by E. C. Diskin
It had been more than twenty years since that day, but she could remember every detail like it was yesterday—the skirt she’d been wearing, the smell of pine in the pastor’s office, the swirl of emotions she’d felt when Pastor Gary had taken her hand and led her to the couch to talk about the play. He always grabbed her by the hand and pulled her along like a best friend, a little sister, or a prized pupil. She loved it. The other girls were jealous. Sometimes he even spoke to the group while standing behind Ginny, massaging her shoulders. She was his favorite, and because she was the youth group leader, they were a team. With blue eyes, that swoop of dirty-blond hair, dimples when he smiled, he was like an older version of Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in Titanic. And he had that same boyish charm.
But on that day, he’d sat beside her and asked if she’d ever had alcohol. “Of course not.” She giggled nervously. The rules were clear, and she was not a rule breaker. Kids who drank were the kind who went to parties, and her social circle never grew past the two girls who’d befriended her in elementary school. He had to be joking. “Well, don’t tell anyone,” he said, leaving her at the couch and pulling a bottle out of his desk drawer. “It’s Sambuca. A parishioner just gave it to me as a gift with a note that said it might even help ward off the flu because it’s made with elderberries.”
“Is that true?” she asked.
“No idea. Sounds like an old wives’ tale, but it tastes like licorice. Try it.”
She didn’t say a word or accept the glass. Or move.
He smiled. “If you prefer, I’ll keep this just between us.”
Ginny’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled. He made everything about being youth leader more fun.
It tasted almost hot going down, but it was oddly sweet, with a black licorice aftertaste. “Not bad,” she said. Her face squirmed from the burn.
Pastor Gary chuckled. “Right? Well, let’s get on with it. Cast list first.”
She pulled out the paperwork and began going through her notebook. Pastor Gary made some notations in the margins, and they laughed and worked for another thirty minutes while he finished his drink.
Finally, after they were done reading through the play together, he sat back and put his hand on her neck, twirling her long hair in his fingers. “Ginny, have you ever been sexually active?”
She felt the immediate rush of heat to her cheeks, even though it seemed like a reasonable question at the time. The play they’d written was a pro-life story for teens, about teens, that would help them understand the righteous path in the face of difficult circumstances. She’d looked down, smiled, and said, “Of course not.” It had to be a test. The church prohibited premarital sex, and everyone in youth group had taken chastity pledges.
“Good,” he said. “But . . . you should understand what temptation feels like.”
His words lingered around her. She gripped her notebook in both hands, frozen, as she felt him slowly sweeping her hair to one shoulder. He was waiting for a response.
“Okay.” Her focus never left the pages in front of her. She didn’t know what she’d see if she looked at his face.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper. She sensed she was agreeing to something she didn’t understand, that hand pushing her toward darkness.
He said he wanted to kiss her, to touch her, just so she’d know, she’d understand why, even when her body began to respond, it was important to resist.
She didn’t know what to say.
His hand slid to her lower back. He said it would help her stay strong in the face of future temptation. He told her she didn’t need to say or do anything.
She sat like a statue as he kissed the skin behind her ear, sending a shiver up her spine. He then kissed her shoulder and maneuvered himself in front of her, kissing her neck and moving toward her chest. “Do you feel anything?” he asked.
She said nothing, uncertain of the right answer. Was she passing the test? Her heart was pounding. She was sure he could hear it, sure her skin had turned red. She always got these giant red patches on her cheeks and chest whenever she had to speak in front of a class.
He pulled back and looked at her, but she couldn’t look at his face. She focused only on the white collar, surrounded by black. He slowly moved his hand to her leg, sliding it up her thigh until his touch, like a cattle prod, shocked her, and she inhaled. It must have been the wrong reaction, because suddenly he was on top of her.
The door flew open.
It was hard to remember now if it was seconds later, or minutes. The whole thing was a blur. But she knew she’d failed when they both turned toward the open door.
Darius stood there in a Nirvana T-shirt and a huge Mr. Rogers–style cardigan, his mouth open. “Uh, excuse me,” he said, turning away. He began to shut the door, but then he stopped and pushed the door all the way open. His faded jeans were ripped at the knees. He was no rule follower.
Pastor Gary jumped to standing and babbled nervously about how inappropriate they must have looked while he quickly moved to his desk, explaining that they were just working out the logistics of a scene. Ginny sat upright, pulling her skirt down, and crossed her legs.
Without missing a beat, Pastor Gary asked Darius if he’d read the play. Darius said yes and looked at Ginny. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Listen,” Darius said, turning back to Pastor Gary, “I thought this play was about social justice, like racism or equality or something. I just came here to let you know I’m not comfortable performing in this.”
“You must agree that protecting unborn children is a matter of social justice,” Pastor Gary said, nonplussed.
Darius opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Actually, I’m not interested in this debate. I’m just here to tell you that this play is offensive.”
“How so?”
“You suggest that no matter how a child is conceived, even by rape, abortion is never okay.”
“That’s what we believe.”
