by Greg Walker
He stood up and thought to call after him but didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. No different than twenty years ago. When JT made up his mind, there was no changing it.
When the sound of his progress faded, Eric lifted a hand up and watched it tremble. He sat in the silence for few minutes more, but the connection with Adam was severed. Standing up to go and brushing off his pants, he said, "I'm going Adam, but I'll be at the house if you need me."
Eric dialed Mary’s number at the real estate office. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her omitting that John Thomas, or now officially JT, still lived in the area, or at least frequented it. The shoe prints he’d seen in the woods looked to be a match.
“Collins Realty, this is Mary.”
“Mary, it’s Eric. Do you have a minute? Need to ask you something.”
“Something wrong? Did you have another run in with Arnie?”
“No, but I did run into someone. John Thomas Groves. I had no idea he still lived around here. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know how you’d take it. I thought, from all you’ve told me about coming back and dealing with this thing, it might just make it harder for you. I’m actually surprised that you saw him. He lives in the same house he grew up in, by the junkyard, but about the only thing anyone sees is his back when he’s riding away down the road on his motorcycle. Look, I’m sorry. I hope you’re not upset with me...”
“No, I’m not. It was just a shock, that’s all. A shock to both of us, actually. Has he always been around, never lived anywhere else?” He decided not to tell Mary the particulars of the meeting, at least not yet. He felt somehow that the moment had belonged only to them, just as no one else could share what they had so long ago. But he did want to know more.
“No, not always. He actually almost played for the Steelers, believe it or not. He was so angry at being suspected of killing Adam. Not by everybody, but some. When Fisk insinuated that you might have done it, he was lying, but he really believes that about JT. And Arnie holds some sway there. Deacon in the church, successful business owner, self-appointed Sheriff sometimes. There are those follow his lead, unfortunately. But even then I think some of them agree with him but don't mean it, just do it to avoid risking his wrath.”
Eric thought again of the posse that Sheriff Fisk claimed to have, and wondered if Mary’s words explained why they hadn’t been by with torches and a noose.
“So back to JT. When he got to high school he joined the football team, found a place to vent all that anger to the dismay of quarterbacks and running backs and anyone else that got in his way. He even put a punter in the hospital once. I think he'd finally found a place where people respected him, maybe even loved him, so it meant everything.”
“Did you still hang out with him, after I left?” Eric felt a twinge of jealousy and knocked it aside as absurd. But he listened carefully for Mary’s answer.
“Sometimes. But not very often. In high school, we belonged to different groups of friends, or I did anyway. He was the best player on the team, but he didn’t hang out so much with them outside of the games, or anyone else for that matter. He didn’t play for anyone's approval. He played to redeem himself, I think, played for Arnie Fisk. Tony was on the team too, so he knew Arnie was watching. He did ask me out once, but I just couldn’t, too much history. He shrugged it off like it was no big deal, but I didn’t see him much around here after that, either. Although once we could drive, no one stayed around here much more than they had to.
"He went to Penn State on a full football scholarship. I saw a few games in Beaver Stadium, and more on TV. Things didn’t change much there, he just busted bigger heads. I heard he’d been tested for steroids several times, but always came out clean. And it was just that sort of thing that drove him, proving to everyone that they didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t you ever see him play?”
Eric answered, “I sort of lost interest in football, or any sport. Seemed so frivolous somehow. All the money, these warriors beating each other up, and in the end for nothing, really. Nothing in the real world changes, and when somebody wins the championship they all go home and just do it again the next year like it never even happened.” Eric thought of the limp, and asked, “So anyway...what happened to JT? I noticed he limped when we met. Football injury?”
“An injury yes, but not on the field. He’d been picked up in the draft. I watched it for the first time ever, saw JT standing next to Bill Cowher shaking hands for the cameras. Cowher looked like he'd already won the Superbowl. JT wasn't smiling, just looked satisfied. He was even on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Lots of hype. Then one day he’s out driving and this dump truck slams into the car. There was a guy sitting in the passenger seat and one in the back. They both died. JT's leg was shattered, and he had a perforated lung and lost a kidney, I believe. And that was it. No more football. They made a big deal of it for a while on the news. But then it all faded away like it always does. And he ended up back in Lincoln Corners.”
“What happened with the accident? Was it his fault. Drinking?”
“No. It was ruled entirely the construction company’s fault that owned the truck. Brakes were bad and the investigators found that they hadn’t been doing regular maintenance on their fleet as required by law. There was a settlement, and from what I understand JT is a very rich man now. You’d never know it though, from that house he lives in. Not exactly a dump, but just a step above.
