“If you’d said something, it might have turned out differently, but probably not. I learned how to protect myself, and that was what I needed to do. She kept up the cycle of man after man, and the best thing for me was to learn to keep myself out of harm’s way.” I leaned back and groaned. “I can’t believe she’s getting married again. At least I don’t have to worry about what he’ll try to do to me. He’ll be hers to deal with.”
Trisha broke the following silence with another sigh. “Anyway, back during that time with Scott…part of me thought that it was my punishment for not protecting you. That you’d been traumatized and — and damaged — by that man, and the way you acted was the result of that. And it came home to roost with me because I hadn’t protected you when I had the chance.”
I had to reflect on that a bit. The way you acted. I knew what she meant. In high school I became a rebellious, promiscuous punk, drunk as often as not. I had a need to push things as far as I could push them. I had a need to shock. And Trisha hit the nail on the head. I did it because I was damaged.
So what did a damaged person do to become undamaged? I felt such a need to knock the dents out of myself, to sweep everything clean and pour boiling hot water to kill germs and scrub out all the nooks and crannies. I didn’t want to carry this damage around with me for the rest of my life.
That was what forgiveness was supposed to do, I thought. It was supposed to lighten the load. But it certainly didn’t feel like that to me. Instead, the process of forgiveness felt like switching one load — the burden of resentment, anger, the desire for revenge — for another. Forgiveness felt like the burden of willing yourself to l iayt aside, again and again, every time it came up.
That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work, I was almost certain. But it was working that way, at least for me.
Walking out of the Channel 11 office, I checked my phone. It was almost eight o’clock. I thought of Stump and felt guilty. I’d left her with Frank all day, which was not a big deal except she would be expecting me home long before now. To ease my guilt, I drove through and got a family order of chicken strips, fries and gravy.
We sat in the living room and ate while Frank watched TV. I checked my phone seventeen times to see if Tony had called. Nothing.
Viv had called, but I was too exhausted to talk to her.
“I’m really exhausted,” I texted her.
“I’ll drive.”
Of course you will. That’s a given.
“I still think I might be coming down with something. I’m going to do some Facebook research on Xavier. We can get back to interviewing people tomorrow.”
Tomorrow I’ll get my groove back, I promised myself. I will.
First I went to the Channel 11 page to read about the story.
There were many postings of “Praying for healing” and “God be with you during this difficult time.” Interspersed were comments of “save your sympathy” and “do you people really think it’s a coincidence that the first time things get violent, it’s when an ex-con is involved? There’s a story here they’re not telling us.”
That one got a response from JimBarbBennet. “If you can’t keep your judgmental comments to yourself, just stay away. This is my nephew, and I know for a fact that he’s a good man and an honest man. The only way he was involved in this burglary is as a victim! You can take your negativity and shove it.”
I clicked on JimBarbBennet’s profile, which seemed to be mostly pictures of grandkids and recipes for brisket and pineapple upside down cake. I clicked through Jim and Barb’s friends (Jim was largely absent from any communication) but did find a link to Xavier’s mom, who appeared to be Jim’s younger sister.
Xavier’s mother Priscilla Barnstable had a large contingent of support, which was nice to see. “You hold your head high, girl,” encouraged one poster. “You and sweet Xavier are in our prayers, sister.”
Priscilla was apparently active on a couple of Facebook groups that were for families with incarcerated loved ones. I kept scrolling until I found a picture of Xavier with Priscilla on the day of his release, and scrolled again to find a picture of them smiling broadly for the camera, Xavier holding a framed high school diploma.
I scrolled back up and found another post from Priscilla, with a link to her blog.
I clicked the link. Priscilla’s blog was devoted to news on prisoner and family rights, news of overturned convictions, prison abuse and police corruption. I had to allow for the possibility that whatever “research” I gained from Priscilla might be a bit skewed.
She hadn’t posted in a few weeks, since before Xavier was attacked. I figured she’d been busy. I clicked through to updates on Xavier’s progress, introductions from other moms and dads she’d met and built friendships with over her experience of having a child in prison.
It was so sad. Whatever these kids had done, they were loved. Their parents had had hopes for them, expectations for them. They had to go to sleep every night knowing their child was lying down amid possibly violent other prisoners. That they could very well come out changed, hardened, different children from the ones who went in. And that’s if they came out at all.
I wondered for a moment how my mom would have reacted if I had ended up in prison. It was more than just an academic question — I had gotten three DUIs. That was more do-overs than a lot of people got. Added to that, I doubted life after a stint in prison would be easier for me to manage than life before prison had been. So the prison revolving-door syndrome could very well have been my life.
And that’s assuming I hadn’t killed or injured someone on one of my drunken rides through town. Even now, with almost two years working on sobriety, the realization that I could have killed someone, could have taken someone’s life and broken countless hearts, made my breath catch and an icy ball form in the pit of my stomach. I could have. It was only — what? The grace of God? Shear blind luck? — that I was sitting with my new Smart Enuff phone on my saggy sofa in Trailertopia instead of in prison learning how to cope with the fact that I was the bad guy this time. I was the bad guy.
