Tell No One

by Taylor Sissel, Barbara

  Caroline looked up when Martha returned, a steaming Styrofoam cup in either hand. “It’s out of the machine,” she said. “All I could find.”

  Taking a cup, Caroline thanked her.

  Sitting down, Martha said, “I would feel like you.”

  Brows raised, Caroline met her glance.

  “If it were me, I’d want to go to Lone Pine, too, and see for myself if the man was my dad.”

  “I thought I would leave today.”

  “Well, you know I’m not going anywhere. If you do, Lanie won’t be alone.”

  The rush of Caroline’s gratitude brought tears to her eyes. Martha patted her arm. “I should call Mom,” Caroline said.

  “You go on, honey. I’ll find you if the doctor comes.”

  When she answered Caroline’s call, her mother didn’t bother with a greeting. “Where are you?”

  “At the hospital with Lanie. She was having difficulty breathing, and Martha called an ambulance. She’s so frail now, Mom.” Caroline had found an exit door into an atrium and come outside, but the fresh air and sunshine were having little effect on the weight of her sorrow. “She’ll be gone soon. I just know it.”

  “I should come,” her mother said.

  “Yes. If you want—” Closure. That was the right word, natural to say, but somehow Caroline couldn’t.

  “I’ve known Lanie longer than your dad. Did you know? We lived in the same neighborhood, on the same street. We jumped rope together, played jacks, giggled about boys. We were sisters before we ever became sisters-in-law.” Her mother’s voice quavered. “Once she tried teaching me to sew. I was terrible at it. No patience. But she was gifted. She created her own designs, made her own patterns. Do you remember the dress she made for you one Easter? It was before your dad left us. You must have been four or five. It was of white organdy—”

  “With tiny lavender flowers.” Caroline knew because her mom had saved it. She’d found it swaddled in layers of tissue while going through the boxes in the linen closet.

  “Yes, and a wide lavender ribbon sash. Oh, you were so adorable in it. Hoff bought you a pair of white patent-leather shoes and little socks with lace trim.”

  “There was a hat, wasn’t there? It had lavender flowers—”

  “Lanie decorated a straw hat to match.”

  “Where is it? Did it get thrown out?” Caroline could see it in her mind’s eye.

  “Packed,” her mother said. “It’s in one of the boxes you’re having shipped home.”

  Home. The word sounded somehow foreign. Caroline couldn’t imagine it for a moment, the house in Des Moines where she lived with Rob.

  “Lanie always wanted to be a mother; did you know that, Caro? But the closest she ever came was caring for you.”

  “She hardly ever talked about it, Mom, and I never really asked her. It seemed as if it made her sad. I know she was engaged once—”

  “Yes, to the love of her life. But he died just weeks before their wedding, had a massive coronary. He was only twenty-seven. It was horrible for her. There’s never been anyone since that I know of.”

  The door into the atrium opened, and a woman came out. Her eyes were scoured looking, red with grief, or possibly it was only allergies. Caroline left the bench in the atrium’s center and walked to a gate in the far corner.

  “I’ll get myself together now and come there. You’re at St. Joe’s?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “I’m so glad you’re coming,” she added.

  “I don’t want Lanie to leave this world without her knowing I love her in spite of everything.”

  It was late morning before the doctor came to say Lanie had pneumonia and they were admitting her to the ICU. By then Caroline’s mother had arrived. Nearly two more hours passed before she, Martha, and Caroline were allowed on the ICU floor to visit Lanie, one at a time. Martha went first, and when she returned from her ten-minute visit, Caroline knew her stoicism was contrived, more an act of will for Caroline’s sake. She gave Caroline and her mother a brief hug and, dividing her glance between them, said there were machines making all kinds of noise, and they should be prepared for that and for how pale Lanie was. Faded was the word Martha used. “Try not to be alarmed. They’re doing all they can—within limits,” Martha added.

