by Rich Foster
Beneath a sprawling, valley oak which took the edge off of the heat of the day, she had a pleasant lunch. She strolled the streets; pretending romance might be around the corner, someone who would possibly sweep her off her feet.
The illusion began to crack when she caught sight of herself in a shop’s mirror. The reflected woman was gray and had too many wrinkles for new love. Her clothes were dowdy. They were not right, neither for the forties, nor for any era, they were a mish-mash of sensible fashions. A tear formed in Grace’s eye. Her short-lived joy was slipping away. In an attempt to hold onto it longer, she fled to her car and sped away, desperately hoping the aging woman with her unfulfilled daydreams could be left behind.
Gliding around the curves, listening to Woody Herman, she briefly recaptured the moment. Her car crested the pass. Below her the gray marine layer spread out. Soon she descended out of the sunshine. The fog swallowed her good humor.
Back at her hotel she closed the drapes on the exterior gloom but it did not alleviate the gloom in her heart. The red message light blinked on her phone. It must be the front desk she thought, who else knew where she was? When she heard the name Detective Egan, the destruction of her mood was complete. It brought Mason Forks, the killings, and her husband, back to the forefront of her consciousness. For several days she had successfully repressed them. Why did he need to talk to her? Lester could answer any questions about the church. Grace did not want to call him. But years of marriage to a dominating man left her less than a woman and more of an obedient child. Reluctantly she dialed Detective Egan’s number.
In Red Lake it was an hour later than on the west coast. Pat Egan was leaving for the day when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Is this Detective Egan?” a contrite voice asked somewhat tentatively.
“It is. How may I help you?”
“This is Grace Leeds. I don’t know how you possibly found me, nor how I could possibly help, but you said to call.”
“Mrs. Leeds, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. It would be best if you could come back to Mason Forks.”
In her heart, the last flames of escape flickered and died. There was no leaving Mason Forks. No fleeing Lester. Like an escaped prisoner, she was being emotionally dragged back, to continue serving her time.
“What is it, Detective?” Her voice filled with resignation.
“I’m afraid your husband is dead.”
Grace was momentarily mute. She tried to grasp the words. Lester dead? Was that possible? He dominated her life for so many years that she had a momentary impulse to ask, Lester, what her reaction to his death should be.
“Was it his heart?”
“I’m afraid he killed himself.” Egan tried to soften the words but he knew they were always sharp.
“He lacked moral courage,” Grace said.
“I wouldn’t know ma’am.” Egan wanted to finish.
“Lester bullied people. He bullied people into heaven and he bullied people to have his own way. But he was a coward, Detective. Those horrible killings at the church showed that to me.”
She stopped speaking.
Egan waited. Finally, he said, “It would be best if you could come back Mrs. Leeds.”
“Yes. I guess you are right.” As she hung up, Grace suspected that it was always inevitable, like Mason Forks, she lived her life in a shadow of desolation.
Calley finished her shift successfully, relieved she held herself together before her co-workers. Now driving home, away from the constant demands of call lights, monitors, and charts, tears filled her eyes until the road began to blur. She turned her car into the lot of an abandoned gas station. The decaying wood structure, rusted pumps and weed-strewn gravel were apt metaphors for the hopelessness of her soul. For ten minutes she gave way to her sorrow. The tears were like steam escaping a pressure cooker, but the relief was temporary, the fires of anger and sorrow still burned.
She picked up the children at Mrs. Deitz and hurried home. While driving, she struggled to show interest in their day. They pulled into the driveway. After the children tumbled out of the car, she took a container of Valium from her purse. Calley popped two pills in her mouth, swallowing them without water. In the house she began cooking dinner, while eagerly awaiting for the narcotic effect to kick in.
After work, Will Farron stopped at Moses’ bar. He wanted a little time to sit undisturbed, before Jessica began filling him in on her day. He loved her but my God how she could talk, he thought to himself. She would recount conversations in minute detail. There was never a condensed version. Every story was complete and unabridged.