I didn’t like to think about that, of course. During the day, I could usually turn my thoughts to something — anything — else. But at night, sometimes, I woke with a strangled cry, heart thudding, sometimes with the remnants of a barely-remembered dream, of violent impact, of terror, of soul-destroying regret. On those nights I lay awake for hours, the reality of what I could have done real and horrible and inescapable, seemingly the only important fact in the world. I could have killed someone. I could have.
One night I was so overcome that I actually called Les and woke him up. He came over to Trailertopia and sat with me until I finally fell asleep on the sofa to the steady sound of his reassurances that everyone was okay, that I was okay.
The next morning, I felt so foolish. I’d woken him up and hauled him out of bed by freaking out about something that already hadn’t happened. And when I feel foolish, I tend to get defensive.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I grumbled the next morning. “You didn’t have to come over here and sit with me. I would have been okay.”
“Probably,” Les had said evenly, unperturbed at my gritchy attitude. “But I didn’t want to take a chance on probably. Things look a lot worse in the middle of the night, Salem. Sometimes obstacles that are perfectly manageable in the daylight are too much to deal with at night. I don’t know why that is, but it is. Just remember that, next time you wake up scared. Everything looks better in the morning. And if you get scared again, call me. Promise me. I’d rather come over here and sleep in your recliner than know you spent a night in anguish.”
I promised him that I would, but the next time I woke up in a panic, I did not call him. I thought about it, and I knew he wouldn’t be mad if I did, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I thought about him and everything he’d said, all the promises he’d already made to me that had proved true, and I repeated over and over again, “Everything will look
better in the morning.”
It always did.
That was mostly, of course, because I only had near-misses to deal with. Now, in the safety of the evening light, I allowed myself to dwell on the what-ifs. What if I was in prison right now? I wouldn’t know Viv. I wouldn’t have Tony. G-Ma might come visit me, maybe, but I was fairly sure Mom would not. For sure not after this past weekend.
My mom would not create a blog and a Facebook page devoted to creating a safe place for families to support each other and their incarcerated loved ones. I was quite sure of that. Would she join such a group?
Probably not.
Stump grumbled, then stood slowly and raised her paws to brace against my chest. She gave me a solemn look, then sniffed at my face. She leaned back with a quizzical look like, “What’s the problem?”
“Stump, if I went to prison would you make a Facebook page for me?” I scratched the fat around the base of her tail, where she liked it best. If I had gone to jail, I never would have found Stump that day by the side of the road. She likely would have died from exposure, been hit by a car, or been taken to the shelter and put to sleep. The thought once again had the ice ball forming in my stomach. My sweet baby. If she was in prison, I would absolutely make a Facebook page for her, no question.
I eased her back onto the seat beside me. I picked up my phone again and scrolled back to the Facebook page. I posted on the page:
Priscilla, you don’t know me, but I met your son a few days ago, just before he was attacked. I was a customer at the garage. You should know that he acted in a very admirable, honorable way. He was very professional. You would be proud of him. In the short time I talked to him, he conducted himself in a way that makes it very hard for me to believe he is anything but innocent in the robbery on the automotive. Please know that not everyone thinks he’s guilty until proven innocent.
I sat back and read it. A little smarmy, but I felt like one mom talking to another one. Silly as that seemed.
My phone dinged. I stared at it. I was sure there was some way to make it not ding for every little thing, but I had no idea how. I tapped randomly at the screen and a Facebook notification popped up: Isabella Barnstable has replied to your comment on her page.
Well. That was quick.
“Thank you so much for your note. These last few days have been very difficult, and the way the police are acting doesn’t ease my mind one bit!”
I stared at the message. Should I ask? Start a conversation with her? Marty had said in the hospital that he thought Xavier knew more than he was saying. Maybe he had been more open with his mother than he had with the police. It was certainly worth a shot.
I texted Viv: “Remember a little while ago when I said I was tired and not up to interviewing anyone? I think I’m about to meet Xavier’s mom. Are you in?”
Chapter Fifteen
Recon
At first, I didn’t think we were going to get anywhere with Isabella Barnstable. She met us at an all-night Waffle Factory and seemed to be more interested in interviewing us than being interviewed by us. She was way more organized than we were. She took names, dates, phone numbers, backup phone numbers, work numbers, references.
Plus, physically, she was kind of intimidating. She had a barbed-wire tattoo circling a well-developed bicep. This was a mom who appeared to be quite prepared to defend her son.
Viv reached into her bag. She was going for the business cards.
I put my hand on her arm. “I am begging you. No.”
Viv frowned at me. I ignored it and turned to Mrs. Barnstable. “Can we just let our record speak for itself? Do you remember the C.J. Hardin case?”
She gasped. “I knew I knew you from somewhere.”