"He came back here to stay with his mother and heal as best he could, I think. When she died, everyone thought he’d leave. But he doesn’t really live in Lincoln Corners. He keeps to himself, never goes to Janine’s store or anywhere else in town, so I’m not surprised he didn’t know you came back. He waves to me if we run across each other somewhere, but never comes over to talk. It’s almost like he chose to stay as a thorn in Lincoln Corners’ side, at least to people like Fisk. I heard one of his favorite hobbies is to ride his Harley past the lumberyard and Fisk’s house whenever he goes anywhere, whether it’s on his way or not. You know how loud they are.”
“Yeah, I do,” Eric said and smiled. He liked the thought of JT disturbing
Arnie’s peace very much.
“Listen, Eric. I’m sorry but I have to leave to go show a house. See you tomorrow night still?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You know you can come to dinner with me at Pastor Burroughs house at seven. He said he’d love to have you over, too.”
“I would, Eric, but I’ve got some things I need to do here, burn some of that midnight oil I've been saving up. So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. Tomorrow then.”
He hung up, and thought about JT. Just another one of the lives that had gone on after Adam, a citizen of the town wounded and bleeding, crippled and learning to walk all over again. For JT it had happened twice, his life altered by another senseless, inexplicable act. He had won some money, but it couldn't buy back a sound leg or produce a new kidney. He wondered if JT lived in bitterness, had lost his belief in anything good or if he had managed to find that even before the accident; he wondered what kept him going beyond annoying Arnie Fisk, an activity that could only be a meager substitute for real purpose. And he wondered if John Thomas had ever really been able to wash Adam's blood off of his hands, or if he still saw the bright red of that day as part of the pigment of his skin. He decided, after he had written the story, to contact JT and maybe find out.
He also thought about Mary, about the cadence of her voice that still echoed and the smell of her hair and the kisses replayed often in his mind. They had toned things down after their near miss on the couch. At least for now. He sensed that she was waiting for him to take the next step, out of her fear of rushing into something with a hidden sharp edge and out of respect for his need to wrestle his demons at least to a stalemate. He allowed his mind to wander, trying to imagine what a life with her might be like, waking up with someone next to him, a real life after
abandoning the hunt for ghosts already long gone. But for now, his heart couldn't follow where his thoughts could tread. Because he wasn't yet convinced that the ghosts had truly left. He just hoped that Mary could hold on long enough for him to see them off.
Chapter 9
The boy woke up slowly. He was cold, and his body ached. He groped for his pillow or blanket, and the movement caused a sharp pain in his knuckles that caused him to gasp. He opened his eyes and found himself lying in the intersection by the church, the light in the steeple illuminating the cross, nearly blinding against the dark sky to his unaccustomed eyes. He could feel wetness on his hand, knew it was blood from scraping it across the asphalt.
The events of the day came back like a punch in the stomach, and the boy forgot his resolve and wailed. What else did they expect him to do, if there was anyone left to expect anything of him? But it didn't last long. The boy felt numb more than anything, but he also discovered that he wanted to live.
As he did an inventory of sensations - the things that hurt, the pressing darkness, and the cold that caused him to shiver - he also recognized the smell of fried chicken. He hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, and his body responded to the tantalizing odor with a fierceness foreign to a boy used to three meals a day and snacks in between. Momentarily forgetting his circumstances, the boy sniffed the air as more animal than human, everything in him directed towards the need for food.
He found its source sitting on the road about five feet away. The streetlight above illuminated another plate covered by another paper towel. EAT! it said, this time with an exclamation mark, the words larger and written right on top of the towel. Not a request but a demand. He reached out and pulled the paper towel away. Steam rose in a cloud above the plate of chicken, a breast and a leg. Mashed potatoes with gravy, a dinner roll, and some green beans completed the dinner.
It's still warm, he thought. He was here, right here next to me a few minutes ago. He felt another scream rising, but brushed it off quickly, annoyed.
He wanted to eat the food. If he could find the courage to go back into his house, or any house, he could find some cereal or maybe someone's leftovers, but it wouldn't smell like this - exactly like his grandmother's chicken. The boy had always believed while crunching his way through piece after piece, grease dripping from his chin and pooling on his plate, that Colonel Sanders could learn a thing or two from her.
But what if the man had poisoned it? As he thought about this, it occurred to him that if this psycho wanted him dead, he'd have slit his throat instead of serving a home cooked meal.
Unable to contain himself any longer, poison or no, the boy picked up the breast and bit off as big a hunk as his mouth could accommodate. He chewed quickly, determined to get as much chicken into his stomach as possible. He feared the man could come back any moment, even take away the rest, a petty cruelty to add to the atrocities already heaped upon him.
There was no silverware, so he ate with his hands, finishing the chicken and then scooping up mashed potatoes with his fingers and stuffing them into his mouth. He sucked them clean, ate the beans with an appreciation never felt at family dinners, and then licked the plate spotless. With the empty platter in hand and no seconds coming, he wondered what he should do with it, realized the absurdity of looking for a drop site for dirty dishes, and set it back down on the road.
