Too Close to Home

by Alison Stone

  “I’ll tell you why.” Mrs. Smythe leaned toward him, her eyes snapping with anger. “My Nicholas said they wanted to cover up some shady goings-on in the warehouse at Midport Industries.” Blinking hard, she bent over the photograph in Kathryn’s lap and ran a hooked finger down her son’s cheek.

  Benjamin plowed a hand through his hair. He didn’t remember Nicholas Smythe. The young man must have worked at the plant prior to Benjamin’s return. But he had learned of his tragic death in Iraq. “What did he think was going on in the warehouse?” The question came out harsher than he had intended.

  “Nicholas wasn’t quite sure. Sometimes guys would come back after the shift and move parts around. He wanted nothing to do with it. He knew something shady was going on.” Ed came around to his wife’s side of the couch and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. Moving the ashtray aside, he sat on the arm of the couch.

  “The next day—” Mrs. Smythe’s eyes grew wide, “—Nicholas would always find cracked AC units.”

  “The plastic on the air-conditioning units was cracked?” Kathryn asked.

  “Yeah, and I don’t imagine those things are easy to crack,” Mrs. Smythe said. “I used to be a quality control inspector there myself.” She drew herself up, lifting her chin. “Those things don’t just crack.”

  “Did Nicholas have any idea why there was damage?” Benjamin couldn’t recall any complaints from customers. And he was still trying to figure out what all this had to do with Johnny and Nicholas’s respective deaths.

  “Nicholas started to ask a lot of questions.” Mrs. Smythe lowered her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. Then she met his gaze with a look of determination. “We always taught him to do the right thing. To be proud of his work.” Her last words broke on a sob.

  “Shortly after he started asking questions,” Ed continued for his heartbroken wife, “he was fired.”

  “I find it hard to believe he was fired for asking questions.” Benjamin pushed to his feet. Sweat dripped down the center of his back. The walls closed in around him.

  “They had some alleg—”

  Ed’s wife raised her hand to cut him off. “My Nicholas always did the right thing. Ed and I tried to meet with your father, oh, I’d say a year ago. He’d have nothing to do with us. Even that Peter Hill dismissed us.” Mrs. Smythe’s words tumbled out one after the other as if she had rehearsed this conversation over and over in her head.

  Benjamin suspected his father’s lack of response had more to do with his illness than apathy. He’d rarely seen anyone outside the family in the last year of his illness. George Nowak had been a proud man. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see the shell of the man he once was.

  “Even Bud Farley was useless.” The anger in Ed’s voice was palpable. “Claimed there wasn’t much the union could do to help. Claimed it was out of his hands.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ve seen that guy move mountains for his union brothers. He wouldn’t touch our son’s case with a ten-foot pole.”

  “What about Johnny?” Kathryn asked, apparently trying to get the conversation back on track. She scooted forward on the couch and gently touched Mrs. Smythe’s hand. “Why the note?”

  Mrs. Smythe caught Kathryn’s hand between hers and sobbed.

  “Nicholas worked with Johnny in the warehouse,” Ed spoke again for his wife. “He knew something was going on too. Our son hoped Johnny would come forward and support his claims so he could get his job back.” Ed gently worked his wife’s shoulders. “Or at the very least, to clear his name.”

  “Johnny spoke to Mr. Hill initially, but then he backed off pretty quick. I think he was too afraid. But after our son died in Iraq, I know Johnny had a change of heart. And now they’re both dead.” Mrs. Smythe released Kathryn’s hands. She patted her husband’s hand resting on her shoulder. “Someone killed Johnny to keep him quiet.”

  “I left a note on your car because we figured if you knew the warning came from us, you’d dismiss it.” Ed lifted his eyes and seemed to study Benjamin. “Based on your look, Mr. Nowak, we’re right. You think we’re a bunch of fools. Grieving parents.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, but there is nothing illegal going on in the warehouse. Johnny’s death was a terrible accident.”

  “How can you be sure?” Ed pulled out a cigarette and lit it, never taking his gaze off Benjamin’s face.