He slid onto a bar stool. A ball game played on the muted television in the corner. From the jukebox Janis Joplin sang about nothing left to lose and Bobby McGee.
Moses drew a draft beer for Will.
“That’s something about Reverend Leeds.”
“Uh huh. It’s too bad.” Will did not want to talk it. Leeds contorted face still played sharply in his memory.
“I hate to speak poorly of the dead, but Lester was always a bit too, holier than thou,” Moses continued.
“He had his faults,” Will said before charitably adding. “We all do.”
“Sure, but the man couldn’t just drink a beer like any normal stiff, he’d get side-tracked from drinking by righteousness and start talking about demon liquor and how it destroyed lives.”
Will shrugged and remained silent.
“Of course when a man pisses his pants, in front of a room full of people, there’s not much for him to do.”
For Will, it was depressing to think that a man’s life might end up judged by a single weak moment. One act, one decision, could seal a man’s fate forever. No matter what good he had done, Lester would forever be remembered as the preacher who pissed his pants.
A group of loggers came in, who thankfully took Moses’ attention away from him. Will looked around the bar where life went on as usual. He wondered what phrase might eventually sum up his life. Would his epithet be, “He sold houses?”
In the corner booth someone lie sprawled face down, his arms splayed out on the table encircling a group of shot glasses in front of him.
Moses wiped the bar with a rag, steadily working his way toward Will. He saw the direction of Will’s eyes and said, “That’s the kid whose wife got shot.”
Will now recognized Kevin Daniels. A shaved spot on the side of his scalp revealed the stitches he received.
“He came in here this afternoon and ordered shots of bourbon. Banged the first three down like he wanted to get good and drunk. Then he slowed down. Sipped a half-a-dozen more and passed out. I should have cut him off. The kid seemed volatile. Things were quiet, so I just took his keys and left him to sleep it off.”
As he spoke Kevin stirred in the booth.
From the opposite end of the bar, Will heard a choking sound and a guffaw of laughter. He turned around to see one of the loggers with his hand above his head, his head tilted, and his face distorted, in pantomime. The men laughed heartily. Will turned away to hide his disgust. Suddenly, he wanted out of there.
Kevin lifted his head. He stared around the bar without seeming to focus.
“Give me his keys, Moses. I’ll drive him home. He can come back for his truck tomorrow.”
Will dropped money on the counter, took the keys from Moses, then went over and hoisted Kevin to his feet.
“Let’s go home.”
“Sure thing Jenny,” he slurred the words as he tried to kiss Will on the cheek. Will pushed his face away.
“Aw, come on sweetie pie, don’t play hard to get,” he whined, while he shuffled to the door with Will’s support.
They were almost to the jeep when Kevin fell to his knees and threw up. Will wondered what he was trying to prove to himself, by becoming involved. He suspected it had to do with guilt. He could readily see Jenny Daniels flopping to the floor. He could see the dark stain her blood left on the
church carpet.
Breathing hard, Will managed to herd Kevin into the bucket seat. He strapped him down with the seat belt. Kevin snorted, mumbled, and snored as Will drove. The Daniels lived in an apartment over a garage. When they arrived, Will slapped Kevin’s face until he stirred to life, then he put one of the boy’s arms over his shoulder to help him up the steep wooden stairs on the side of the building. By the time he reached the top, wrestled the door open, and helped Kevin inside Will was gasping.
The apartment bore the residual mess of the Daniels preparing to move. Newspapers littered the floor. Empty boxes lie flattened. Will dragged Kevin over to the sofa where. He let him drop. Kevin fell heavily on it. “Thanks honey,” he muttered, before fading away. Will straightened up his stiff back.
On the floor were the bits of a photo torn to pieces. Curious, he pushed the parts together until Kevin and Jenny Daniels were smiling back at him, Kevin in a tux and Jenny in a wedding gown.