“And you are casting me, the black guy, as the one who attacks a girl at a party after she’s had too much to drink . . . like a black rapist is your worst-case scenario. It’s racist, and the entire thing is . . . I don’t like it. I’m out.”
“Well, I’m sorry you’re taking it that way, Darius. It’s not what we intended. We wanted you for the role because you’re known in the drama department as being a really good actor. Isn’t that right, Ginny?”
Tears welled, and she wiped them aside as she whispered, “Yeah.”
Darius stepped toward her. “You’re Ginny Anderson, right?”
She looked at him. “Yes.”
“We have history together.”
They did not.
“I was really hoping to get those notes from you for tomorrow’s test. Can I give you a ride back to school?”
“Actually, Darius,” Pastor Gary said, “Ginny and I still have a lot of work to do.”
“It’s really important. I’m sure you’d agree that school comes first, right?” And then before the pastor could say anything else, Darius looked at her again. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”
Ginny stood, gathered up her notebooks, and walked to the door.
“Okay then,” Pastor Gary said. “Ginny, we’ll catch up tomorrow.”
Darius led her to his car. Neither spoke the entire way to school. He parked; she said thanks without looking at him, and got out.
And he’d written about life in Eden, about his life and things he knew—and things he didn’t know.
Ginny was sitting at a stoplight on Main Street, the rain still slapping her windshield, before she thought about where she was. It was as if she’d been on autopilot while her mind went swimming in the past. She scanned the empty storefronts across the street, that bagel and coffee shop that never had a chance and the gun shop up on the right, one of the few businesses in town that would always thrive.
She’d had such big dreams back in high school. Even after those
dreams died, she was sure that Simon’s proposal and his big white house would provide the escape she’d needed. But she couldn’t run from her memories.
She drove another mile, took two more lefts, and pulled into the parking lot of the Church of Good Samaritans. She turned off the car, closed her eyes, and listened to the rain rattle against the roof. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and—
A knock on the window startled her before she could finish. It was Pastor Gary, standing at the driver’s side door, holding an umbrella. He leaned down and raised his voice to speak through the glass. “You here to see me?”
She focused on his dimples when he smiled, the thing that had first attracted her to him all those years ago, when she was just a girl and he was perfect. He hadn’t aged well—between the weight gain and ruddy cheeks, that resemblance to DiCaprio had vanished. But his smile still caused a physical reaction. It wasn’t butterflies anymore. Those flew away the day Darius found her in the pastor’s office. Now it was the pain of their secrets, buried deep inside.
She needed to tell him what had happened to Darius and to her father. She had to tell him what she’d done. What she needed to do.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WILSON WAS STILL ON THE phone when Donny appeared at the door to his office, a big book tucked under his arm. He waved Donny inside, directing him to sit.
“Okay, well, that would be great. I appreciate it,” Wilson said into the phone. “Perfect, I’ll look out for that. Sure . . . yep. All right. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up and leaned back.
“Who was that?” Donny asked.
“Woods’s agent. Hold on,” he said before yelling toward the open door. “Roger, get in here.”
“Take a seat,” Wilson said, motioning toward the chair next to Donny when Roger appeared at the door. “First off, I heard from Belleville. Those bullets came from a .38 Special. So that’s our gun. Let everyone know. Now Donny, whatcha got there?”
Donny looked down and raised the thick, hardback book. “Eden High yearbook, 1999.”
Wilson reached out for Donny to hand it over. “Oh, sure, that was Eddie’s year.”
“I found only a couple other current Eden residents who were classmates,” Donny said. “Sarah Burrows, though she was Sarah Kellerson then . . .”
“I remember little Sarah Kellerson. Good kid. Her family went to our church.”
“And Dave Marquette,” Donny continued.
“Davey Marquette,” Wilson said fondly. “Big football star back in the day. His picture would be in the paper after nearly every home game.”
“Well, according to their statements, neither knew Woods. Mr. Marquette said Woods wasn’t on the team, so he didn’t remember him. Mrs. Burrows said she’d heard of Woods and even saw him on the Oscars. Said she was sorry now that she’d never done the theater productions in high school. Anyway, she offered up her yearbook.”
“Have you asked Eddie about Woods?” Roger asked.
Wilson swatted away the question. “My son wouldn’t have known him either. What about the social media stuff?”
“That’s gonna be tough to do much with,” Donny said. “Looks like he’s got a couple of Facebook profiles. The regular one has about five hundred friends connected to it, but he hasn’t posted in two years. I haven’t seen yet whether any of the names are local connections, but it looks like he doesn’t do much with that. Then there’s a fan page. I’m guessing it’s run by someone who works for him. About thirty thousand followers, and everything posted is that typical movie promo-type stuff, behind-the-scenes pictures, stuff like that. His Instagram is the same. Tons of followers, mostly nonsense.”
“Hmm,” Wilson said, leafing through the pages. “Hey, Roger, see if Mr. Woods has his son’s old yearbooks.”
“Sure, why?”
“See all these signatures, front and back and in the margins?” He lifted an open page toward Donny and Roger. “Maybe it’ll give us a clue about his friends, maybe even his enemies.”
“Good idea,” Roger said.
