by Chris Fabry
I just looked at it. “I can’t accept that.”
Seeb pushed the money closer. “I want you to have it. Go on. Use it to buy a grill for that new house. Or some shingles. Whatever.”
A better man would have thanked him and walked away, but I took the money. I had already calculated how many electrical sockets and how much wiring it would buy.
“Maybe if things settle down a bit we can rethink this,” Seeb said.
We both knew things wouldn’t settle down. The best you could hope for was the passage of time and the eventual closing of the open wound that was our town. I got the feeling that this wasn’t the last time I might be fired for being Will Hatfield.
“This has been coming for a while,” I said. “I hoped it wouldn’t, but I just have to deal with it.”
“If there’s anything else I can do for you or your mother, let me know. I’m real sorry, son.”
I nodded and shook his hand.
He smiled sadly, the cigar still jutting out, and I couldn’t help but think how much he looked like some character from a Dr. Seuss book. Yertle the station manager.
“I’ll never forget your kindness, Seeb.”
He nodded once, then rubbed a finger underneath his nose.
When I left the station, I waved at Clay, who was on the air, but he didn’t see me. Virginia’s desk was bare, and I saw her taillights blink red as she sped away. I took one final look at the production room and the years of memories. Just one more thing to say good-bye to.
Danny Boyd
The police report from the accident was written in a slanting cursive that looked a lot like my fourth-grade teacher’s handwriting. Mrs. Munroe was my first real love. She smelled like a fresh bouquet of flowers, and when she walked into the cafeteria, it was hard to eat she was so pretty. She’d sit with kids from our class, even after we’d played basketball and had that fourth-grade boy smell to us. She used to write notes on our papers, and once she wrote on mine that she thought I would go really far someday.
The report said that a hit-and-run accident had occurred at approximately 7:43 a.m., and then it gave the location on Route 60, right where I had led my sisters. I couldn’t look at their names or the description of their injuries, but I already knew what they looked like. I’d been there. Jumped the guardrail and let them die.
The officer described the scene, said there were no visible skid marks but that the car had veered off the road and into the gravel and lost control and spun into the guardrail, killing the children.
There was talk around town that the sight had torn up the chief who was first on the scene, and the other officer who showed up had to take a week off from work, then didn’t return. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I believe it could happen. That kind of thing’s like glue and not water. It sticks.
There was something strange in the report. It said, The driver of the vehicle, Will Hatfield, left the scene of the accident, only to return after police and rescue personnel had responded.
Do you find it strange that you don’t remember that part of the accident? my counselor said after I told him some stuff I’d discovered. That you don’t remember seeing Will pull away from the scene?
Can’t people get kinda spacey and go off and not know what’s happening? I’ve heard about that before.
It’s called shock, he said.
Yeah. Maybe that’s what happened. I jumped over the guardrail and was down there a long time. I don’t remember the hospital or even very much about the funeral.
After looking at the police report, you still hold yourself responsible? You still think you killed your sisters?
I was in charge of them and I blew it. I didn’t even have the guts to hang on to their hands. I just let go like.
You should have held on?
I should have tried to help them. That’s all I’m saying.
What about Will? What responsibility does he have?
I shrugged. At least he called the police. I gotta give him that. But he drove away and left them there.
But he came back. Why do you think he did that?
Guess he felt guilty.
Should he have?
Yeah, he killed my sisters.
I thought you killed your sisters.
The room felt a little hotter than when I’d arrived. Well, I guess we both did. It’s like leaving a loaded gun lying around and having a kid pick it up and pull the trigger, you know? The kid did it, but it was the fault of the person who left the gun there. Like a double fault, if you know what I mean.
So you don’t think you’re totally to blame for the accident?
They’re totally dead, so it doesn’t really matter. I still should have held on. Maybe if I had, they wouldn’t both be gone.
Will
A week later I awoke to a knock at the front door and a deep voice trying to explain something to my mother. At first, I thought it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses back for another talk with my mother. There seemed to be no end to the visits they paid to her and other people in the community.
I lay there, watching a cloud pass the window, one of those slow-moving ones that would probably stay the entire day. A hole opened in the middle of it as if some astronaut would appear soon and drop through.
The conversation in the next room was not theological but legal in nature, and the man’s voice grew more strained.
My mother, who had tried to keep things as quiet as possible while I slept during the day (I had not broken the habit of sleeping days and working nights), was uncharacteristically loud. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice turning to a whine. “This is impossible. I’ve paid taxes on this land for longer than you’ve been born.”
“I’m sure you have. But the fair market value will be paid—”
“How do you calculate fair market value of all I’ve invested in this place? or Will’s work back on the hill?”
