The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  A small embankment, rocky and uneven, sloped down at a forty-five-degree angle toward the shore of the river. Sinclair selected the flattest of stones to step upon and slowly inched his way to the river’s edge. The wind blew cooler down by the water, whisking in off the surface of the river and snapping at his clothing.

  He watched the flow of the current for a moment before breaking off a small chunk of the cookie and tossing it into the river. The cookie bobbed and swirled on top of the water, and Sinclair waited for a fish to swim up to the surface and snatch it up. Instead, the piece of cookie got swept up in the current and quickly slipped out of view.

  He tried again, but with the same result.

  Sinclair neither heard nor noticed the small boy wander off from his family and approach him with a great sense of determination.

  “Can I feed ’em?” the boy asked with a hopeful voice.

  Sinclair glanced behind him at the small boy, perhaps five or six years old. The boy’s face was dirty with ice cream, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth, and his nose leaked from both sides.

  “Can I feed the fishes?” the boy asked again.

  “It’s fish, not fishes. And no, you may not.” Sinclair looked down the river’s edge, searching for the young boy’s parents. “Where’s your mother?”

  The kid shrugged, then pointed to a group of fishermen sitting on some rocks, fishing rods wedged between the stones. “Down there with my papa, fishing.”

  “And why aren’t you fishing with them?”

  The kid shrugged again. “Don’t like fishing.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Cuz my papa likes to fish.”

  “I see. Well, that’s unfortunate for you, isn’t it?”

  The boy merely stared at Sinclair.

  “Why don’t you run along and go play in the river?”

  The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “How come you ain’t fishing?”

  “That’s precisely what I’m doing. Fishing.”

  The kid smiled like it was a little joke. “No, you ain’t. You’re feeding ’em, not catching ’em.”

  “It is how I go about fishing. Thank you. Now please go bother someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.”

  Sinclair waited for the kid to scamper off. The kid did not.

  “I ain’t ever seen anyone feed cookies to fish.”

  “Is that what they teach you to say in school? Ain’t.”

  “No.”

  “Try using have not, or will not. That is the proper way to speak.”

  “Okay.”

  Sinclair tossed another crumb into the water and they both watched it bob and float down the river.

  “Do you like fish? Eating them?” the boy asked.

  “Not particularly. No.”

  The kid shook his head. “Me neither. I like hot dog wieners.”

  “I see. You do realize that hot dogs are comprised of pig parts? The hooves. The snout. Other unmentionable parts of their bodies as well.”

  The kid just stared at him again.

  Sinclair broke the cookie in half and handed the piece to the kid. The small boy didn’t thank him or say anything. Just tossed the entire chunk into the water.

  “You’ve got to throw it out in small pieces,” Sinclair said. He handed the kid the rest of his cookie. “Small pieces.”

  The kid moved closer to Sinclair. Pressed right to his side like Sinclair was his big brother or uncle. He picked off tiny pieces of the cookie and flicked them one by one into the water. Each chunk floated away without attracting the attention of a single fish. When he ran out of cookie, the kid stared up at Sinclair. “It ain’t working. Maybe them fish don’t like cookies.”

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  The kid wiped his nose on his other sleeve.

  “That’s all I’ve got. So. Off you go.”

  The kid did no such thing. He merely kept staring up at Sinclair with big, wide eyes. “You’re small.”

  “I realize that.”

  “How come you’re so small?”

  “Because I stopped growing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was big enough.”

  “You’re too small. I’ll be bigger than you.”

  “Perhaps you will be.”

  “I bet I’ll be bigger than you one day.”

  “You already said that. You’re being repetitive. I think it’s time for you to return to your family.”

  They stood there for a few moments. The breeze kicked off the surface of the water and tugged at their hair.

  “You like being so small?” the kid asked.

  Sinclair stared out over the expanse of the Lockwood Folly River, rolling and glittering and disappearing south. “No. I do not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ALICE PUSHED THE grocery cart down the linoleum-tiled floor, feeling like a stranger amongst the other shoppers—a housewife with three children in tow, a bachelor loading canned soup into a handbasket, and two kids that barely passed for twenty-one, buying whatever beer was the cheapest—and she thought about the last time she came to Roberts grocery store. Mr. Roberts, the perpetual nodder, no longer stood at his station behind the register. Instead, an awkward-looking teenager with enormous ears and a crew cut that only accentuated the size of said ears worked behind the counter. But unlike Mr. Roberts, the teenager smiled and said hello to everyone and asked each customer if they needed help in finding something. Mr. Roberts was the yin to the kid’s yang. Maybe Mr. Roberts finally hung up his apron and was quietly nodding to his wife and grandchildren in a recliner chair at home.

  Delilah browsed ahead of Alice, pulling boxes of cookies off the shelf, and inspecting them closely, as if the decision of which brand to purchase was something not to be rushed or underestimated. The girl appeared so carefree, the weight of all the horrible things she had observed and participated in during the last few days slowly lifting off her shoulders. Alice wondered if Delilah was truly able to move past the fact that she had killed a man, and if so, she envied the girl.

