by Amy Cross
"I can see that," he says.
"Well?" I wait for him to say something. "What's wrong?" I continue eventually, my smile fading slightly. "You're not excited?" I reach over to grab his leg, but he quickly moves away, as if he's instinctively trying to avoid any contact with me. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It's me, Fisher. I'm back! I know it's hard to believe, but I'm back! They couldn't prove anything. We can -"
Before I can finish, I realize that there's a sound coming from nearby. For a few seconds, my scrambled brain struggles to make sense of what I'm hearing, as if I can't quite accept that this particular sound could be part of this particular scene. Finally, however, I blink a couple of times and realize that there's no question: the sound is coming from a nearby baby monitor, which means that somewhere else in the house, a baby has started to cry.
"Who's that?" I ask.
"Donovan," he replies cautiously, almost as if he's scared of me.
"Who's Donovan?"
He pauses. "My son."
"Your..." I take a deep breath. "Since when... Since when did you have a son?"
"Since about six months ago," he replies, still staring at me with wide open, terrified eyes. "My wife Edie gave birth to him back in January."
We sit staring at each other for a moment, as the baby continues to cry. It's as if suddenly, weirdly, Fisher and I have nothing to say to one another.
Florence Madison
"Quiet!"
As soon as I walk into the kitchen, I can tell that Milly and Abe have been talking about something that they don't want me to hear. They look guilty as hell, as if in their seventy-plus years of life on this earth, they still haven't learned how to tell a convincing lie. I walk over to the counter and place two bags of groceries next to the fruit bowl, before the silence becomes unbearable and I turn to find that they're both staring wildly at me.
"Well?" I ask.
Silence.
"What's wrong?" I add with a sigh. "Out with it."
"Did you... have a good trip to the store?" Milly asks.
"It was fine," I tell her, trying not to appear flustered. "The same as every day."
"That's good," she says, swallowing hard.
"You know how it is," I continue. "I head out at ten every day. I go to the grocery store every day, and then the bakery every day, and then I come home every day and make lunch for all of us. Every day. The only thing that doesn't happen every day is that you two never ask me how it went, so there's clearly something wrong." I wait for one of them to summon the necessary gumption to admit what they've been gossiping about. "You're both terrible liars," I continue, "and at your ages you're unlikely to get any better, so you might as well tell me."
They look at one another, like two children trying to decide who should own up.
"Spit it out," I say firmly.
"She's back," Abe says suddenly, with fear in his eyes.
"She's back," Milly says quietly, a fraction of a second later.
I open my mouth to reply, but something holds me back. It's like a physical reaction, punching me hard in the chest.
"She got back this morning," Abe continues, his voice trembling slightly. "I heard she was seen about four blocks from here, getting out of a taxi."
"She's not due back until the weekend," I reply curtly, turning to start unpacking the groceries before, finally, I freeze. "The weekend," I say again, as if a few days' difference actually matters. "That's when she's back. Not before."
"Nevertheless," he says, before his voice trails off.
An awkward silence descends upon the room. I want to run out screaming, of course, but there's absolutely no way I'm going to allow myself to do anything so utterly foolish. I was raised to be strong, and strong I shall be.
"She must've got out early," Milly says, her voice quiet and sweet. "I heard they do that sometimes, when the prisons are busy. They..." She pauses. "Well, they let them out early. To avoid a rush, or something."
"It's not right," Abe adds. "If they say something's going to be out on the weekend, they shouldn't let them out early. It's not fair. Thursday is not the weekend."
"It's not about being fair or not," I say, feeling completely drained. "It's just the way they do things. I'm sure they run to a very clear set of rules, and I'm sure they didn't change those rules in any way for..." I pause, as I realize that I was about to say her name. The last thing I want is to say or hear that murderer's name. As far as I'm concerned, she might be back in town, but that doesn't mean I have to acknowledge her in any way. I can just ignore her and hope that she slinks away. After all, it's inconceivable that she could think to show her face around these parts after what she did. She'll be gone by nightfall. She can't stay.