I walked into the room scratching my head, picking at the scab. Splotches of blood marked my pillow each morning. “What’s going on?”
The man at the door wore a bad suit, and his hair was slicked from one side to the other, hiding a bald spot. He had a high forehead and beady eyes like some little animal kicked out of the nest to fly when it wasn’t quite ready.
My mother held out a piece of paper with a shaky hand. “Will, he says they’re going to take our land. Just up and take it with a court order.”
The man looked at me with those small eyes, as if I were supposed to help him explain things to my mother. “Eminent domain,” he finally said. “The town passed an ordinance last night saying this land was to be condemned and taken in the public interest.”
I read the document. “What public interest?”
“I won’t go into all the legalese, but there’s really nothing you can do at this point. The decision’s been made.”
“What possible good could this land be to Dogwood?” my mother snapped. “What’s the compelling interest?”
He looked at me instead of my mother, as if someone had told him this might not be the easiest job he would have today. At the end of the driveway was a police cruiser, and I recognized Bobby Ray. He’d been sent as backup, I guessed.
“I’m very sorry this has come as a surprise, ma’am. I was just told to deliver this and explain it as best I could so you could make other arrangements as quickly as possible.”
“Make other arrangements?” my mother squealed. “How dare you say—?”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep your cool, Mama.” Then I said to the man, “Thanks for coming by. We’ll take it from here.”
The relief that spread over his face was immediate and complete. “Yes, well, have a good day.”
I closed the door before he could say anything more trite.
“But, Will, could there be oil here? a coal seam? What? Why would they want this property?”
“It’s not about this property or what’s under the ground. They don’t want me here, and I can’t say I
blame them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Something I should have done a long time ago.”
Karin
The first night I didn’t hear Will, I’ll admit I was disappointed. The next night came and no Will. I figured he was on vacation. Maybe some kind of minor surgery. People take time off from work in every profession, right? But the longer he was gone, the more worried I became.
I was at the church for a meeting one afternoon when I got the nerve to call the station. A young, talkative woman answered, and I asked what happened to Mark Joseph, the guy overnight.
She groaned. “He’s gone and none too soon if you ask me. People were complaining and the station lost business.”
“But why? Did he do something wrong?”
“It was because of that accident years ago—he killed some kids walking by the road. One was my friend. I can’t believe he came back here, but everybody’s glad he’s gone.”
I hung up even though she was still chattering. My thoughts swirled, and I knew I had to get to Ruthie.
Lucille saw me in the hall. “Karin, are you all right? You look flushed. Here, sit down.”
I tried to make it to my husband’s office; then I turned around and headed for the front door. There was no way I could talk to him about this. No way I could tell him what was going on in my heart. The pain and the heartache and the past were all catching up faster than I could think.
I hurried through the atrium of the church, a sunny room with lots of tables where people congregate and talk and have coffee. At any time of the day you’ll find a hum of activity.
A few of the women gathered around me, asking what was wrong and why I looked so upset.
I checked my watch and gave a nervous sigh. “The kids will be home from school soon and I need to be there. I almost forgot.”
That seemed to satisfy them, but when Richard came around the corner and saw me, my face flushed again.
“Is everything all right?” he said.
“I don’t know. I feel . . . something’s not right.”
He took me by the arm and walked me to his office.
“I have to get home and meet the kids,” I protested. “I like to be there at the driveway and make sure they’re okay.”
“Shh, they’re going to be fine. Now what’s troubling you?”
The emotions came when I looked into his face. I could not bear the thought of letting this good man down, and neither could I bear the thought of losing Will, illusion or not. So much of what Ruthie had said to me kept coming back, but I was drawn to Will again and I felt my heart being led astray.
“I’m just so mixed up,” I cried.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing you could say to me that would shock me or make me care any less. You can be sure of that.”
“That’s what I can’t stand to think about. Hurting you. Making you feel less of me.”
Richard smiled that wide, toothy smile that I remembered from when I first met him. How could I break the heart of this good man? If I told him what was really going on inside, what would happen to him? to the church? to the ladies who looked to me for guidance?
“I’ve been having awful thoughts,” I said. “Terrible thoughts about a man.”
“It’s okay. Just calm down and tell me. What man? Someone here?”
“No, someone I knew a long time ago. Someone who’s come back.”
“That’s good. Tell me what you remember. Tell me everything.”
“But I have to get home. The children will expect me. I need to pick Tarin up at the preschool in a bit, but Darin and Kallie will be home on the bus soon.”
He raised his voice and spoke through the slightly open door. “Nancy, the children will be coming home on the school bus in a few minutes. Would you mind having someone meet them at the house?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll call one of the neighbors.”