“That was us alright,” Viv said.
It was mostly me, but whatever.
“We are looking for these High Point Bandits,” I assured her. “We intend to find them. We are confident than when we do, we’ll be able to make it very clear that your son is not involved in any way.” I didn’t actually know that, but I figured if it turned out I was wrong, she would have bigger things to worry about than us.
“We just want to talk to him. I heard he came home today.”
She made a face. “He went back to his apartment. I begged him to come to the house, let me keep an eye on him for a few days. But he fought for too long to get his independence and he doesn’t want to give it up now.” She looked at us, still frowning, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind if she was going to allow us access or not.
“I’m sure he’s already said everything he knows to the police. But we’ve found that sometimes people are more open with us. More relaxed. Maybe not him, necessarily. But some people are. We’ve talked to a lot of the people in this neighborhood over the last week. And maybe something he says will click with something someone else told us, something they haven’t told the police.”
She continued to frown at us, then sighed. “I’ll ask Xavier if you can come visit him. It’ll be up to him. But I think it’s a good idea. I think the more eyes we have on this business, the better.”
“That’s what Clete Pigg says,” I said.
She made another face, this one even more severe than the frown she’d had pinned on us. I supposed not everyone fell for his Redneck Santa charm. “Yes, well…as I said, I’ll ask Xavier how he feels about speaking to you. If he’s okay with it, I’ll let you know.”
Viv and I walked out into the night, silent. It was not as late as I thought, but I was still tired.
“Maybe we can talk to Xavier tomorrow,” I said.
Viv was quiet. Which was weird. She started the car and drove back toward Trailertopia.
“You look tired,” she finally said.
“I’m going to bed as soon as I get home. A good night’s sleep will do me good.”
She pulled to the curb beside my trailer. “That’s all it is? You just need a good night’s sleep?”
I did a gut check. “I don’t know what’s happening with Tony,” I said. “I’m scared he can’t really forgive me.”
“You weren’t sure if you wanted to be married to him or not, remember? Not sure how you felt about him.”
“I remember. And I’m still not entirely sure. But…” I looked out the window. “It’s going to kill me to know he can’t forgive me.”
“You have to do what you can to make amends and move on.”
“I know.” I heard the same things in AA she did.
“Have you talked to Les about this?”
“Sure.” Les and I talked about Tony a lot, the same way we talked about Mom a lot. Les wasn’t supportive of me getting back into a relationship with Tony, because he figured I had my hands full with taking care of myself for a while longer, and he was right.
But this wasn’t some former roommate I’d left hanging with a huge phone bill. This wasn’t a send-a-check-and-a-prayer-and-move-on kind of amends.
This was Tony.
“I’m really confused by him. He stayed married to me. But he can’t trust me.”
“He needs time.”
“I know.”
“We don’t get to set the timetable for anyone else.”
“I know.”
Viv was silent.
I was silent.
Finally, I sighed. “If he doesn’t forgive me, I really don’t know if I can forgive myself.”
“It can’t work that way.”
“I know. But…there it is anyway.”
Cast your burden on the Lord and he will sustain you. Psalm 55:22 (ESV)
I sat for a long time the next morning, running the words over and over in my head. What I had said to Trisha the day before was true. It was unfair. It was unfair that I had to choose forgiveness over and over, when I’d been completely blameless in what happened to me. It was unfair that Tony should have to do the same thing. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t understand how this could possibly be God’s method.
So I cast that on him.
“I
don’t get it, God,” I prayed. “I don’t get it, I don’t think this is right, I think there’s a serious design flaw here. So consider this me, casting it on you. I expect you to sustain me, through whatever today brings.”
Wednesday. The next day was Thursday, date-night-with-Tony day. Now that I’d thrown down the gauntlet, so to speak, it could be the first Thursday in months without a date night.
“Put up or shut up, that’s what you’re saying.”
He might choose to shut up.
“I’m trusting you to sustain me,” I said again. And I got up to go to work.
Isabella Barnstable called me around lunch.
“Xavier said he would talk to you for a little while, but he’s sure he doesn’t have anything worth sharing. He remembers very little.”
“I understand.”
“I would prefer to be there with you, but I’m not going to be able. I’m trusting you to be respectful, and to know when to clear out if he looks too tired or asks you to leave.”
“I understand,” I said again. The last thing I wanted to do was get on Priscilla Barnstable’s bad side. She was kind of scary.
Viv might be another matter, but I decided I would just have to drag her out if it became necessary. She was old and thin. I was young and thick. Surely I could overtake her.
That evening after I settled Stump in with Frank, and Viv picked me up in the Cadillac, I lectured her.
“He’s been through a traumatic and painful experience. Plus, his mother is fierce and it looked like she worked out.”
“She had some guns alright,” Viv acknowledged.
“So we’re going to be respectful. We’re going to be gentle with our questions. And we’re going to leave if he acts like he wants us to leave.”
Caught in the Crotchfire Page 29