  Delilah finally made her cookie selection and brought the package over to the grocery cart. “You like Oreos? I do. I love these cookies. I could eat the whole box myself.”

  “Better grab two, then.”

  Delilah grinned, nodded her head, then picked up another package of Oreos.

  They continued shopping, up and down the aisles, then stopped in the coffee and tea section. As Alice picked out some decent coffee, she felt Delilah’s eyes staring at her. She ignored the girl, picked up a bag of sugar, but Delilah wouldn’t stop gawking at her.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you staring at me?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out already.”

  “Well.” Delilah now looked anywhere except at Alice. “It’s just that … I don’t know. I like it here. Elton’s really cool. Seems laid back. His house is all nice and clean and everything. And it’s warm and sunny here all the time. Not like Philly at all.”

  “Yeah. Guess it beats Philadelphia.” Alice started pushing the grocery cart again.

  Delilah caught up with her. A little skip in her step like she was six years old. “Why’d you leave here anyway?”

  “Because.”

  “Come on, Alice. You never tell me anything.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “Is it gonna kill you to open up a little? Why’d you leave?”

  Alice stopped the cart and leaned over the handle. “I left because it was too close to home.”

  “Your parents?”

  Alice said yes.

  “They were looking for you?”

  “Yeah. They were looking.”

  “Shoot. Bet my mama’s not looking for me.”

  “Maybe you’re lucky, then. If you really want to run away, it’s easier if no one is looking for you.”

&nb
sp; “I guess.” She broke into the package of Oreos, handed one to Alice, and then took one for herself. “Why’d you run anyway? Your parents do something?”

  “No. Something I did.”

  Delilah waited for her to continue, but Alice started pushing the cart again.

  “What happened? What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Alice. I told you everything about me. There’s nothing you don’t know.”

  Alice hated that she was letting her guard down with the girl. “I did nothing when I should’ve been doing something.”

  Delilah didn’t follow.

  “You helped raise your little brother, right? Watched after him and took care of him?”

  Delilah nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Well, I had a little brother, too. And I didn’t do that. I didn’t watch out for him when I should’ve.”

  “Something happen to him?”

  “Yeah. Something happened.”

  “And you think it was your fault?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But weren’t you just a kid?”

  “You’re just a kid, and didn’t you look after your brother?”

  “I had to. With my mama being the way she is and all.”

  They found themselves standing in front of the beer and wine section.

  “Parents are messed up, if you ask me. I’m never gonna end up like my mama. Never,” Delilah flat-out stated.

  Alice stared at the rows of beers, the bottles of amber liquid sweating and looking so damn inviting.

  “I don’t know, Alice, but if it was an accident, then you shouldn’t blame yourself for whatever happened to your brother.”

  “I do anyway.”

  “I’m sure your brother knew you loved him. Right? You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Alice.”

  “Jason. His name was Jason.” Alice grabbed a twelve-pack of Michelob and put it in the cart. “And do you know what the last thing I said to him was?”

  Delilah shook her head.

  “He was four. He went into my room, found my fingernail polish and got it everywhere. Seemed like the end of the world at the time.” She stared at the beer in the grocery cart. “So, I kicked him out of my bedroom. I yelled at him. Told him that I hated him. Then, I told him that I wished he was never born.” She looked back at Delilah. “That’s the last thing I said to my brother. The last words he heard before he died.”

  Alice glanced at the twelve-pack of beer, never wanting to drink one so badly, to feel the cold liquid spread across her tongue and roll down her throat. But one would lead to two, and so on and so on. Then, with a sense of conviction she never thought possible and not knowing how long it might last, Alice picked up the twelve-pack and returned it to the cooler.

  * * *

  They shuffled down the sidewalk, both toting two bags of groceries. The twelve o’clock sun beat down on them, not a cloud in the sky. Delilah had been yakking up a storm ever since leaving the store, and Alice was trying her best to tune her out.

  “I dated a white boy once. Well, not really date, but kinda. In the eighth grade. Gary Mack. White as they come. Hair parted right down the middle and a big gap between his front two teeth. He used to walk me home from school a few times a week and we’d stop at 7-Eleven to share a bag of barbecue potato chips and a Mountain Dew Big Gulp.”

  Alice just nodded. She felt like hell. The sun was too damn hot, and her head pounded, a surging headache getting worse by the minute. Sweat rolled down her back and stained her underarms. Her palms felt slick and she had to re-grip the grocery bags before they slipped right out of her hands.

  “Gary didn’t talk much. He ate lunch by himself at school. Didn’t really hang out with other boys and most kids left him alone. I think he might have been a little slow, but I didn’t mind. The last time we went to the 7-Eleven together, we were sitting on the curb, and he leaned over and kissed me right on the lips. I didn’t really care for the kiss that much, but I liked the way it made me feel.”

  Out on the street, a car horn blared and the droning sound went right through Alice, but Delilah kept on with her story.