  Something niggled at the back of Benjamin’s brain. Johnny had been anxious to move out of the warehouse. He claimed with a baby on the way he needed the overtime the assembly area afforded. Was that really it?

  Benjamin touched Kathryn’s arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered in her ear.

  Kathryn patted the woman’s knee and stood up.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, but we wish you had talked to us directly.” Benjamin turned to leave.

  Kathryn lay in bed replaying the events of the day. After what seemed like hours, exhaustion finally overwhelmed her, bringing sleep, and with it a recurring dream.

  “Hi, Dad.” Kathryn tossed her tote by the side door. Her beach towel spilled onto the wood deck. She jogged to where her father worked in the garden and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He smelled of hair tonic and earth.

  “Hi, honey,” Dad said, touching her cheek with a muddy hand. “Want to help me with the planting?”

  She jerked back, swiping at the dirt on her face. “Yuck. I have to get ready to go out.” She tried not to notice the hint of disappointment in her father’s eyes and turned to walk away.

  “I remember a girl who used to love gardening with me,” Dad said in his usual playful manner.

  Kathryn didn’t slow her pace. “Maybe another time.”

  The dream always started the same. Kathryn stood outside herself, as if watching a movie, analyzing the familiar plot, even in her dream.

  Why hadn’t she looked at his face longer? Would she have seen his anguish? Would she have known his desperation? Had he already made up his mind?

  Every time she had a dream about her father she never acted surprised to see him. As if she saw him every day. As if she thought she always would. Yet a voice deep within always screamed to her dreaming self, “Stay with him. Talk to him. When you wake up he’ll be gone.”

  And the dream played out the same. The last day of her dad’s life. He had planted his precious garden and filled the boxes adorning the small windows of the yellow shed.

  Were those the actions of a man about to end his life?

  A familiar pang of regret and guilt haunted her. Why had she been in a hurry? If she had stopped, spent some time with her father, could she have changed the course of history? She’d lived with that guilt for more than ten years. Ten years of if-onlys and what-ifs. It was enough to put her on edge every time she returned to her hometown.

  Even in her dream she couldn’t change the course of events. Like an impartial observer, she watched herself dismiss her father to get ready for her big night out. Her heart longed to reach out. Hug him. Tell him she loved him. One last time.

  She scooped up her tote and shoved the damp towel back in. She looked up. Not a cloud in the clear blue sky. The warm sun beat down on her face that spring day. Her heart was light. Not a care in the world.

  Kathryn reached for the doorknob and turned it. Her father called, “Watch the company you keep. Someone you know will hurt you.”

  She grew confused. Her father had never spoken to her in the dream beyond the exchange by the garden. She turned to face him. But he was gone.

  She crept to the shed, her heart thundering in her rib cage. Her mouth went dry. She had never gone into the shed in her dream. Or in real life. Not after that day.

  “Stop!” she yelled to her naive, dreaming self.

  Kathryn swallowed hard as she approached the shed. The image before her changed in the magical way only possible in dreams. The yellow paint had faded. The marigolds in the planters had wilted. Dandelions were the only sign of life. The door stood slightly ajar. She raised a hand and tap
ped it. It swung open.

  “Dad,” she called out in a shaky voice. “Dad, are you in there?”

  Millions of pinpricks blanketed her scalp. “Dad, are you—”

  The open door unveiled a horrid scene. Her father lay in a pool of blood. A scream rose in her throat. But no noise came. A rifle lay by his side. His lifeless eyes stared accusingly.

  Kathryn shot up in bed, throwing back the covers. Her hand flew to her chest to settle the frantic beating. A dream. It was just a dream.

  Who was she kidding? It was a nightmare. One she relived even in the light of day, especially now she had returned to Midport.

  Kathryn hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face. Think beaches. Quiet lakes. Cool breezes. She had to cleanse her mind of the horrible memory of Daddy’s body. The familiar pain and anger swirled in her gut. Why did he do it? And why hadn’t he thought about who might find him?