  Caroline blinked away the ready threat of tears. She knew Lanie had a DNR—a Do Not Resuscitate order. She’d made it clear that she wanted no heroic measures taken once her body began to fail. Caroline and her mom had them too. It made sense; of course it did. But standing at Lanie’s bedside a few minutes later, barely able to detect the rise and fall of Lanie’s chest, Caroline felt an unreasoning urge to shout for a doctor, a nurse, anyone who could stop the terrible thing that was happening. She took Lanie’s hand, her heart heavy in her chest, and she knew if Lanie were able, she would ask to be allowed to slip away. Let me go, she would say.

  Caroline bent her lips to her aunt’s ear. “Let me find Daddy first,” she whispered. “Let me bring your brother home.”

  It was the habit of years and a desperate need for reassurance that drove Caroline to call Rob later. She’d left the hospital and come to her car, still parked outside the ER, needing fresh air, a break from the awful waiting.

  At first Rob was gentle. “I know this must be so hard for you, Caro.”

  “I’m scared I won’t find my dad in time.” She named her gravest fear.

  “Well,” he said, “you’ve done your best.”

  Caroline stared through the car windshield. Done my best? “No,” she said. “I’ve got this lead now. The man in Lone Pine could be Dad. I’ve got to check it out.”

  “What? I thought you would come home now. I mean after Lanie—”

  “No, Rob. I can’t.” Did he truly not see?

  “What about our situation?”

  “It isn’t our situation, Rob. It’s yours. You faked the documents.”

  “What if I were to throw myself on their mercy, plead ignorance, say I didn’t understand? You’d back me, right?”

  Caroline stared through the windshield. Would she?

  “It would be better, though, don’t you think, if we made an appointment to see them together?” he went on. “If we explained—”

  “There’s no we,” she insisted, angry now and unable to conceal it. “You keep trying to make me a part of this. Now you’re asking me to lie—?”

  “Like they say—” Rob continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. I mean, what can the IRS or the insurers do? Ah, well, I don’t really know what they can do.” He barked a short syllable of anxious laughter. “That’s what’s got me spooked.”

  “I can’t believe the way you’re talking, Rob. Do you hear yourself? I don’t think I even know you anymore—” It scared her, and at the same time it hurt, saying it aloud. The spoken words brought into sharpened focus the differences between them that until now had only lurked in the shadowy recesses of her mind. The gap was there and real in a way she hadn’t anticipated. There would be no going back from this, she thought, and her heart faltered.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Caro.”

  “Then I can’t help you, Rob. We’re in two different places. You must see it—” She was pleading with him.

  “But I need you.”

  “I’m sorry, but my aunt is dying. My mother is uprooting her life, and I’ve just found out it’s possible my dad didn’t simply walk out on me and Lanie; he may have disappeared under suspicious circumstances. I can’t just leave—”

  “So what you’re telling me is all that is more important than me—than us.”

  He waited, but she didn’t break the taut silence.

  “Caroline?”

  “I don’t know what to say.” She didn’t. It was as if Rob, the business, the life they’d built in Iowa, belonged to some other woman, one who had been sleeping and was now waking as if from a long dream. It was the oddest sensation. Caroline had no idea how to interpret
it. She felt sad, frightened, and somehow grimly determined all at once.

  “If you decide to turn me in, will you at least have the decency to tell me beforehand?”

  “What about your decency toward me, Rob?” Caroline asked, her voice cracking, breaking.

  A heavy sigh was his only response.

  She could picture his gesture, the impatient sweep of his hand over his head. “I have to go,” she said, and she severed their connection.

  18

  Harris—Monday, January 15, and Wednesday, January 17

  He has no idea how much time has passed or what day it is when an officer appears outside his cell door, and his head is finally clear enough that he feels certain it is an officer and not his mind raving.

  “Steve Wayman,” the man says. “You remember me?”

  Harris struggles to sit upright. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re the cop who pulled me off my son. I owe you, man.”

