All Is Not Forgotten

by Wendy Walker

  As Sean continued to walk, Tom tried to drive. He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the street. He made it another block, then stopped again.

  I can’t describe the anger I felt then. Hearing my parents disparaging me. Calling me a coward because I was freezing up. I was about to kill a man! I think that is worthy of some trepidation, some consideration. I would be leaving my children. There would be no source of income. They would be fatherless. And for what? Jenny would still be a victim. Killing her attacker would not change that. She would still be without her memory and her ability to heal. Killing Sullivan would not bring them back. And then I considered the justice I had been so obsessed with. The stories of other victims and how justice had helped them heal. And how Jenny would never have justice any other way. We had taken that from her. I stared at the dashboard and calmed my nerves.

  Sean walked, step by step, toward the open door. And as he did, the memories, little flashes, kept coming.

  I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn’t focus on the mission. I had to keep stopping, shaking off the flashes like little gnats. I would not fail this time. I lifted a foot, moved it, placed it back on the ground. There was Valancia suddenly in front of me where my foot was. I took another step and looked behind, but he wasn’t there, he was in front, he had moved ahead of me! I saw Sullivan’s shadow through the window. I picked up the other foot and dragged it forward. “What the fuck, man!” Those were my words. “It’s no good. It’s no good!” My words! Valancia had pushed ahead of me. He had tears streaming down his face, carving through the dust on his skin. It was fear. He had been so ravaged by fear. Fuck! He was gonna do it! “I’m not afraid!” I think that’s what he said! That’s what I remembered as I was walking to kill Bob Sullivan! I remembered!

  A car drove wildly past Tom as he sat parked on the side of the road. He would remember it later, though he paid no attention at the time.

  What does it mean to be a man? What does it mean to be strong? Those were the questions in my head. Was I stronger if I swallowed this anger and followed the rules? Or was I stronger if I made things right for my daughter? Can you believe that? At forty-five years of age, I still didn’t know. I had no idea what it was to be a man.

  Sean fell to his knees. It was not voluntary. His emotions had taken the wheel.

  That stupid little fuck. I felt the pavement against my kneecaps. I set my gun down at my feet and held my head in my hands. I closed my eyes. I wanted it all to come. Everything, once and for all. He turned his face away and started to run like a bat out of hell for that red door. I reached for his arm, but he slipped out of my grasp. The people all stood still. They knew what was happening. They knew what was at that door. I ran after him. “It’s no good, rookie! Stand down!” I’m almost there. Almost to the door. And that’s where it all stopped.

  Sean cried out into the night. I have wondered if Bob Sullivan heard his cry, if it alarmed him at all. That’s one question we will never have answered.

  I opened my eyes. I grabbed the gun and I ran back to my car. I drove home to my family. I couldn’t do it. Just like I couldn’t lead Valancia to his death. Don’t you see, Doc? I didn’t do it. He wasn’t following me into some suicide mission. I was following him. I was following him!

  Tom pulled back onto the road. He had made his decision. He did not stop again. I imagine Sean passed right by him.

  I thought I would at least go there and confront him, make him confess. I could at least do that. It was a compromise. That’s what I told myself. I got to the showroom. The lights were on in the back office. I left the bat in the car. I did not trust myself. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I didn’t have it in me. And maybe I didn’t want to find out. I unlocked the door and went inside. I had the words in my head that I would say, and I was mumbling them to myself as I walked into the showroom. That’s when I heard the sound. It was a man crying.

  I stepped around the corner, the same way I had done that night Bob was with Lila. Only what I saw on this night … good Lord.

  The car that had sped past Tom belonged to the father of the girl Bob Sullivan had been with the night Jenny Kramer was raped. Lila from the showroom. Her father played golf with Bob. That was the man Tom found crying on the showroom floor, next to the bloodied body of Bob Sullivan.