“There,” Richard said. “All cared for. They’ll be fine. Now, who is this mystery man?”
I gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look and again he smiled. I had held this in so long—I even felt guilty for that.
“His name is Will Hatfield,” I blurted. “I met him in high school, and we rode to college together for a while, before he moved away.”
“He moved away?”
“Yes. I mean, no. He had some kind of accident before he moved. I just heard about it today from a girl at the radio station. He worked there in high school and college. I used to go over and visit him and we’d talk. Nothing romantic, we’d just talk.”
“Did you date him?”
“Not that I remember. No, wait, we went to a play once, I think. Or a concert. Yes, I remember that. And I think we saw a movie or two. But nothing happened. At least, nothing physical happened between us. That I can remember.”
“You don’t need to be anxious. I can take this. Really.”
That brought the tears again.
“Isn’t this the man you visited in prison with Ruthie?” he said. “Will Hatfield?”
“Yes. Yes, I went with her and we had such a good talk, but everything . . . it hasn’t been the same between us since then. She abandoned me. She won’t talk.” My chin crumpled and gave way. “Oh, but you don’t know, do you? You don’t know.”
“I don’t know what?”
“You don’t know what’s happened.”
Richard handed me a box of tissues. “What’s happened, dear? What’s upset you so much?”
Like a kaleidoscope that swirls the colors of the rainbow in shapes so vivid and then stops in a perfect stained glass picture, my life came into focus and I stared into the eyes of my husband. “I think I’m in love. I think I’ve always been in love with him.”
He nodded and kept his eyes trained on me. “I understand.”
“How could you? How could I? Why did you ever let me go see him in prison? Why would you do that?”
“I thought it might help you.”
“Help? How? It’s made me more confused. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and now I’m thinking about breaking every vow I’ve made to you. And our children.” I stood and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Tell me I’m infatuated! Tell me it’s just a schoolgirl crush! Scream at me! Yell at me! Do something!”
Richard looked at me with such . . . love—that’s the only way to describe it—and pity and concern in one expression. “I think there’s more to Will than you’ve realized. There’s more to your history together, isn’t there?”
“What do you mean?”
He gently pushed me back into my chair and sat on his desk, his arms folded. “I spoke with him.”
“Will? He came here? To the church?”
“He’s a gentle and kind man. I can see why you were taken with him all those years ago. He told me some things about you—the two of you.”
“What did he say? What did you say?”
“That’s where it kind of gets tricky. You know, in my position, I can’t talk freely about what everyone says in this office. But he did tell me how much he enjoyed being with you. He told me of the letters he wrote you from Clarkston.”
“Letters?”
“I suppose you haven’t seen them.”
“No, of course not. Is that all he said?”
Richard took a moment, as if trying to frame a picture just right. “He said that he’s been waiting for you.”
“Waiting?” I almost couldn’t breathe.
“And he told me about that night.”
“What night? What are you talking about?”
“There was a concert in Cincinnati. He told me you went together. It was—”
“—his birthday. Yes.” The sound and the lights and the smoke came back to me. “We saw Jackson Browne.” I stood and walked to the window, the floor rushing under me like so many summer fields. “I do remember. We stopped at a park—no, it was a pool.”
“What happened there?”
I reached out for the window treatment.
I had hung a set of flowered curtains to liven up the place when he first moved in. But the curtains were gone. Only shades now, the off-white ones that swung back and forth as soon as the air-conditioning engaged. “Where are the curtains? The ones I put up here?”
“Karin, let’s talk about that night. What happened?”
I turned and faced him, a hand to my forehead, scratching, trying to remember. “We stayed for the concert and it was late. He had asked me to go with him and I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but . . . No, that’s not right. I think I asked him. I got the tickets from some radio . . . We were good friends, not lovers. He was always very kind to me, and he didn’t take advantage in any way.”
Richard nodded. “Go on.”
I walked behind the desk and ran my hand along Richard’s chair—the high-backed leather one had been replaced by a wooden one, Spartan. “He bought a bottle of wine or two, I think. And . . . no, I had it with me. Yes, from my father’s cabinet. I hid it under the seat so Will wouldn’t see. To celebrate. It was his birthday and we were going to drive back, but we stopped to go swimming. It was dark and a police car came. And he was arrested? Oh, I can’t remember.”
“Don’t give up. You’re doing well. Just stay with me. Stay with the story.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? It’s like you’re trying to convince me to leave you. Or to turn my heart to him. I really have to make sure the kids are okay.”
Richard intercepted me and went to the door to speak with his secretary.
“Yes,” Nancy said, “they went to the bus stop to get them. They’re all fine.”
“But Tarin is still at preschool.”