  “The kiss only lasted one or two seconds, but it was long enough for one of my mama’s friends to see. That night, Mama staggered into my bedroom all drunk and messed up, and jumped right on top of me while I was sleeping. I thought it was Leon at first, but it wasn’t. It was just Mama, pitching a crazy fit. She told me that I can’t be messing around with Gary. She called him stupid. Called him white trash. The next day, when I told Gary about Mama and what she said—not the stupid, white trash part—he just kind of shrugged and said okay. And that was it. He wouldn’t even look at me in the hallways anymore. How could someone be like that? One day they kiss you, the next day acting like I didn’t even exist anymore?”

  Alice felt a wave of nausea smack at her like an unexpected gust of wind; her stomach lurched and she thought she might vomit in the middle of Main Street. “Hold up.” She set down the grocery bags and squatted on her knees and leaned against a brick storefront.

  Delilah stopped and stared back at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t feel so good.”

  Delilah watched Alice fumble with a pack of cigarettes, barely able to hold the flame steady enough to light one up. “Shoot, Alice. You’re shaking bad.”

  Alice sucked on her cigarette, leaned her head against the brick wall, and exhaled slowly, waiting for the wave of nausea to lift.

  “Something wrong with you? You look like you’re ready to pass out. You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

  Alice said no. Sucked on her cigarette a little more. “Withdrawal.”

  “Withdrawal? From what?”

  “What do you think?” Alice snapped, the words harsh and venomous.

  Delilah stared down the street. Held her head low like an admonished puppy.

  Alice flicked her cigarette away. “Sorry. I just feel like crap.”

  Delilah set down the bags of groceries, crouched beside her, took out a pack of bubble gum, handed a stick to Alice, then popped one in her mouth. “How long does it last? The withdrawal thing.”

  “Don’t really know. First time for me.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, chewed on their sticks of gum, and watched the traffic go up and down Main Street. People parking, walking in and out of shops, running errands, and stopping to gossip with neighbors.

  Then they watched as a Grand Marquis cruised past them and pulled into Lucy’s Diner. After the car parked, both doors swung open at the same time like a synchronized effort, and two men that were polar opposites stepped out of the vehicle. The driver tall and thick, his big barrel-chest wider than his shoulders. He moved with little grace and looked like a professional wrestler out of his costume. The passenger’s head barely came over the top of the car’s roof, and he looked like an overdressed fourteen-year-old, so slight and tiny, but full of direct purpose.

  Delilah smiled at the pair and nudged Alice with her elbow. “Look at those two. King Kong and Curious George.”

  Despite feeling like hell, Alice couldn’t help herself and laughed out loud.

  Both girls kept smiling and staring at the pair of men as they stepped toward the diner, a little bell clanging against the glass doors and they disappeared inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  SINCLAIR FELT HIS patience wearing thin, starting to make him irritable. He was accustomed to dealing with unpleasant situations—dealers that dip into their supply, customers that use beyond their means, avoiding narcs and undercover police officers—but never before had he been confronted with this kind of problem. A twenty-one-year-old girl taking what was his. Evading him. Silently mocking him. He imagined what he would do to young Alice. This girl he never met would learn a valuable lesson. That much he felt quite assured of.

  They chose a booth in the corner of the diner, next to a window, away from other lunch patrons and inquisitive ears. Sinclair picked
up a laminated menu, a few spiral pages, and perused the selection of diner food.

  “It appears that this establishment is overly fond of gravy in their dishes. Biscuits and gravy. Turkey and gravy. Meatloaf with gravy. It goes on and on.”

  Phillip stared at his menu. “I like gravy.”

  “Yes. By that, I am not surprised, Phillip.”

  A waitress approached their table. The woman had thick ankles and a double chin that spread halfway around a wide neck. Yellow teeth and fingernails revealed that she smoked entirely too many cigarettes. “Get you fellas some coffee?”

  “Decaf for me, please,” Sinclair said. “Thank you.”

  “And for the big fella?”

  “Juice,” Phillip uttered.

  “OJ?”

  “No.”

  “Grape juice, grapefruit, or pineapple?”

  “Half pineapple. Half grape.” Phillip didn’t bother looking at the woman.

  “Okay. You all hold tight. I’ll be right back with your beverages.” She clicked her pen, stuck it in her poof of hair, and went to fetch their drink orders.

  “Really, Phillip. We have discussed this many times. Manners. A simple please and a thank you go a long way. We must make attempts at being civil. Those that work in the service industry are people who have a very difficult task, working for tips, making minimum wage. Dealing with rude customers cannot be easy.”

  Phillip took a toothpick out of a small cup, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. “Okay.” He hunched over the table, shoulders heavy, his perpetual glazed expression even duller.

  “What’s on your mind, Phillip? You appear a little more somber than usual.”

  “Nothing,” Phillip muttered.

  “I’m growing restless as well, Phillip. Believe me, I am. But this will end soon.”

  Phillip let out a long sigh. Picked at his teeth. “Maybe she’s not even here.”

  Sinclair stared at Phillip. Watched him poke the toothpick between his teeth. “Please. That is truly a disgusting habit.” He waited for Phillip to remove the toothpick, which he promptly did. “She is here. Alice is here.”