  He had a crowbar in his hand. Bob was lying on the hood of the silver XK, blood pouring from his skull. “My baby girl!” the man cried. I ran to Bob, pulled him to the floor, felt for a pulse. It was weak but it was there. Still, the wound to his head—I could see brain matter oozing out. I was in such a state of shock, I can’t even describe it. It was surreal. I managed to get my phone and call 911. I told them where we were, that a man had been struck. That he was dead.

  “Tom,” I said. “Why did you tell them that if he had a pulse?”

  I’m not proud of this. Or maybe I am. I still don’t know. But I did not do a thing to save Bob Sullivan. I laid him on the ground and I let him bleed to death. I sat beside this man, this father. He kept saying over and over how Bob had raped his little girl, and I had no idea who he was at the time. The alibi had not come out. But those words, it was like this man was me, the other me who wanted to kill Bob Sullivan. Who wanted justice. I put my arms around this man and I held him, rocking him back and forth as he cried in despair. I can’t explain it but to say that he was crying my tears. And that I was feeling his justice.

  And there it is. That is the collision. Wasn’t it something? But that is not the end of the story.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I have no remorse over the role I played in the death of Bob Sullivan. It was coming, you see? He had a liking for other people’s wives and daughters. There were more of them on the tapes. They were all disclosed, eventually, in the trial of the murderer, the distraught father who took a crowbar to poor Bob’s head. Even the tapes with Charlotte.

  The content was sealed by agreement. No one had any interest in destroying Fairview, which is what would have happened. This is a small town. I have said this before, but it is worth saying again here. No one wanted to have to make choices about their marriages, their friends, their kids’ teacher at the school, their daughter, their mother. There was not enough space in this town for the kind of anger that would have been generated. So, only the dates and ages of the women were submitted into evidence. The tapes were eventually returned to Fran Sullivan, who, I imagine, keeps them in a nice safe place in her new home down in Miami. Of course, she could not stay in Fairview. She still had to raise her boys. The dealerships were sold (two of them to Tom Kramer), and the Sullivan family started over someplace far away.

  Charlotte did eventually tell Tom about her affair. She told him the day after he let the man die.

  I couldn’t let him wallow in that guilt. It was still so raw, the image of his wound, his brain matter spilling out, all the blood. And that man just crying on the floor. Tom was shaken by what he almost did and horrified by what he actually did do. I was the one who drove him to it, to put the bat in his car and drive to the showroom. I had to make it right.

  Charlotte didn’t say it, but I could tell Tom’s courage and, in the end, his ability to contain his rage had caused her to see him in a new light. She saw him as a man of strength. A man who could protect his family, not just whine about it to others the way he had been doing all year. And yet he was also flawed, wasn’t he? Yes, Bob probably would have died anyway, but Tom did nothing to save the man. He was not perfect. And this gave Charlotte the permission to finally let go of good Charlotte the way she had done with bad Charlotte.

  As for Tom, seeing Charlotte’s flaws allowed him to finally feel deserving of her, of his family, and of his life.

  Things don’t always happen this easily. But most couples don’t have these kinds of life-altering events to shake them up. Inertia, stagnation, routines—it is hard to change in the face of these powerful forces.

  Bob Sullivan’s death had changed them both.

  I was mad, of cou
rse. Furious. Hurt. Devastated. I walked around with this pit in my stomach that just sucked up everything inside me. I couldn’t look at her for days. I made her tell me the details, where they would meet, how often, for how long. I made her tell me about the day she found Jenny. She apologized just once. She told me about her childhood. She was so calm about it, not pleading for forgiveness, but just wanting me to understand. She said you had helped her to understand herself, how she needed to have her two selves, the good and the bad, because of the shame she carried with her. She cried when she told me about her stepfather, about the first time it happened. I listened, and when she was done telling me, she just got up and left me alone in the room. She didn’t say anything else about any of it for two weeks.

  Charlotte said those were the longest two weeks of her life, even longer than the weeks after Jenny’s rape.

