The Grove

by John Rector

  “Ezra’s in his eighties. I don’t blame him a bit for going after that man. Most people feel the same way. Frank Tolliver made a lot of enemies.” Liz turned toward the window and shook her head. “It’s too bad, though. Everyone is just devastated over those kids, especially Ezra.”

  I looked down.

  “There’s even been talk about bringing in a lawyer from Chicago who thinks he can get him out of the whole thing.”

  I asked her again if they were sure it was him.

  Liz stared at me for a while, then said, “Do you think you started that fire?”

  I closed the notebook, didn’t answer.

  “Dexter.” She leaned close. “You didn’t kill Frank Tolliver. Do you understand?”

  I thought about it, nodded, then looked away.

  The doctor is taking the bandages off this afternoon, and I’ve been warned about how it’ll look.

  “It might be a shock,” he said. “So be prepared.”

  I’m not scared. If anything, I’m excited. I don’t think I’ll like what I see, but I’m not going to be shocked, either.

  When we were kids, Greg’s father had a series of books on World War I, and inside were all kinds of pictures of injured soldiers. Greg and I would sit on the floor and go over the photos, looking for the most gruesome ones.

  Many of the soldiers were missing noses and eyes and jaws. Some had their lips melted away by mustard gas or entire sections of their faces blown off after being shot while peeking out of trenches.

  I figure I’ll look something like that.

  If Greg still has those books, maybe I’ll ask him to bring them by sometime so we can compare.

  Maybe not.

  I’d like to talk to Greg before they move me, but I doubt I’ll get the chance. Hopefully he’ll come see me at Archway so I can tell him I’m sorry.

  Liz says he understands, but I need to be sure.

  He’s always been like family to me, almost as much as Liz or Clara, and that’s something you keep close for as long as you can.

  Liz won’t talk to me about our future together, and I’m not going to push her. I don’t feel a big need to know what’s going to happen. I suppose a part of me already knows, and that’s fine.

  We had a lot of good years together, more than most marriages, and I hate to see them end, but the truth is they ended a while ago, when Clara died.

  It just took us some time to notice.

  Still, for a while things were good, and I can walk away knowing that no matter what else happened, and no matter what other people thought, we were happy.

  All three of us.

  And when you have that, no matter how long it lasts, you’ve been blessed.

  I won’t look in a mirror. I’ve had enough of them.

  The nurse tried to hold one up for me when the doctor took the bandages off, but I looked away.

  “It’s OK,” the doctor said, touching the nurse’s arm. “There’s no rush.”

  It didn’t matter. I didn’t need a mirror. All I had to do was look at Liz’s face.

  She didn’t even have to say a word.

  The van arrives to take me to Archway, and I change into a set of clothes Liz brought from home.

  I can’t take anything else except what I’m wearing, and when I get there, they’ll take those things, too.

  I don’t mind losing my clothes, but I don’t want them to take Clara’s bracelet. Liz said she’d hold onto it for me, but I’m going to keep it for as long as I can.

  I want it close.

  Liz wheels me out to the parking lot then leans over and kisses my cheek. She tells me she’ll be up in a couple days, once I get settled.

  She doesn’t cry, and I don’t blame her. I can only imagine what people are saying about me in town, what she has had to go through.

  I’m helped into the van, and when we pull away I don’t look back. Once we are on the highway and out of town, I lean my head against the window and stare out at the blur of trees passing along the road.

  Eventually, the trees fall away to fields and hills and the occasional empty house.

  All of it passes.

  I watch the scenery for a while. Then my vision shifts and I see myself reflected in the glass, my face as thin as a daytime moon. It makes me smile, and I can’t look away.

  It’s like seeing a ghost.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Rector is a prize-winning short story writer and the author of the novel The Cold Kiss, optioned for a feature film now in development. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska.