“We scored three that inning!” Pete exclaimed when Hank returned to the workshop. “The Reds got this one in the bag!” But then, seeing his brother’s sour expression, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I just got a call from the bar,” Hank began, then recounted what he’d heard.
Pete pointed at the car in the drive. “How’d he get there?”
Hank shrugged. “Walked or hitchhiked. As bad as Dad’s gotten, he’s not going to let a couple miles keep him from a drink.”
“I thought he was inside, asleep.”
“All I know is that I’ve got to pick him up before he causes a ruckus and ends up in jail.”
“I’ll go,” Pete offered, hopping down from the bench. “You keep working on your chair.”
“Are you sure? You know how he can get.”
Normally Myron was an easy, if slightly melancholic, drunk. But every once in a while, when he’d had way too much, he could get feisty. Just last week, he’d tried to shove Hank but had lost his balance and fallen on his face.
“I’ll be fine. A Coke says he falls asleep as soon as he gets in the car.”
“What about your game?”
“Aw, the Reds are gonna win easy. Besides, I can listen to it in the car,” Pete said, flashing an easy smile. “You got the keys?”
Hank tossed them across the workshop and Pete effortlessly snagged them like the good outfielder he’d always been.
“Be right back,” he said over his shoulder, walking to the car.
Hank had no way of knowing it, but that would be the last time he ever saw his brother alive.
Once Pete had gone, Hank returned to his chair. As he worked his hammer and chisel, he listened to the end of the baseball game; just as Pete had predicted, the Reds won. He carved a notch, then another, and another and so on, each bringing him one step closer to his vision of the piece. As was often the case when Hank worked, he lost track of time; he didn’t know whether a minute had passed or an hour or two. He was cleaning off his tools when he heard it, a sound nearby. It was faint, yet unmistakable. The screeching of tires. A second later, a crash. Then silence. Hank’s heart lurched.
Right then, just like that, he knew. It was as clear to him as if it had happened right in front of him. His tools hit the floor with a clatter.
Hank ran. In seconds, he was past the house, had burst through a copse of trees, and was sprinting toward the sound. His hands and legs pumped hard, his chest heaved, but he still cursed himself for not moving faster. It was dark, the half-moon obscured by patchy clouds, and he stumbled but refused to go down. A quarter mile from home, Hank found what he’d feared he would.
The car had dropped down an incline before smashing into a towering oak. The front end was crumpled, folded in on itself like an accordion. Tires were missing, probably shot off into the trees. Gouges had been dug into the soft earth, showing the path the vehicle had taken. While one headlight was out, the other continued to shine, illuminating the woods with an eerie glow. Even wrecked, he immediately recognized the car.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Hank kept repeating, as if by wishing for it he could make the crash not have happened.
He ran to the driver’s side and yanked hard on the door. It protested, but opened. Hank had expected to find Pete, so he was stunned when his father fell onto the ground. Myron landed on his back, then moaned. High above, the cloud cover parted; enough moonlight shone down for Hank to see blood on his father’s face and staining his clothes. The smell of alcohol was strong.
When Hank looked in the car, it felt as if his heart stopped.
Pete was as broken and motionless as the car, but that didn’t keep Hank from crawling inside, through the blood, booze, and broken glass, to touch him. He shouted Pete’s name over and over again, then cursed what had been taken from him while tears streamed down his face. He bargained and bartered, offering his own life in exchange for the ability to wind back time, to insist on being the one to drive into town, to make this wrong right, but nothing changed.
His brother was still dead.
“Wha…what in the hell’s goin’ on…?”
Hearing his father’s voice filled Hank with rage. In a flash, he was out of the wrecked car and lifting Myron off the ground by two fistfuls of his bloody shirt, not giving a damn if the man was hurt.
“What have you done?” Hank demanded, his voice echoing off the trees and down the empty road.
“What…what’re you talkin’ ’bout?” his father slurred, his head lolling around on his shoulders, his eyes unfocused and distant.
“Why were you driving?” Hank roared, giving the drunken man a rough shake. “Why was it you and not Pete?”
“I…I ain’t done nothin’ wrong…” Myron managed. “Where’s my…Wait…I think I…think I dropped my drink…”
As Hank listened to his father, who was either unaware or uncaring of the damage he’d caused, his fury threatened to consume him. He wanted to take his fists and beat the man, to end his life as the crash had somehow failed to do, to take a measure of revenge for his having caused Pete’s death. But before Hank could act on his murderous impulse, Myron fell unconscious, his head slumping onto his son’s chest.
Looking down at his father’s bleeding face, Hank felt his anger drain away. In its place was a mixture of sadness and pity. He was flooded by memories of better times: Myron showing his oldest son how to hold a hammer, teaching him the intricacies of throwing a baseball, taking him and Pete sledding at Christmastime. So much had been taken from Myron with the death of his beloved wife that he hadn’t been able to cope. Now that failure had cost him even more.
Hank began to sob. He no longer wanted to hurt his father. He wanted to heal him. Myron was now all the family he had left.