  Kathryn took a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Same old story. She stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and crept downstairs to make some tea, trying hard not to wake her mother or sister.

  Tea in hand, she stood by the sink and peered out the window. The shed cast a black shadow in the darkened yard. How could something so small loom so large in her life? Icy ribbons of dread coiled around her heart. She strained to distinguish the obscure outlines in the yard. Was someone out there? Or had the landmarks of her past come to life to haunt her?

  Kathryn rinsed her cup in the sink. The first pink of morning painted the sky. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks. Looked like she’d have to start the new day as drained as she ended the last.

  Chapter Five

  Kathryn arrived at Peter’s house a few minutes before the appointed time. The walk was shorter than she remembered. The tidy white farmhouse had the kind of wraparound porch she’d love to have. As she strolled up the driveway, she envisioned herself sitting on a porch rocker admiring the lush woods surrounding the home on three sides.

  She found Peter sitting quietly on the porch swing, hidden deep in the late-afternoon shadows, his fingers wrapped around the long neck of a beer bottle.

  “Hello, Mr. Hill.” She reverted to the formality she had used as a child. Kathryn had spent many hours at the Hill home hanging out with his daughter, Amy, her best friend.

  His cold eyes contradicted the tired smile playing on his lips. “Mr. Hill?” He snorted. “Considering you’re my new boss and all, you better just call me Peter.”

  Kathryn bit the inside of her cheek. “Boss seems so formal.” She measured her words. “You have been at Midport Industries since my father and Mr. Nowak started the company. I hardly consider myself your superior. You’ve been invaluable. “

  “Apparently Mr. Nowak didn’t think so.” Peter emphasized the words Mr. Nowak. He had obviously called his brother-in-law George when he was alive. He tipped his bottle in her direction in a quasi toast. Never taking his eyes off her, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swig.

  “Mr. Nowak wasn’t the kind of man who kept someone around on a whim.” Kathryn thought of her own father, pushed out of the company over a difference of opinions, if she believed the rumors. “I’m hoping we can work together.”

  Peter twisted his mouth, as if considering. “I suppose we can,” he said, his voice less than convincing. He rubbed his palm across his belly in a small circular motion, pinning her with his gray eyes. “I hope we don’t have any more days like yesterday.” He hoisted his beer in the air. “I’m still trying to unwind.”

  “Poor Johnny.” Kathryn cast a look over her shoulder toward the long drive, anxious to get to business. “Benjamin’s not here yet?”

  “Can’t say he is.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  Peter gestured toward the empty seat across from his own. He seemed to regard her warily. She didn’t expect anything different. Of course he’d be annoyed. She’d inherited half of the company, while George left Peter—his only sister’s husband—out in the cold.

  Excited chatter drew her attention toward the street. Three teenage girls skipped along the berm of the road, their arms linked, their heads tossed back in laughter. Seemingly not a care in the world.

  “It seems like only yesterday,” Peter said, a faraway look in his eyes as he too watched the young girls.

  “Yesterday?” she asked, as the girls disappeared behind a row of evergreens.

  Peter shook his head, his hardened features softened. “Just yesterday it seems you and Amy were giggling and acting silly.”

  Amy Hill, Peter’s daughter, had been one of Kathryn’s best friends in school. Best friends forever. B.F.F. Secret code. She supposed all teens thought they shared a secret form of communication. And that forever would last longer than senior year of high school.

  “I’ve often thought of you and Mrs. Hill over the years.” She hesitated, tears burning the back of her eyes. “How are you doing?” Just as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. She hated when people asked her the same question. What did people expect her to say?

  “No, you don’t have to answer.” Kathryn held up her hand.

  Peter tilted his head and looked at her strangely. “I don’t mind.” He traced the rim of the bottle with his thumb. He cleared his throat. “Amy’s mother divorced me and moved out of the area.” He shrugged as if the series of blows were no big deal.

  “I’m so sorry.” For the first time, Kathryn surmised why George excluded him from the will. He was now the ex-brother-in-law. It made sense, but it didn’t really change anything.

