The Reason

by William Sirls

  Kaitlyn took a slow sip of her margarita. “So you’re saying the carpenter made Zach get a splinter? Don’t you think that’s a stretch, Doc?”

  Macey sighed and sat back, crossing her arms. “Any way you dice it up, something bizarre happened.”

  “Because the carpenter fixed the cross. Like he was supposed to.”

  “Kaitlyn. He. Fixed. It. Too. Fast.”

  “We don’t know that! He does this for a living.”

  “C’mon, Kait!” Macey said, smacking the table with her hand and turning a few heads. “It was totally destroyed. You don’t have to know anything about construction to recognize that. Even if he had a brand-new cross sitting there, he couldn’t have planted it that fast!”

  “But he did,” Kaitlyn said, squinting at her friend, never having seen her so worked up over anything but a patient. “You said strange things were happening. What else?”

  “How about Zach yelling ‘Amy’ in the phone when I called? I wonder if that had anything to do with why he was late for work today.”

  “Late?” Kaitlyn said. “He never came in.”

  “Yes, he did. He ended up coming in around two.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t see him,” Kaitlyn said. He came in and didn’t talk to me?

  “He made his rounds and left. In fact, I heard he spent more time with the kids today than ever.”

  “That must explain why I didn’t see him then,” Kaitlyn said.

  Macey took a bite of her taco and stared at her. “Someone sounds miffed. Weird, for a girl who doesn’t care anymore.”

  “Please,” Kaitlyn said. “Now you are really talking bizarre.”

  Macey bit her lip and then paused. “You really want to hear something weird?”

  “Go for it,” Kaitlyn said.

  “I also think Kenneth may have had something to do with Mary Springsted’s recovery.”

  “How?”

  “Before he came to see us at my office, when I was getting on the elevator, all of the elevators were stuck on five. And then, when I apologized to him for being late, I could have sworn he said it gave him a chance to visit an old friend on the fifth floor. I believe that friend was Mary Springsted.”

  The mariachis came to their table, and Kaitlyn politely waved them off.

  Macey took another sip of her drink and continued. “Not to mention those words I’ve heard Kenneth say on more than one occasion.”

  “What words?”

  “Only believe,” Macey said. “He said it a couple times to me, and then Dr. Timmins said Mr. Springsted was shouting that same phrase.”

  “Check with the staff on five and see if he was up there.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “They said the only visitor she ever had was her husband.”

  “I think that about closes the case, then,” Kaitlyn said. “Either that, or our magical carpenter had his magic carpet parked outside the fifth-floor window.”

  “I’m being totally serious,” Macey said. “He was there. I know it. And quit looking at me like I’m crazy.”

  “What are you trying to say, then?”

  Macey gave her a little shrug, fiddling with a chip. “I don’t know. Only this . . . If Kenneth’s a miracle worker, I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  It’d been a couple of years since Carla had been this drunk, for this long. But no matter how much she drank, she couldn’t find the freedom she was looking for . . . only emptiness.

  Sitting here, on the edge of the Big Island Toll Bridge in the dark, her feet dangling over a hundred feet of emptiness, she thought it was somehow just right. An empty girl, in an empty space. If I just let go, I might disappear. Maybe then I’ll find freedom. She stared down at the dark, swirling waters, catching reflections of the moon on the crests of the small waves. Maybe I was never supposed to be here at all.

  Cars passed by her, but with a support beam directly at her back, she doubted any of them could see her. She adjusted her earbuds. Seals & Crofts’s “Summer Breeze” ended, then Phil Collins started to tell her about something “In the Air Tonight.” She looked down, and the frigid wind that bounced off the Detroit River hit her arms in a way that felt everything but summery.

  Dark forms swept from the sky, and she was so startled, she almost slipped from the rail. Wings came so close to her face, she could swear she felt feathers. Ten feet away, three small owls landed and drew in their wings. The one closest to her stared at her with a wide, slow blink.

  She stared back at them in amazement, wondering if that last rum and Coke was now giving her hallucinations. “Go! Shoo!” she said, waving her hand.

  The closest one only blinked again and rotated his head to look at the passing traffic, then over to his two friends, then back to her.

  Carla had never seen anything like them. She’d only heard owls in the night, never laid eyes on one. And now, here was a family of them. She frowned. The closest acted like a seagull, begging for scraps.

  “Go on, now!” she tried again, moving as if she intended to jump up and grab him. “I don’t have anything for you! Can’t you see? I’m nothing. Worthless. Hopeless. A dirty drunk! Go! Shoo!”

  But the owl remained where he was, with the two behind him nothing more than a pair of shadows, closing their eyes as if to rest. Maybe this is their home, Carla thought.

  Her cell phone vibrated against her hip through her coat pocket. It buzzed three times, and she took it out and looked at it. It was Brooke again.

  Carla had ignored all of Brooke’s calls since they’d parted yesterday but decided to answer this one. The last one. It was time to say good-bye.

  She pulled out one earbud, opened the phone, and listened without saying anything. She could hear Brooke.

  “Carla?” There was a brief pause. “Are you there?”