Will quickly left. Suddenly, he felt eager to get home and hear his wife’s voice telling him about her day.
Kevin awoke to the howling of a coyote pack. It was pitch dark. At first he thought he was in the woods. Then his hand felt the soft pad of furniture. He sat up. The unseen world began spinning. Nausea roiled his stomach. His tongue was thick, his throat dry. Somewhere in his head someone or something was pounding. A vice like pain pushed on the front of his skull, trying to get out.
His hands felt around. They found a lamp. When he fumbled his way to turning it on, the harsh white light stabbed at his eyes. Slowly he recognized where he was. Stumbling into the bathroom, where he made a vain attempt to find an aspirin. He settled for drinking from the tap and splashing water on his face.
Smashing their china had brought Kevin short-lived relief. Each shattered dish was an attempt to deny what happened. As if by destroying their wedding gifts he was capable of undoing the past. If they were not married, then Jenny would still be alive.
He thought of the army preacher flinging plates with him. For a brief instant he felt a little better, but the smile slipped away.
Kevin leaned forward on the sink. Looking in the mirror, only emptiness stared back at three a.m. He left the bath, still in search of aspirin. In the nightstand beside his bed, he failed to find aspirin but he did come across his .38 Special. It had been his fathers.
He lifted the gun, feeling its weight in his hand. He pressed the metal against his cheek and found relief in its coolness. The thought of ultimate relief came to his mind. Bitterly, he thought how he had been willing to give-up everything, including his life, for God. But instead, God took everything that gave meaning to his life, leaving him to cope alone.
Kevin walked back into the living room. On the floor Jenny smiled up at him. He swept his foot across the image. Jenny’s image scattered to the wind. He dropped wearily onto a chair at the kitchen table. He pointed the muzzle of the gun at the side of his head. His finger trembled on the trigger. Before he pulled his hand away. He broke the gun open and shook the bullets from the cylinder onto the table. The gun quivered in his hand as he slid a single shell back into the gun. “Let God decide”, he thought. He spun the cylinder. Without a moments delay he swung the pistol up against his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click. Surprised to find himself still alive, Kevin shrugged his shoulders and stumbled back to the sofa. He lay down to sleep. The .38 rested in his hand, snuggled close against his chest.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucas was content to stay in Mason Forks, at least for a while. He was retired. Nothing pressed on his days. Being acquainted with Mason Forks through his uncle’s letters, he felt like a man in a movie theater who entered late and though trying to see the whole plot, knew he would never stay to see its conclusion.
Of course, he reflected, the story of life never ended, the characters merely changed. Lucas knew, most men, of whom he included himself, lived and died without leaving a ripple in the flow of time.
The brevity and shallowness of existence was pressed home to him, as he sorted through his uncle’s possessions, separating out the remains of a life into things to keep, junk to toss, and items for an estate sale.
Compared to the times he had moved, Lucas found it easier to be remorseless with another man’s treasures. It was surprising how many things he deemed unnecessary, compared to the fewer items he chose to keep.
He interrupted his work with long breaks on the front porch where he read through the Hunter Wells novels. The books were fast paced adventures; set in exotic and far away locales. The style was crisp and articulately written. On one level they were easy reading, almost pulp fiction. Yet within the characters was woven an intricate web of human emotions and motivations. There was no clear line behind good and evil. Each character struggled to make sense of their life own experiences.
Something rang vaguely familiar about the books. Perhaps he had read one in years past, he thought. Nothing made a connection. Then one afternoon while checking his e-mail, he thought to enter Hunter Wells, in his search engine. A Wikipedia entry came up.
Hunter Wells, (born: Elijah James, Clinton, Oklahoma. 1938- died: ?) Wells was an explosive author who turned out a half dozen best sellers during the nineteen-sixties. He probed the hidden depths of the human psyche, skillfully laying bare the unspoken secrets of his characters. His pen cut ever thinner slices until the character was almost translucent in his or her inner luminosity.