During the walk back to the house, carrying Myron in his arms, Hank formulated a plan. It was risky, dangerous even, but with every step he took, he felt as if he had no other choice. And so, after laying his father on the couch, checking his wounds, and taking a deep breath, Hank picked up the phone.
“I’d like to report an accident,” he began.
Back at the site of the crash, Hank struggled to cope with the enormity of his loss. Disbelief tried to coax him into taking another look inside the car, but he fought off the urge. He knew all too well the sight that waited for him. Hank doubted that he’d ever be able to forget it. So instead, he raged. Covered in blood and liquor, he clenched his fists and struck his chest, his eyes overflowing with tears as he shouted at the sky, demanding answers he knew he would never receive.
When the first police car arrived, its siren loud, its blue and red lights bouncing off the trees, Hank was screaming at the top of his lungs.
“…and that’s when I saw the police car.”
Listening to Hank’s story, Gwen had been spellbound. Everything she’d been told about the night Pete Ellis had died was wrong. Hank wasn’t responsible. He hadn’t killed his brother, no matter what he’d led everyone in Buckton to believe.
“You told the police that you did it,” she said, putting the final pieces of the puzzle together. “You said that you were driving.”
Hank nodded. Outside, another bolt of lightning flashed.
“You could have gone to jail.”
“I did, for a while.” Thunder grumbled. The storm was coming closer.
“It could have been forever.”
“I know.”
Gwen’s head spun. There were details that nagged at her, that made the writer in her sit up and take notice.
“What about the bartender?” she asked.
“Rex? What about him?”
“He talked to you on the phone. Wouldn’t he have known you hadn’t been drinking?”
“Maybe, but I only said a couple of words to him,” Hank explained. “For all he knew, I was every bit as sloshed as my old man. After I hung up with Rex, I got in the car, dragged Pete along, and headed for town, just like he’d suggested, but we never made it. I was too d
runk to drive and got in an accident.”
“That still doesn’t explain how Myron got home. If you didn’t pick him up, then how did he get here?”
“The same way he made it to the bar in the first place,” he answered. “He either walked or hitched a ride.”
“What about when you reported the accident?” Gwen continued. “Who did the police think made the call?”
Hank shook his head. “You’re acting like there were questions about who caused the accident, but there weren’t. I was standing there in the road, covered in blood and alcohol, and I never once claimed that I didn’t do it. As far as the police and everyone else in Buckton was concerned, I was as guilty as sin.”
“Didn’t the police want to know what happened?”
“Of course they did. I told them I had no idea. I also said that I’d been drinking.”
“You lied.”
“What choice did I have?” Hank asked. “I couldn’t tell them the truth.”
“You took the blame so your father wouldn’t have to.”
Hank nodded. “I had to make a quick decision,” he explained. “Maybe if I’d had more time, I would’ve done things differently, but once I picked up the phone and reported the accident, there was no turning back.” He sighed deeply. “All I wanted was to protect my dad. After everything he’d already lost, I was convinced that if he had to accept responsibility for Pete’s death, it would’ve been too much for him. I was afraid that he’d grab his gun and take his own life. I reckoned he couldn’t live with what he’d done.”
“Does he know what happened?”
“At first, I wasn’t sure. Once in a while, when he’d get good and drunk, he’d black out and wouldn’t remember anything. For a time after the accident, he didn’t speak to me. I thought he was just angry, blaming me for Pete’s death. But then, about a week after the funeral, and right after the judge had decided not to charge me with anything, he came up behind me in the workshop…”
When Hank fell silent, Gwen wanted to press, but didn’t.
“He told me that even though I hadn’t been driving that night,” Hank eventually said, “it was still my fault that Pete was dead.”
Chapter Twenty
OUTSIDE, THE STORM had let loose its fury. Wind gusted, swinging tree branches back and forth, some to their breaking point. Thunder followed lightning, one after the other in their heavenly dance. Rain lashed against the windows and drummed on the roof in a frenzied cadence, though it couldn’t keep up with the furious beating of Hank’s heart.
Telling Gwen the truth had been, in some ways, easier than he had anticipated. Letting go of his secret, especially to someone he genuinely cared for, eased much of the burden he’d been carrying. But now, remembering all the terrible words his father had spoken brought the pain rushing back.
“Myron said…he said that you were to blame?” Gwen asked in stunned disbelief. “He was driving! It was his fault!”
Hank shook his head. “That’s not what my father meant.”
“What else could he mean?”
“Pete’s death was on me because I let my brother go get him that night. My father said that if I’d been the one to pick him up, he never would’ve been able to take the keys from me. He told me that Pete wasn’t as strong as I was, physically or otherwise, and I could have stopped him.” Hank paused, listening to another clap of thunder. “In some ways, he’s right.”
Tears filled Gwen’s eyes. “You couldn’t have known.”
But I should’ve…
Hank didn’t give his thought voice. He didn’t confess that he’d turned that night over again and again ever since: tossing his keys across the workshop, Pete saying that he’d be fine, watching him walk toward the car…
“Even if your father truly believed that,” Gwen told him, “why would he say it to you? It’s so cruel.”