"You okay?" Milly asks.
I nod.
"You don't look okay," Abe says.
"You're very sweet," I reply bitterly, turning to him and seeing the concern in his sad old eyes.
"You know what I mean," he continues. "You look like you're upset. I don't remember the last time I saw you so upset."
"When that pudding deflated last summer," Milly says quietly.
"Hush," Abe says to her, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
"I..." Pausing, I realize that I'm not prepared for this conversation. When I thought Cassie Briggs was coming home at the weekend, I anticipated having time to prepare myself, but I hadn't got around to coming up with a proper plan. Suddenly the whole thing has been foisted upon me, and I feel as if I just need to back away from all this company and try to regroup.
"You gonna go see her?" Abe asks.
"See her?" I say, horrified by such a suggestion.
"Of course she's not going to go see her," Milly says, nudging Abe in the ribs with her elbow. "Why would she do that? There's no good that'd come of seeing her. Best thing to do is just to wait it out and assume that Cassie Briggs is just passing through town on her way to somewhere else. That's gotta be it, right? There's no way she'd actually be thinking of settling here again, not after what she did."
"You're forgetting something," I reply, feeling an awful tightening sensation in my chest. "According to the law of the land, she didn't do it. Even if all of us know in our hearts and in our minds that she did."
"Amen," Milly says softly.
"It's a disgrace," Abe says. "It's a cast-iron disgrace. No-one gives a crap how people around here feel."
"Language, Abraham," I say.
"What?" he asks. "Crap's not a cuss word, is it?"
I stare at him, despairing of his ignorance.
"She still can't live here," he grumbles. "I don't give a f..." He catches himself just in time. "I don't give a fig what the law says. It's just not allowed."
"I'm not sure that's true," I reply. "The last time I checked, America was still, just about, a free country. In the eyes of the law, Cassie Briggs is an innocent young woman, which means that she's subject to no limits on her freedom." I pause as the meaning of those words sinks in. Despite everything she did, despite all the misery and heartache she caused, Cassie Briggs got away with it all. "We must just hope," I continue, "that she has a thread of decency left in her body, and that she's merely come to town to pick up some things before she moves on to start a new life somewhere else."
"She can't live here," Abe says again. "People wouldn't stand for it."
"That's right," Milly adds. "People round here wouldn't stand for that little murderer being in our community. Something'd have to be done about it!"
"What would you suggest?" I reply, feeling a sense of panic starting to rise through my body.
"I don't know," Milly continues, "but something oughta be done!"
"By who?" I ask.
"Someone!"
"I suppose you're right," I say, turning to the grocery bags and starting to unpack. My hand are shaking, but I feel as if I have to get on with normal things. There's no point standing here arguing, at least. It's not as if anything's going to change, just because three old farts are getting worked up in a kit
chen on a Thursday morning. As I focus on putting the groceries away, however, I become more and more aware that - for the first time in their lives - Milly and Abe are sitting in complete silence; I don't think they've ever been so quiet for so long, not in all the time I've known them, and although I start working faster and faster, eventually I can't take it any longer and I turn to them, accidentally letting go of a glass jar of coffee in the process.
"What?" I shout, immediately regretting my loss of control.
Before I can catch it, the jar smashes on the kitchen floor.
"Are you okay?" Milly asks.
"Are you two just going to sit there all day, asking if I'm okay?" I reply.
They look at one another.
"I'm sorry," I continue, grabbing a dustpan and brush before crouching down and starting to sweep up the spilled coffee and broken glass. "Maybe I'm a little emotional," I add, "but that's all. One can't be entirely immune to these things, but that doesn't mean that one has to fall apart, does it? I'm sure things will settle in due course. Clearly, Cassie Briggs has no intention of actually living in Fort Powell. After all, the girl has to have some shame, doesn't she? She's obviously just come back to tell her parents where she'll be living, and she'll be on her way either later today or first thing in the morning. Anything else would be..."