  Wayman nods to someone down the corridor out of Harris’s sight. The cell door starts to slide open. “You mind if I come in?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Wayman doesn’t answer. The cell door closes as soon as he’s stepped inside.

  “What day is it?” Harris asks.

  “Monday. You been in here since Saturday.”

  “God! Are you serious?” Harris stares at the deputy.

  Wayman nods. He leans against the wall opposite where Harris is sitting on the bunk. “Looks like you’re having a rough time.”

  “Kyle! How is my son Kyle? Do you know?”

  “You banged him up pretty good, but lucky for you, none of what you did was life threatening.”

  Harris keeps Wayman’s gaze. Is that supposed to comfort him?

  They share a beat.

  Wayman says, “You’re the athletic director at the high school in Wyatt, head coach of the baseball team, right?”

  “I was. I doubt I’ve got a job anymore.” Everyone knows you’re a doper. Gee’s your dealer. Kyle’s declaration burns in Harris’s ears.

  “You know a kid, a senior by the name of Gander Drake, goes by Gee.” The deputy isn’t asking.

  In the moment before Harris answers, he remembers where he heard the deputy’s name before—that it was from Gee. Wayman and the Wyatt cop, Ken Carter, had gone to Gee’s house and questioned him in connection with the robberies. “I know Gee,” Harris admits. No way to deny it.

  “He’s your supplier. You buy drugs from him, is that right?”

  Harris looks down, but he knows—knows in his gut—he’s done with it. The lying and covering up. Done with the dope. He doesn’t know how, whether he can pull it off. Maybe it won’t make a difference. He’s likely got no chance in hell of making it up to his family, but he’s got to try. He looks at Wayman. “Yeah. I buy from him.” Sometimes. The word hovers on his tongue, but he keeps it there. It’s possible Gee has already nailed Zeke, and there’s nothing Harris can do about that. But he won’t give up Cal. Let her downfall come at someone else’s hands.

  “Well, here’s the thing.” Wayman comes off the wall. “I’ve been working with the Wyatt police trying to resolve a case, a string of robberies in Wyatt and a couple outside city limits in Madrone County—you know what I’m talking about, right? We’ve got reason to believe you know Gee’s involved. There’s another guy working with Gee, his cousin, Darren Causey.”

  “You’ve talked to Gee’s girlfriend, Amber, right? Have you arrested Gee?”

  “Not yet, but we will soon, and when we do, if you were to help us get these two, help us make the charges stick, it could help you out of this jam you’re in.”

  “Testify against them, you mean.” Harris can’t sort out how the prospect makes him feel.

  Wayman leans back against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest, waits.

  “You guys realize I’m not involved in the robberies, don’t you? This isn’t some kind of cop game?”

  “It’s no game. There are text messages between you and Gee, most of them regarding drug buys, but there’s one where he says something to the effect that if you talk to law enforcement about what you saw, he’ll come after you. So we know you witnessed something—direct activity by Gee and Darren—related to the robberies. We want to know what it was, and yeah, we’d need your testimony at trial. In exchange, it’s possible the DA would be open to making some kind of deal, let you plead to a lesser charge. Maybe your sentence could be deferred, especially if you were to agree to enter a rehab facility. Specifics would be up to a judge and the DA to work out.”

  He doesn’t deserve any deals—that’s what Harris wants to say. But Wayman goes on before he can.

  “Gee’s young. He’s got a chance here to turn his life around, but he’s the kind of kid that’s got to hit a wall hard enough it’ll wake him up. You can help with that, help this kid get back on track.”

  Never forget that as a player, you’re a role model. You’re somebody’s hero. Maybe you’ll inspire a kid to turn his life around . . . Hoff said that to Harris once. Words to that effect. He expected great things from Harris. Not this, nothing like what Harris has done. Hoff would be sick to see Harris here. He looks at Wayman. “You still have your dad?”