He looked down towards his house. The porch light was on, and he was certain he hadn't put it on nor had it been left on. It was the equivalent of a giant paper towel covering his house, on which was written, GO HOME.
The boy stood up and looked around, tried to find man shapes in the shadows, almost certain the murderer of his family and friends and town watched him. He didn't see him, didn't see the van. Suddenly seething, he yelled, "Who are you? Why are you doing this? Answer me you bastard!" He couldn't help flinching at using a curse word, had been brought up better than that.
The man, if he watched, didn't answer. Maybe he wasn't here at all. Maybe he'd gone for good. The boy picked up his bicycle, and began to ride. The cold night air cleared his head and knew his next course of action. He wouldn't go home. He would leave on his bicycle, ride out of town and find someone still alive. The man couldn't have killed the whole world. There had to be people, police out there somewhere.
He rode past his house with only a glance, down the road and went right, to the main highway, if anything could be called that here. His bus took him about ten on it to school. He'd never ridden that far, but tonight he believed he could ride to Los Angeles if necessary. He looked for cars but there weren't any coming in either direction. Turning left on the highway, he pedaled hard at first, but soon realized the need to pace himself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, as his father liked to say. Or he had.
About a quarter mile down the road, headlights cut through the night, the vehicle rounding a bend behind the cones of light. It drove towards him, and waved his arm to get the driver's attention. The wave died in mid arc as he recognized the shape of the van. It came on fast, crossing the center line, and the boy stopped and straddled the bicycle, prepared to jump off into the roadside weeds contaminated with discarded fast food wrappers and cigarette butts.
The van came to halt with a terrible screech only ten feet from where he stood. His mouth was dry and he had the sudden urge to pee. He could see only the headlights and shaded his eyes with an arm. No one got out, and the van simply idled, its presence a threat, but it didn't approach. He turned the bike around and walked it back the way he had come. The van didn't follow, and he turned at the first available left, the road that led back to the church.
In the intersection, his plate still on the road and gleaming in the glow of the steeple, the boy looked up at the cross and said, "Help me." He hoped for some response. He knew miracles didn't occur often, and he'd never seen one, personally, and didn't know anyone that had. But he felt that God might see these as exceptional circumstances and intervene. Instead, the cross continued shining like a beacon in the dark, and he hated it for the lie.
He turned his back on it and began pedaling again, but this time took a left at the church and went up the hill and past the town cemetery. Any other time he would have been afraid to be alone and so close in the dark to the dead, but tonight he could have slept among the graves, grateful for the company. The asphalt ended and the ride became rough on the packed dirt. He had to slow down to avoid hitting a rut and being thrown. Woods closed in on either side and he welcomed its embrace, hoped for the night sounds of animals, something other than the silence. He heard nothing but the hum of his tires and the pop of stones they displaced. He arrived at a T intersection, and looked in both directions and then behind.
No van.
The boy allowed the smallest glimmer of hope. He knew if he went left, it would take him back to the road where the man stopped him, albeit further up and behind but he didn't want to risk it. But by going right, he faced a long, steep hill. In winter, he and his brother and Randy had ridden down on runner sleds, laughing shrilly in fear and exhilaration. But walking back up sucked. Walking his bike up would suck too, as he had no illusions to his ability to summit while riding. But meeting the man again would suck the most, and so he began riding towards the hill as fast as he dared. He would ascend as far as possible this way and then hike the rest.
He reached the base and stood, putting all he had into the pedals but the pitch fought him almost immediately. After struggling valiantly but wobbling and weaving sideways more than making any forward progress, he admitted defeat and got off. The exertion felt good, however, cleared his head, and he was proud of himself for taking action and refusing to let the man dictate his movements. He thought his father would be proud of him too, but shut off the thought before grief could overrun the defenses built to keep it out. At least for now. At least until he could get away and then mourn.
Walking with the bike, he was soon breathing heavily and sweating, and wished for a coat, knew that
when he got back on to ride the wind against the moisture would chill him even further on this cold night. But it was more important to get out. He could deal with the cold. Being cold meant being alive. He glanced back again but there was no vehicle behind him.
Legs aching and gulping air, he finally reached the top. A house set back from the road rested at the crest, but he saw no lights. The boy knew the late hour might mean they'd gone to bed, but he was still too close and didn't need to see more of the man's work right now.
He heard it before he saw anything. The sound came from ahead and not behind. A few hundred yards from his position, headlights flared, high beams, and the boy was blinded. The man had approached without them on, already close and closing, and didn't appear that this time he intended to stop. Even if he did, the boy knew that on the dirt road the man would likely skid right on into him anyway.
He turned around and got on the bike, stood up to get a good start, and then gravity hurled them both down the hill. The van came on, much closer now, and his long shadow lay on the road preceding his desperate, reckless flight.