  It was because there was nothing left for me to do. No action to take. No calls, no errands, no nothing. I just had to sit and let my husband know me, all of me, and decide whether he still loved me. It was very hard because after I told him, I knew I loved him more than I ever had before. Or maybe I should just say that I knew I really loved him, period.

  Tom came to Charlotte on a Thursday night. They were alone in their bedroom; the house was quiet.

  I walked in, and she was standing at her dresser, looking in the mirror. I could see her reflection from where I was standing. And I saw her for the first time. I mean I really saw her. She was not the woman I thought I had married. But God, she was beautiful! I’m sorry … I’ve been crying a lot lately. She was just so beautiful, that vulnerable girl, and that strong woman—they were all there in her face. And I just wanted to hold her.

  Charlotte remembers that night well. I doubt either of them will forget it.

  I didn’t notice him in the room until he was almost standing behind me. He reached his arms around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. He told me he loved me. He told me he thought I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, more beautiful now than ever, now that he could see all of me. I fell into him. I felt this wall crumble to the ground. There was nothing standing between us anymore. We made love and then I slept all night in his arms.

  Sean also found a reconnection with his wife after the death of Bob Sullivan. He came to see me the very next day, the day after he almost killed the man himself. The day after he had the recall.

  I drove home like a wild man. I couldn’t get there fast enough. I wanted to tell my wife that I had not killed Bob Sullivan. That I had not killed Valancia. That I had tried to save him. It’s not just that I remember it. I could easily have remembered it only to learn that I had been the one running for that door, driven by arrogance that no amount of reason could ever contain. That’s how I felt about most of life. Living with the anxiety—it made me do so many crazy things. I could have been the one, maybe even wanting to die, finally, after so much suffering. Don’t you see, Doc? I know now that I’m not completely fucked up. That I’m not so fucked up that I led a man to his death.

  “No, Sean. You are not so fucked up. In fact, you ran after him. You tried to stop him. And you were willing to die for him. You are a hero.”

  I wanted to be a hero. I thought if I killed Sullivan, I would be saving Jenny. Can you imagine if I had not remembered that night? If I had killed an innocent man? I came so close.

  “I don’t think you would have shot Bob Sullivan. It’s not who you are.”

  Maybe. Sean sat staring at the ground. He nodded slowly. Maybe, Doc. Guess we’ll never know.

  Sean continued to see me for his anxiety, and to finish our work putting the ghosts to bed. Having found those few memories from that day in Iraq, it was a seamless task and deeply satisfying. The trauma from the blast, from the injury, found its home and stopped roaming. Sean went back to college that year. His wife had a daughter, and they named her Sara. And he remained a close friend to Jenny, the man who could hold her black bag full of garbage.

  Those are the happy endings. I cannot take all the credit for what these extraordinary people did to change their lives. I will simply say that I am grateful for the small part I was able to play.

  And now I must tell you the ending for Glenn Shelby.

  It was seven days after the death of Bob Sullivan that the body of Glenn Shelby was found swinging from that metal bar in his apartment. The weather had turned quite warm, and he had started to smell.

  When the Cranston police sorted through his things, they found the black ski mask, the black gloves, and a notebook describing in detail the rape of Jenny Kramer.

  Glenn had been in property maintenance before his coworkers grew uncomfortable around him. I told you that earlier. Maybe you had forgotten. The last job he did for them was caring for two homes in Fairview. He did everything for them, weeding, lawn maintenance, tree pruning. And cleaning their pools.

  Detective Parsons called me with the news.

  It’s crazy, isn’t it? He’s a real sicko, this one. Two stalking convictions. Numerous complaints from coworkers. In and out of prison. Crazy bastard. Looks like he was planning to rape someone at that party. He was following several teenage boys on Instagram. Used a fake profile. Fucking idiot kids. They’re so caught up in their “likes” and “followers.” I bet they don’t know half the people they let into their world. We found the chat about the party in one of the hashtags. They started talking about it a week before. Gave him plenty of time to prepare. Looks like he was targeting a boy. We’re still trying to identify where it started, which kid let him into the circle first. That might tell us something.