“He only said it because he was drunk,” Hank explained, then sighed deeply. “The worst part about that night, about deciding to take the blame for what happened to Pete, was that I did it in the hopes that it would straighten my father out. I figured that even if he thought I had been the one driving, that I was drunk, it would scare him into giving up the booze. But it only made things worse. He drank more than ever. Each time I found a bottle around the house, I’d throw it away or hide it, but he always managed to get his hands on more. My becoming the most hated man in Buckton didn’t heal my father. It ripped his wound open that much wider. He might be alive and out of jail, but I’ve lost him all the same.”
Lightning flashed, another fork shooting toward the ground.
“Do you want to hear something crazy?” Hank asked.
“What?”
“I dream about that night.”
Gwen nodded. “That’s perfectly understandable.”
“No, not like that,” he said. “In my dreams, I’m behind the wheel, drunk as a skunk, screaming at my terrified brother. Pete’s scared out of his wits, but nothing he says makes me slow down. Sometimes I even hit him.” Hank clenched his fists, shaking, fighting his demons. “I wake up right as the car crashes, drenched in sweat, shouting, convinced that that’s how it actually happened. Maybe it’s because of the guilt my father made me feel. Or maybe I actually blame myself.”
Hank felt the familiar anger welling up inside him. Talking about Pete’s death hadn’t completely rid him of the months of hurtful, bitter frustration. But then, just as he feared he might boil over, Gwen reached out and took his hand in her own. Though her palm was much smaller than his, it felt as if she was enveloping him, her warm, soft touch the perfect antidote for his rage. Just having her near, listening without judging, made all the difference. She soothed him.
“You can choose to believe the nonsense your father said,” Gwen told him, tenderly rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. “You can beat yourself up, wondering whether you should’ve done something differently. Or you can consider what Pete would say.” Hank had been looking away from her, but at the mention of his brother’s name, his eyes found hers. She gave him a gentle smile. “He wouldn’t blame you for what happened. Not a chance.”
Tears began to well in Hank’s eyes, but he held them back. “I miss him so much.”
“I know you do.”
“He was just such a damned great guy.”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Some brothers and sisters can be jealous of each other.”
“So I’ve heard,” Gwen said.
“In Pete and my case, it would’ve been easy to hold his success against him. He was so smart. So funny. Everything I struggled to do was a piece of cake for him. But I never held it against him. I was always so damned proud. Everyone he met might have loved him, but no one more than me.”
Gwen moved closer, her body brushing against his. “Pete’s not the only one who lost something that night,” she told him. “So did you. You just need to understand that it will take time to heal.”
“I wish it was that easy,” he answered.
“It isn’t,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible, either.”
Hank stared into Gwen’s eyes, mesmerized by her beauty. That she was even a part of his life was miraculous, but he never would’ve imagined that she’d touch him the way she had, making him feel things he’d thought lost for good. She was a lighthouse, he a ship lost at sea. Because of her, he’d made his way safely to shore.
He may have let Kent and her father rant and rave. He’d even allowed himself to be struck. But for Gwen Foster, he would fight like hell.
This time, when the thunder rumbled, it made the house shake.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” she said.
“What is it?”
Gwen paused, as if weighing whether to voice her request. “You told me the truth about what happened,” she said softly. “Why? Why me?”
Hank smiled. The answer to her question was simple. It welled up inside him, something that had been steadily building from the
moment he had recognized her on the bank of the river. It was there in the sound of her voice. The tender touch of her lips. The curve of her smile. He supposed that he’d known it for a while but hadn’t yet been able to put it into words. But now, after finally unburdening his deepest secret, he had his chance. Thinking about telling her didn’t make him nervous but filled him with happiness.
“Because I love you.”
Gwen’s head spun. Hearing what had really happened the night Pete died had been a lot like being back in the swollen river. She’d been tossed this way and that, helpless to choose where she was going. Every twist and turn threatened to pull her under. But in the end, Hank came through again. Gwen believed him. She believed that he hadn’t been driving. She believed that he’d been willing to take responsibility for his brother’s death in order to protect his father. Without question, she knew that he was telling the truth.
Just like when he told her he loved her.
It wasn’t the first time Gwen had heard those three simple yet powerful words. Kent had said them many times, but the way she’d reacted then was a far cry from the feelings Hank elicited. Her eyes grew wide. Her mouth fell open. Her pulse quickened. She felt as if she was floating on air and weak in the knees, both at the same time. Gwen realized that she’d been waiting and hoping for this moment, the seeds of which stretched all the way back to their ride to Mansfield. All that had happened since, including ice cream, baseball, kisses, and even the obstacles placed in their way, was part of a journey she was happy to have traveled.
With him.
And that was why she had to put a stop to the lie his life had become.
“You have to tell people the truth,” Gwen said.
Hank shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You’d rather let everyone in Buckton continue to think that you’re to blame for Pete’s death?” she asked incredulously.
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