  Kathryn’s throat tightened as she glanced toward the street. Still no Benjamin. “Amy was a free spirit. We did some crazy things as kids.” She hesitated and smiled. “Probably not stuff I should share with her father.”

  Peter returned her smile. This time it seemed genuine. “It’s not often I have a chance to talk about Amy.” He stared off into the distance and slowly pushed back and forth on the porch swing. “Most people are afraid to mention her name, afraid to make me feel worse than I already do.” A mirthless laugh sounded from his lips. “As if by not mentioning her name my feelings will be spared.” He took a long swig of his beer. “What is it they say? Time heals all wounds.”

  Kathryn thought about her own loss. “I suppose.”

  “It’s against the natural order of things to lose a child,” Peter said, his voice shaking.

  When other classmates worried about pimples, Amy had worried about losing her hair. Her life. The chemotherapy treatment meant to wipe out the aggressive brain cancer had destroyed Amy’s soul. In the end, her brown eyes had appeared huge in her gaunt face, pleading to be left in peace.

  Kathryn often wondered how good a friend she had been to Amy near the end. She had been so absorbed in her own loss after her father’s death to be much comfort to her dear friend. Another regret heaped onto the pile.

  The sound of footsteps shifting on loose gravel drew her attention to the driveway. Benjamin’s mouth curved into a half smile, transforming his whole face. “Sorry I’m late. I needed to wrap up a few things at work before I came over.” The sun resting low on the horizon highlighted the yellow flecks in his green eyes.

  Kathryn smiled in return, a bit surprised at how happy she was to see him. “We were just catching up.” She gestured to the seat next to hers. “We can talk business now.”

  Kathryn filled Peter in on the events of last night from the flyer left on her car to the meeting at the Smythes’s home.

  Peter listened attentively. He set his bottle on the table next to the swing. With fingers steepled in front of him, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I never want to speak ill of the dead. Especially one who died for our great country.”

  “But…?” Kathryn’s ears buzzed.

  “The Smythes’s version of the story isn’t accurate.” Peter lifted a pale eyebrow and slid a hand across his g
ut. “Perhaps they honestly don’t know the whole story. Or they’re in denial. Nicholas got caught throwing AC units over the back fence.”

  “Really?” Benjamin asked.

  “The units go for a pretty buck on the black market,” Peter said, rubbing his thumb against his middle and index fingers. “Both his parents had been long-time employees. Good employees. A solid family. So, instead of filing charges, we fired him.”

  Kathryn pressed her fingers to her temples. “That explains Nicholas’s dismissal, but why would she think Johnny’s death wasn’t an accident?”

  “The best I figure—” Peter paused, considering, “—Johnny and Nicholas had been friends. Johnny was a staunch supporter of Nicholas’s after he got fired. Johnny came to me personally. Begged me to give Nicholas a second chance.” Shaking his head, he pushed off the porch swing and stood, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Stealing is grounds for immediate dismissal. No second chances,” Peter said. “As far as Johnny, maybe the Smythes, in their own warped world, think his death is part of a greater conspiracy instead of the accident that it was. Grief can do crazy things to the mind.”

  Peter turned his back to them and braced his hands on the railing. His shoulders rose and fell on a heavy sigh. “OSHA will report their findings in a few days. We’ll have more answers then. But I’m afraid we’ll find operator error at the top of the list.”

  “Have you taken steps to prevent this from happening again?” Kathryn asked, rising to her feet.

  Peter nodded. “Of course, but it’s an old plant. We’re going to have to take a look at a lot of areas—”

  “Daddy.” A small voice floated on the autumn air. Kathryn whipped her head around, surprised to find its source—a chubby-cheeked, curly haired girl beaming up at her from inside the screen. “Bath time.”

  Peter met Kathryn’s curious gaze. His eyes grew bright. “I’ve been blessed with another beautiful daughter. Abby, say hello to Miss Kathryn.”

  “Hi,” the little girl said, lowering her head, then glancing back up with a shy smile and wide eyes.