Cruel Doubt

by Joe McGinniss

  She paused and sighed, and I could tell she was as close to real tears as she’d ever been when speaking to me.

  “It was,” she said, “because he had thrown himself across me, trying to cover me up, trying to protect me, trying to somehow save my life. Lieth died trying to make sure I would live.

  “And if he could do that for me, I guess what I can do for him is just persevere and get on with it and try to still find something worthwhile in my life.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to think like that, much less say it, but I think I might be getting ready to begin.”

  * * *

  And that brought back to mind one warm Saturday morning the previous spring when I’d gotten out of the Winston-Salem house with her, down to Welcome, to her real home.

  It had been by far the most enjoyable time I’d ever spent with her. She drove me all over the town, stopping at her mother’s house so I could admire the quilts and orchids, and so I could see the attic dormitory where she and her sisters had grown up.

  We’d gone on into Lexington and she’d showed me the very drive-in (long since shut down) where she’d pulled up next to Steve Pritchard’s car.

  Then she took me to Finch Park, where she and Lieth and her two little children would come on Saturday mornings—just like this one—when he was down from Cincinnati. This was after she’d overcome her fear that he would forget her once he moved.

  Bonnie’s step was lighter that morning, as was her mood. There was a flicker of something almost approaching joy that I’d not seen before. It seemed to come just from being, however briefly, and however different the circumstances, back in a place where she’d once felt hope.

  There were swans in a large pond, there was a bandstand, there were shade trees, open, grassy fields, a path around the edge of the pond, playground equipment for the children.

  This was where she had first seen it. This was where she had first sensed that her future might still hold some measure of happiness: with this man, whose head she cradled in her lap, as together they watched her young children play on the swings.