He was widely considered a cult hero among the college-age literati of the time. But, in his final essay, published by Urban Thinking Magazine in May 1970, he disassociated himself from the consciousness-raising movement claiming they were too involved in the narcissistic worship of self. He wrote:
“The world is not fundamentally altered by ideas but by actions. Speeches about free love are meaningless without acts of love, and not the feel good embrace of casual sex but by penetrating the inner sanctum of another person’s spirit.
Most contemporary interactions between people have been reduced to little more than ships passing in the night. We mistake the exchange of trite phrases and the vernacular of catchy slogans for true communication. Yet we seldom actually communicate much less truly listen. I would ask the reader, when was the last time you explored another person’s need? Not the need for banal necessities like food and shelter but the more unmet needs of the inner life.
We try to explain the human experience in terms of a movement, rather than by fully living, second to second upon the brink of two eternities. Too often our acts of consciousness-raising are nothing more than opportunities for the aggrandizing of self. The world would be a better place if we spoke less of our plans for peace and love, but rather lived them out in acts of anonymous mercy.”
Wells later became reclusive. He dropped out of the contemporary scene and moved overseas in September of 1971. He has published nothing since.
Lucas stared blankly at the screen; stunned by his thoughts. Having discovered a whole new aspect of his uncle’s life, he wished the man were alive to ask him about it. He felt a biting sense of loss, the finality of death.
Lucas was tempted to update the entry; to post his uncle’s passing. After reflecting, he decided to keep his knowledge to himself. It was better to leave any remaining fans believing Hunter Wells might yet be living in some remote, unimaginable part of the world.
He switched off the computer. Outside on the swing, his uncle’s familiar writing style was now apparent in the novels. Elijah’s letters were structured much the same as the books, often revealing the drama of someone’s inner life, while ostensibly only reporting simple facts. He began to re-read the first book, looking in its pages, for possible revelations about the character of a man whom he never fully knew.
*
Grace returned to Mason Forks Wednesday night. It was a drive of grim determination. The scenery she passed, went unnoticed. She let herself into her house with a poverty of spirit. Her escape from the Forks had lasted only eight days.
When she turned on the living room lights, the room was unchanged. In the kitchen she found a sink full of dirty dishes. That was the only trace that showed someone had lived there in her absence.
Wearily she carried her suitcase up the stairs. Detective Egan did not mention a note but she half expected that Lester would have left one in their bedroom. However, it appeared, the man who had preached innumerable sermons departed this life with nothing to say.
Grace sat down on the bed. She was surprised to find, she was content to be home. During the long miles of her trip she realized that paradise was not somewhere down the road. In fact, it would likely always be elusive. With a faint smile creasing her lips, she opened the suitcase and returned her clothes to the closet.
The next day she went to the funeral home. They owned pre-paid spaces in Lester’s family plot. She selected a modestly priced coffin. Then not knowing whom to call to officiate at her husband’s funeral she asked Mr. Bailard if there was any problem in having an open wake at the funeral home, followed by an internment without a service. He assured her this was possible. She wrote a check, which set in motion the latest burial in Mason Forks.
Upon returning home, she called their attorney. After making the appropriate condolences he said he would begin probate for the estate. He made small talk about her health and billed her account for a full hour when he rang off.
Next she called the agent from United Group Life and Casualty. She received another round of murmured sympathies while he brought up the policy on his terminal. He began taking down the basic information about Mister Leeds passing. He typed in the location, and the date. When he asked the cause of death and Grace responded suicide, his typing stopped.
“Mrs. Leeds, perhaps you are not acquainted with the conditions of the policy that you hold on your husband. It is $250,000 of thirty-year term life. It pays double in the event of accidental death. But unfortunately this policy is old enough that it carried the exclusion for suicide that we once wrote into all our policies.”