Wilson continued turning the pages and found the seniors. There were nearly three hundred names and faces. He stopped briefly on Eddie’s wide grin and smiled. That adolescent acne was probably the reason he struggled with girls back then, but it seemed like such a small problem compared to his current issues. Wilson had never known if depression led to addiction or the other way around, but it seemed like Eddie stopped smiling altogether after his mother died during his senior year.
The sheriff moved on to the clubs and classroom shots toward the back of the book. When he got to the theater page, to the spring musical, Grease, with Woods in the lead role of Danny Zuko, he scanned across the group shot of the cast and crew for any familiar faces. There was one face he knew well. She didn’t live in Eden anymore, but the sight of her set off an internal alarm. He slammed the book closed, handed it back to Donny, and shook his head, as if to rid her name from his mind.
“Anyway,” Wilson said. “I wanted to let you both know that I’ve talked to Woods’s agent. Pretty nice lady. Didn’t expect that. But here’s the deal. Woods has a stalker. Had to take out a restraining order on a young girl that broke into his house. She seemed obsessed, sure they’d be together someday. Left naked pictures and love letters all over the place.”
“Jeez,” Donny said.
“Yep. Agent said he hadn’t heard from her in more than six months, though. They both assumed it was over.”
“You get a name?” Roger asked.
“I did,” he said, handing over his notes to Roger. “Tomorrow I want you to track her down. Let’s see if she’s got an alibi. And check Woods’s social media again while you’re at it. See if people would have known he was heading to Eden.”
“Got it.”
“Good. I’ve gotta take care of something in the morning, so Donny, feel free to take my desk here, get a feel for the future.” They both grinned.
“Everything okay?” Donny asked.
“Absolutely.” Wilson didn’t need Donny or Roger, or anyone else, knowing that Eddie had become unbearable. Last night felt like the last straw, watching him swing from high to low, rage to despair, and early this morning he’d finally convinced his son to go back to the treatment center in Fairfield. All the willpower in the world didn’t seem to have a chance against his addiction.
“And what about the screenplay?” Donny asked.
“Agent is gonna send me a link via email. I’ll leave my computer on, so you can look out for it. She said they assumed it might make some waves in his hometown when the movie came out, but she didn’t think he’d shared it with anyone.”
“Did she say what it’s about?” Roger asked.
“Yeah. And it’s exactly what this place doesn’t need.”
“What do you mean?” Donny said.
“She said it’s essentially a coming-of-age, racism-in-a-small-town kind of thing.”
“Great,” Roger said sarcastically.
“What?” Donny asked.
Wilson answered. “You must realize that after Tom’s acquittal and all that brouhaha, a movie calling Eden racist isn’t exactly what this town needs. And frankly, I been sheriff for thirty-five years. I’ve dealt with some violent crimes, but Eden is the bright spot. You haven’t lived around here long enough to judge. We got the lowest crime stats in the county, and I don’t take too kindly to someone smearing my home.”
“Well, low crime stats don’t exactly mean no racism,” Donny said, sitting taller. “Even my wife has felt it. Just the other day, this checker at the grocery over in Davisville asked her how long she’d been here—just because she has olive skin and dark hair, the checker clearly thought Rosa was a foreigner.”
The sheriff stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “First off, maybe the checker was just asking how long your wife had been in the area. It’s called being friendly. It’s not that big a place, and maybe she just th
ought your wife was a new face in town.”
“It’s been almost a year, actually, but no. The implication was clear, as was her expression, according to my wife. Rosa had just ended a phone call with her mother, speaking Spanish.”
“See, that’s the problem. Everyone’s so frickin’ sensitive. You and your wife took a harmless comment and made it some kind of racial profiling. And I don’t appreciate it when someone’s stereotyping my town as a racist hellhole because some bullies mighta called Woods a few names during his childhood. That stuff is universal. Kids pick on kids, for whatever they can think of.”
Donny shook his head. “O-kay, well . . . I guess we should read that screenplay and see what he’s referring to.”
“Damn straight,” Wilson said. “Rog, get goin’.” Roger quickly exited without a word. Wilson could feel his heart pounding. Just the talk of racism got him riled up. The world was too frickin’ PC. Just because people stuck to their own didn’t mean anything.
Another officer appeared in his doorway. “Hey, Sheriff, can I interrupt?”
Wilson stopped. “Sure, what’s up?”
“That neighbor who saw the woman watching the ambulance—she remembered a few digits of the woman’s plate.”
“In the dark and rain?” Wilson asked.
“I know. Not the strongest ID, but I got plate registrations within a fifty-mile radius that could be a match.”
“And?”
“There are less than ten,” he said, walking the paper to Wilson’s desk.
“Neighbor said the woman was white, a blonde, right?” Donny asked. “Do we know what the stalker looked like?”
“Not yet,” Wilson said as he took the sheet of paper. One name stood out. And that cast and crew picture he’d just seen in the yearbook confirmed a connection between Woods and this person. His stomach twisted at the thought of repeating history.
He looked at Roger and Donny but held his tongue. He’d have to handle this alone.