  I already knew the answer. I had been through Jason’s account to clean it of photos with the blue sweatshirt. I do not use Instagram. But one of my son’s “followers” kept appearing and appearing, “liking” his posts, trying to start conversations, and prodding my son to “like” things back. It’s hard to explain why it jumped out at me. This follower’s picture and posts never revealed the face of Glenn Shelby. But I just knew. The desperation oozed like a toxic chemical from the screen, page after page after page.

  Shelby had taken to stalking my son.

  Shelby had gone to that party to stalk my son.

  Now you understand the debilitating fear that was provoked when I found out my son had been in those woods.

  I did not tell Parsons.

  “That is something, Detective. Really something. I have a request. You said there were writings? About the rape?”

  Oh yeah. This guy kept detailed notes. They match everything we found and more. It’s sick stuff, I’ll tell you.

  “I know this will sound strange. But I think I could use them to help Jenny with her memory. Do you think I could see them, or copy them?”

  Jesus Christ. That is strange. Is that what she wants? To know everything he was thinking and feeling while he did those things to her?

  “I will speak to her and her parents. But I don’t want to get their hopes up if we can’t get the writings.”

  I can get you the writings.

  “Thank you.”

  Oh—and I almost forgot. That old-timer from Oregon? Remember?

  I remembered.

  Says he found the file. The report was from a school. A teacher saw the blood coming from the kid’s shirt. Made him go to the nurse, and she reported the cut. Said it didn’t look like an accident. It was too clean, like someone had cut him on purpose.

  “Well, Detective. I guess that’s not relevant anymore, is it? Glenn Shelby would have been a child himself back then.”

  Yeah. I told him we didn’t need the file anymore. Thank God. This whole thing is finally over. Think I’ll take my vacation time.

  “You deserve it.” I did not mean this.

  So do you, Alan. You have been a godsend for the Kramers. I know they are very grateful to you.

  “Well, I was more than happy to help. I just hope I can finish the job.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Empathy is define
d this way: “the ability to share and understand the feelings of another.”

  Women talking for hours at a lunch. Men walking the golf course together every Sunday morning. Teenage girls glued to their phones. This is when we tell our stories, sometimes in meticulous detail, watch the expressions in others as they take in the words. We extract from them their sympathy, their joy, their understanding. We do this so we are not alone as we walk slowly toward our death. Empathy is at the very core of our humanity. Life is pain without it.

  These are the last few strands of sugar.

  Detective Parsons gave me Glenn Shelby’s writings. The Kramers discussed my plan and agreed that it was worthwhile. So one evening in early summer, just over a year after the rape, Jenny Kramer came to my office to finally learn, one way or another, exactly what had happened in those woods behind Juniper Road.

  She wore the clothes from that night—the duplicates we had been working with at the office. She wore the same perfume and makeup. Her hair was down except for one small braid on the right side.

  Jenny had taken the events of the past two weeks extremely well. She said it was comforting to her that the man responsible was not Bob Sullivan, but instead a man with a serious mental illness. I facilitated this with a very generous description of Glenn’s condition. I know if she had met him and seen how normal he presented to the world, she would have felt differently. Given his conditions, she said it felt more like an accident, like she had gotten in the way of a wild animal in the jungle, or a shark. Or that powerful wave in the ocean. It was not about whether she forgave Glenn Shelby for raping her. It was about her ability to understand, and to place what happened into a context that made life possible to live. Some things are not like that. Some things are so incomprehensible that they rip out our floor, our foundation, and we hobble through life with fear of falling through with each step taken. That was how it would have been with Bob Sullivan—the man who smiled at her when she went to her father’s work, who could have any woman he wanted. To think that he could have done those things to her would have left her devoid of reason, and incapable of trusting anyone ever again.