’t there anymore, and the past didn’t matter—the mistakes, failures, and sins hidden behind the curtain.

  Alice didn’t know how long she stood in the kitchen, staring at the cabinet of alcohol like it was some kind of altar. Thirty seconds? Three minutes? She finally reached into the cabinet, grabbed the bottle of tequila by the glass neck, and marched out of the kitchen with great purpose.

  She slid open the glass doors to the deck, sat down in Elton’s chair, and listened to the song of crickets and the low, bassy croaks of bullfrogs. Then she reached over and set the bottle on the railing, and the moonlight glimmered behind the glass. The river water gurgled past, a constant motion that would never stop.

  Alice listened to all the sounds of night, smelled the river water and the leaves damp with rain, felt the moist air on her skin, and she waited to see where the midnight hour would take her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  PHILLIP GUIDED THE Grand Marquis off of Highway 17 and onto Green Swamp Road. They drove for about a mile before finding a gas station—a Minuteman convenience store with a half dozen gas pumps outside and a Dairy Queen and Little Caesars inside. Both fast-food eateries appeared popular, as locals filed in empty-handed, then emerged toting boxes of mini-pizzas and Styrofoam cups of ice cream sundaes.

  Sinclair examined his pack of cigarettes, silently counting how many remained. “I will be needing a fresh pack of cigarettes, please. Make it two. Might as well get me a lighter as well.”

  Phillip grunted his acknowledgment of the request.

  “How much further?”

  “Seven miles.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Sinclair watched Phillip lumber into the mini-mart, then unbuckled his seat belt and slipped out of the car. He watched a family of five walk out of the store, clutching boxes of pizzas, milkshakes, bags of chips, and an assortment of chocolate bars. He noted that every single one of them, the mother, the father, and each of the three young kids, were the post
ers of American obesity. They piled into a dirty car with a rattling muffler and a bent antenna and eagerly dug into their fat-filled snacks.

  Sinclair watched them pull away and glanced around at his surroundings. Not much to see. Trash littered the road. A closed tire shop across the way. The tattered remains of a flattened woodchuck stood in the middle of the road. Bleak and depressing.

  He reached for the door handle when he heard the soft sound of running water. He peered around, then spotted the river behind the convenience store and listened to the flow of water, a sound that was rather unfamiliar to him. Groups of families stood at the edge of the water, fishing. He watched as a kid snapped his rod and reeled in a fish that couldn’t have been longer than six inches.

  Sinclair approached a tall man with a beard that hung halfway down his chest. The bearded man was filling his pickup with gasoline and didn’t notice Sinclair approach. “Excuse me. What river is that?”

  The man turned and gawked at Sinclair for a moment. Looked at him from head to toe, a little grin curling his lips at the sight of him. “The Lockwood Folly River.”

  “And what kind of fish do people catch in the Lockwood Folly River?”

  The man shrugged, still grinning. “Mainly bluefish. Freshwater drum, maybe. Why? You a fisherman?”

  “I shall soon find out.” Sinclair made the impulsive decision to walk down to the river and feed the fish. He had never done anything like this before; his parents never took him fishing or hunting or on any other kind of outdoor pursuit. He also wanted to see a live fish close-up. “Yes. I shall soon find out.”

  He reached into the car, picked up his package of chocolate chip cookies, and strode across the parking lot, stepped over a small white fence and into a thicket of brittle, knee-high weeds. He trudged through a patch of thick kudzu, grasshoppers taking flight before him, snapping and swishing past his head.

  The ground proceeded to get progressively softer and wetter the closer he neared the river. His perfectly polished leather shoes sank into the muck, and he could hear the suction of mud pulling at his every step. He continued toward his destination, pushing past weeds that grew up to his chest.