  Carla didn’t know what to say. There were a lot of things she wanted to tell Brooke. She wanted to tell her the real reason why she was at the bridge, after all this time. She had always wanted to tell her, but never could.

  That really didn’t matter now anyway, so she decided to tell Brooke the only thing that really did. “I love you, Brooke.”

  “Carla? Carla, where are you? I’ll come get you. Just—”

  Carla closed the phone and rubbed the smooth surface with her thumb. She could almost see Brooke’s face in it, Alex’s too. The Lindys. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She held it straight out in front of her and let it drop, watching it fall away from her, over and over, then disappear into the water with a little splash.

  She carefully wrapped her earbud cord around her iPod, still playing, and sent that to the depths too.

  Just a little splash and they’re gone. Like me.

  The owl shifted, partially opening and closing his wings, startling her. In her drunken haze, she’d kind of forgotten he was there.

  “Hooo-hooooo,” he cooed, the sound of it oddly comforting.

  “Who?” she muttered. “Ain’t nobody here. Or not for long, anyway.”

  She lit another Marlboro Light, took a deep drag off it, then looked straight up the river toward Detroit. In the distance, to the right of the Detroit skyline, she could see the Ambassador Bridge connecting Detroit to Canada. The upper supports of the bridge were lit up, making it look like the hills of a roller coaster that took people to another country.

  Another country, she thought. Another world. Another time. Anywhere—anywhere away from the way she felt sounded good to her.

  She rubbed her cheeks, numbed by the cold breeze. She looked off the north edge of Big Island into Canada and could see little fingers of lightning flickering miles away. She thought about where she would be when the storm finally came. Where my body will be.

  Sometime between bar three and bar four, Carla had quit wondering why her life had turned out the way it did. It’s not unfair—it’s all my fault. All of it. Every rotten thing. I’m a curse on people, always have been, always will be
. Except for Brooke and Alex and the Lindys. They were her sole bright spots. Everything else? Superficial. False.

  Even Daddy . . . he didn’t really love me. If he had, he wouldn’t have—

  “Hooooo-hooo,” she heard.

  “Who?” she said, with a humorless laugh. “Well, my dad, for starters.” I hate him for what he did. For all of it. For coming to my bedroom all of those nights. For blowing out his brains when I told Mama. She blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. Guilt washed through her. Familiar confusion. Doubt. Love.

  “It’s all my fault,” she whispered in a frozen puff of air.

  But that’s okay, she told herself. Because it’s almost over.

  She thought about her mother, starving and drinking herself to death after Daddy died. Her fault too.

  But that’s okay. I’m about to make it right.

  She thought about Brooke, and Alex and the Lindys, and how she’d disappointed them. How this final act would disappoint them.

  But that’s okay. I’ll never disappoint them again.

  She thought about Tim and how he hit Charlie at the diner, and how he used to hit her. As much as she tried, she was always screwing up every relationship she had. Making bad choices. Finding another bad seed.

  But that’s okay. It’s over. No man will ever touch me again.

  Carla took one last, big drag on her cigarette and scooted closer to the edge of the wide rail. She leaned over and looked straight down at the water. The river now seemed so close.

  She thought about the little girl she’d met in the apartment last night. This morning, she corrected herself. It seemed like so long ago. And then she thought of herself as a little girl. It seemed like yesterday.

  Then she thought about Kenneth one last time. She had absolutely no idea how he did it, but he knew her. He knew everything about her.

  All of it.

  That’s . . . not okay.

  And then she jumped.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jim used his left thumb as a bookmark and gently closed the Bible. He lowered the book to his lap and took a long, slow breath, struggling to digest what he’d just read. He pulled up on the lever on the side of the chair to lift the leg rest and lay back, closing his eyes, thinking on it.

  He imagined the ancient prophets and their remarkable God-given abilities. He wondered about the possible existence of modern-day prophets, or those capable of “signs and wonders.”

  He wasn’t quite sure who Kenneth was, but he knew for certain that he had never met anyone like him. He knew so little about Kenneth, and yet he felt like he’d known him his whole life. And the more he thought about the carpenter’s indirect quote of Luke 8:50, the more he was convinced that Kenneth’s words directly related to Brooke and Alex. He opened the Bible back up, thumbed his way to Deuteronomy 18, and then ran his finger diligently across a half page of braille until he reached verse 21. “And if you say in your heart, ‘How shall we know the word which the Lord has not spoken?’—when a prophet speaks in the name of the Lord, if the thing does not happen or come to pass, that is the thing which the Lord has not spoken.”

  Jim took a sip of tea that had become a little too cold and thought, Who are you, Kenneth? You didn’t speak in the name of the Lord like the Bible says, but you quoted Luke 8:50 almost perfectly. Why would you say it if it didn’t have anything to do with Alex? What else could you possibly have meant?

  Shirley walked into the living room from the kitchen. “Are you coming to bed?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” he answered, closing his eyes.

  “You are going to fall asleep right there in that chair, James Lindy.”

  “No, I won’t,” he said, opening his eyes dutifully.

  “Yes, you will.”