Silence.
"I'm sure you're right," Milly says quietly.
Tipping the contents of the dustpan into the bin, I turn and head to the door.
"I forgot some things upstairs," I say as I leave the room. "You'll have to excuse me for a moment."
As soon as I'm in my bedroom, I push the door shut and stand completely still, feeling a kind of trembling sensation throughout my body. It's as if a huge ocean is rushing up behind me, ready to burst over my shoulders at any moment and sweep me away.
Slowly, I walk over to my bed and sit facing the window. Outside, the sun is shining and the natural world looks so beautiful. I try to focus on the distant sound of birds, or on the rustling leaves of a nearby tree, but the problem is, all these things remind me of my son. Squeezing my eyes tight shut, I try to block him from my mind, but it's too late: images of Bobby flood into my consciousness, flashing past in a seemingly never-ending parade of memories. Fighting the urge to scream, I wait, hoping that the anger will pass soon, but instead it just seems to build and build until tears flow down my cheeks and the ocean crashes over me.
Cassie Briggs
"My wife's name is Edie," Fisher says, as he cradles his sleeping son in his arms, "and she's a librarian. We met three and a half years ago at a fundraiser for the local home services group, and we just hit it off real well. Fast forward to today, and..." He pauses, staring down at the baby's face. "I never thought it'd be possible to love someone as much as I love this boy," he adds, with genuine emotion in his voice. "I cleaned up immediately. Like, on the spot, as soon as he was born. No drink. No nothing. I felt it was my duty."
Still sitting on the floor, with my back against the wall, I find it hard to come up with a rational response. I should be pleased for Fisher; I should be elated by the fact that he seems to have sorted his life out, got a job and a family, and begun to really figure out what he wants to be doing. Hell, he even looks great holding that baby. I just... I guess I can't find it in my heart to be truly pleased for him, because deep down I feel as if I've just been given the biggest ever kick in the gut. Like, it hurts. It physically hurts.
"I was a bit of a mess back then," he adds. "You know, after it all happened. I mean, that's why..." He pauses again, and it's clear that he's struggling to get the words out. "I know it was harder for you. I'm not trying to excuse anything, but I didn't really deal with it too well -"
"You don't have to explain," I say, interrupting him.
"I was gonna write and tell you," he continues, "but I never kinda got the time, if you know what I mean." He glances at me, with a guilty look in his eyes, before looking back down at Donovan's sleeping face. "I'm not much of a letter writer. Don't think I've ever written one in my life, actually. It just doesn't come naturally to me, and -"
"It's okay," I say, my voice tense with emotion. "Really, I understand."
"So that's what happened," he says. "I swear, Donovan almost never cries. He's just a good boy. He looks like my Dad, too. Edie thinks I'm imagining it, but I know he's got my Dad's look about him. It's weird how it can kinda skip a generation and then come out clear as day, huh? I just hope he hasn't inherited my Dad's hairline as well. That'd be a real tragedy for him when he grows up."
"I'm sure he'll be fine," I say. It's true: right now, Fisher and Donovan look like a model example of family bliss, and when I glance over at a nearby table, I spot a photo of a woman who can only be the fabled Edie. Blonde and blue-eyed, she's smiling at the camera, and she looks so happy. I wonder how happy she'd be if she knew that I was here right now. I mean, I've never met her, but she must have heard about me. She must know all the stories, which means she's not going to be happy if she comes walking through the front door and finds me talking to her husband.
"You cut your hair," Fisher says suddenly.
"It's been five years," I point out.
He smiles. "It's different. I don't normally notice stuff like that, but... Shorter hair suits you. I mean, it's not that short, but it suits you. I mean..." He pauses, and it's clear that he's feeling uncomfortable. "I never used to notice stuff like that."
"I remember."
"When I got married," he continues, "my father told me that the secret to a happy marriage is to always notice the little things. He also told me that it's pretty damn hard to do that, so he said I should focus on just one little thing. I don't really know why, but I chose hair." He smiles, as if he's slightly embarrassed. "So I make sure to always notice Edie's hair. I always mention when she's had it cut. Sometimes, I even jump the gun and say something when she hasn't had anything done at all. Still, I think it works pretty well. My father was right. Always notice the little things. Helps keep a marriage together."
"I'm not your wife," I remind him.
He opens his mouth to reply to me, but something seems to be holding him back. "So what are you doing in town?" he asks eventually. "I heard you were being released, but most people thought you'd keep well away."
"Been talking about me, have they?" I ask, forcing a half-smile at the inevitability of all the gossip that must have been going around the town since the news got out. "This is my home," I continue. "I was born here, I grew up here, and I don't have anywhere else to go."
"But you're not..." He stares at me. "You're not planning to stay here, Cassie. You can't be. People here, they still remember what happened -"
"I didn't do it," I reply. "I was cleared."
"They let you go because they didn't have the evidence to proceed with a case," he counters. "That's not the same thing. I mean, to people in Fort Powell, it's not the same." He pauses. "You haven't been here for five years, Cassie. You don't understand how Bobby's death changed things. It's like everything froze. Five years have passed, but most of the people around here, they're stuck like they were back on the day after the body was found. Time hasn't healed any of their wounds."
"I don't have anywhere else to go," I say again, trying not to let him see that I'm scared.
"But you can't stay here!" he says, gently cradling Donovan as his son starts to make a kind of gurgling sound. "Cassie, I get it. You're innocent. Whatever anyone else says, I know what happened up there. But if you think you can come back and pick up your life where it left off, you're insane. People here hate you. Not just a few people. Not just Florence Madison and her friends. Everyone, pretty much. Why would you even want to live in a town where people would rather see you..." His voice trails off.
"I'm innocent," I say, even though I'm aware that my voice sounds weak and fragile right now. "I'm innocent. I haven't been convicted of anything. I didn't do anything. Why should I pay the price for something I didn't do?"
; "It's just what people think, Cassie," he replies, setting Donovan down in his crib. "What people think is just as important as the truth. If you try to stay in town, you might not be safe."
"What are they gonna do?" I ask, unable to stifle a smile. "Kill me?"
He stares at me.
"No way!" I say, exasperated by his insistence on making everything so dramatic. "Sure, some people might be a bit weird with me, but they have to face the truth! I didn't kill Bobby! Even the police admitted I didn't do it!"
"They dropped the charges," he replies. "After five years, they admitted they didn't have enough evidence and the case collapsed. For some people, that's not enough. It'll never be enough. You know how much Bobby was loved around here -"
"I didn't kill him!" I shout.
Before Fisher can reply, Donovan starts to cry.
"I need to get him some formula," Fisher says, turning and heading through to the kitchen.
Stunned by Fisher's inability to see that I belong in this town, I try to work out what to do next. There's a part of me that wants to turn and run, and to not stop running until I'm far away, but at the same time, I don't see why I should let the suspicions and fears of a bunch of local hicks prevent me from staying where I belong. As Donovan continues to cry, I walk over to the crib and look down at him. Even though I'm only in my early twenties, I already feel as if my life has been dirtied and stained. I wish I could be totally innocent again, and totally blame-free, just like a baby. Reaching down, I carefully pick Fisher's son up and hold him in my arms, but he keeps crying.
"He'll be okay," Fisher calls through from the kitchen. "He just needs his formula."
"Sure," I mutter, cradling Donovan in an attempt to get him to quieten down. Damn it, has my life become so fucked-up that I'm starting to envy an infant? At least Donovan has never made mistakes. People don't look at him and assume the worst.
"There's a suitcase in the street," says a voice suddenly. "Just standing there, I almost -"