  He smiled and picked the Bible up off his lap to set it on the side table. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter past eleven.”

  “Okay. You’re right. I’m comin’.” Jim pushed the side lever down and lowered his leg rest. But he didn’t rise. “What time are you guys going to the hospital in the morning?”

  “They are doing the procedure at six forty-five,” Shirley said, walking into the kitchen. He could hear her setting cups down in the sink. “I’m guessing we will leave here around six.”

  Shirley came back in and kissed him good night, leaving Jim to the silence of the living room and his big, comfy chair. He lay back again and closed his eyes. Just five more minutes, he thought, raising the leg rest again. Just five more . . .

  Jim could feel someone tapping on his arm. “Charlie, is that you, son?”

  “No, Pastor Jim. It’s me, Alex.”

  Jim turned his head, realizing he’d fallen asleep in the chair. “Alexander? What are you doing up?”

  “Mom and Charlie are sleeping,” Alex answered. “I had a bad dream.”

  “Come here,” Jim said, lifting Alex up into his lap. By the chill and quiet of the house, he knew it was very early.

  Jim understood that Alex was fully aware that he had two dead grandparents, two unknown grandparents, and an unknown father. He also suspected that Alex had him pegged as all five wrapped up in one, and on more than one occasion had confided in him certain fears he didn’t want anyone else to know about. Jim had a feeling one of those was coming right now.

  “I was getting chased by the shot doctor from the hospital. He was in a painting. He was laughing and chasing me around the hospital with a ginormous shot in his hand.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I waked up,” Alex said. “Can I tell you something else—and promise not to tell Mom?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Alex put his mouth next to Jim’s ear and then surrounded it with his hands to whisper, “I’m afraid about tomorrow.”

  “Why is that?” Jim whispered back.

  “I’m getting a shot. Don’t tell Mom or Nurse Kaitlyn I’m afraid, okay?”

  “Your secret’s safe with me. I don’t like shots either.”

  “Really?” Alex asked, and Jim thought he sounded a little surprised and relieved that he wasn’t alone in his fear. “But you give yourself shots all the time for your beeties.”

  “That’s right,” Jim said. “For my diabetes. But I still don’t like the shots, even though they only hurt for a second.”

  “I know,” Alex said. “I had them before.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Jim said. “You’re a big kid now, and you know they only hurt for a second.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. Jim could feel him stretching out on the chair next to him. “Why was my mom crying today?”

  “Don’t you worry about your mother. She is just fine.”

  “Why was she crying, then? Was it because of me?”

  “People cry for all sorts of reasons,” Jim said. “The important thing to know is that she’s okay.” He gave the boy a little hug. “When was the last time you cried, Alex?”

  “I don’t cry as much as I used to,” Alex said, sounding more like eight than five. “I’m growing up.”

  Jim chuckled. “Yes, you are, Alex. Yes, you are. But you still fit when you’re cuddling with me.” He leaned the chair all the way back and could feel Alex’s head rest on his shoulder. “How about a story?”

  “Can you tell me about the man in the fish?”

  Jim smiled. “There was a man who lived a long, long time ago.”

  “How long ago?” Alex asked sleepily.

  “A long, long time ago,” Jim repeated.

  Alex was asleep by the time Jonah boarded the ship.

  With one hand, Jim ran his fingers over the cover of the Bible. The longer he thought about what Kenneth had said, the more convinced he had become.

  “Tell her to only believe, and he will be made well.”

  He smiled and clicked his feet together. It’s no coincidence. The carpenter was definitely talking about Brooke and Alex.

  He closed his eyes and looked forward to talking with Kenneth at the harvest pa
rty on Saturday to confirm it. Now to figure out what the 7:14 thing is all about . . .

  CARLA OPENED HER EYES.

  She felt like that time Tim had shoved her against a wall as hard as he could. But this time, she could smell the river all over herself. My clothes are soaked. She could see the bottom of the bridge and the glow of headlights that spilled over the edge of the rails, but here, far below, she was in total darkness. She blinked, wondering if she could trust her eyes.

  What am I doing here? What happened?

  She took a deep breath and sat up, looking down the shoreline to her left, into the darkness. She thought she heard something behind her and looked back over her shoulder.

  Nothing.

  Carla stood on shaking legs and brushed the sand and pebbles off the bottom of her left arm and hip. She was cold, and the uncomfortable cling of wet jeans made her look up at the bridge again.

  I was just up there.

  I jumped.

  And then . . .

  Way to go, loser. You’ve even managed to screw up your own suicide.

  She brought her hands up to her ears and shook her head in disappointment.

  Now what?

  She had no idea. What’s next? What now? It was all supposed to end! Now that she was standing, she felt the full effect of the wind off the river as if it were bent on punishing her, making her pay for her sins. Carla turned her back to it and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep herself warm. She started walking down the shore, wondering if a good cold night might finish what she couldn’t manage to complete, when she heard the voice behind her.

  “Things are that bad, eh?”

  Carla stopped immediately. The wind was gone and the side of her face warmed. She recognized the voice and that feeling on her neck. She turned around and could see Kenneth’s silhouette against the lights of the city.