  “No. He died a couple years ago.”

  “Yeah, I—my dad’s gone too.” Harris’s voice hooks on the words. They’re like stones in his mouth. He feels the salt burn of tears and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It was longer ago than that. I was thirteen, barely. Well, he wasn’t my real dad, but he was the closest thing to a dad I ever had. I’ve been thinking about him a lot in here. Seeing him. Maybe it’s coming off the dope.”

  His visions of Hoff have taken him back to the earliest days, when his mom and Hoff first got together. Those sunlit, treasured days when Harris had no reason to believe they wouldn’t last forever. With Hoff to protect them, they finally felt truly safe. Oklahoma, that long, nightmarish highway journey away from there—all of that was behind them.

  “I know when I see him it’s not real,” Harris tells Wayman, “but it’s like I can hear him talking to me, about how bad I’ve screwed up. God, he’d be so damn disappointed in the mess I’ve made.”

  “You’ve got the same chance here as Gee. You can turn this around. I’ve seen families broken by worse come back together when they can see the commitment to do the right thing is real.”

  Harris wipes his hands down his face. He looks at Wayman. “You get a chance to tell your dad goodbye?”

  A look crosses Wayman’s face when he says, “No,” some conflicted mix of guilt, regret, and love that Harris recognizes.

  “Me either,” Harris says, and it’s the elements of humanity and kindness in Wayman’s expression and demeanor that lead him to add, “Things between him and me and my mom got kind of rough at the end. He wasn’t perfect; no one is—” He breaks off. Sorrow and regret are bitter in his throat. He swallows them down, pushes himself to say it, the rest of what’s in his heart, the truth he wants to keep. “He was a better man, a better role model, most of the time, than I’ve been in all eighteen years I’ve been a dad to my sons. I wish I’d told him . . .”

  “There’s still time to get straight with them.”

  “I doubt they’ll want anything to do with me after this.”

  “What about your testimony? You can stop Gee before he moves on to committing worse crimes.”

  “That’s not going to make me a hero, not to my, or Gee’s, family.”

  Wayman allows the silence. He even seems comfortable with it, as if he knows Harris will see it—that taking the stand and telling the truth, about himself, about Gee, is the only choice he’s got.

  “All right. What the hell. I’ll do it,” Harris says, and he thinks it’s probably stupid, working with the cops. But everyone already hates him. He’s got nothing and no one left to lose.

  “You’ve got a visitor.” The officer—a deputy Harris doesn’t know—opens the cell.

  He sits up, working his tongue
over his teeth, around the dry corners of his mouth. It’s been hours—he thinks over a day may have passed since Wayman was here—but Harris feels only marginally better. At least he’s done puking, but everything aches. He runs a shaky hand across his scalp, his matted hair. He needs a shower. “What day is it?” he asks.

  “Wednesday. You been in here four days.” The lawman answers as if he gets the question all the time, as if supplying such information is part of his job description. “Stand up,” he says. “You gotta be cuffed before I can take you down to the visiting room.”

  Harris squints at the guard. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Well,” the cop says, “they’re here, came all this way to see your sorry ass, so get up.”

  Harris does as he’s told, letting himself be handcuffed and led out of the cell and down the corridor like a dog. At the door to the visiting area, he catches the guard’s eyes. “You know who it is?”

  “Your mama,” the cop says. “If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t give two hoots in hell if you saw her, but I had her in the ninth grade for algebra back in the nineties when she was still teaching at Wyatt Junior High. She cut me a lot of slack then. I’m returning the favor now, because for some reason she thinks a loser like you is worth saving.” The cop thrusts open the door, pushing Harris through it, making him stagger.

  Righting himself, he sees her, his mother, sitting small and erect at a table in the left-hand corner of a room that’s furnished with a collection of Formica-topped tables and hard plastic chairs. Except for Harris’s escort, they’re alone. Their eyes lock, and hers are shadowed with pain and consternation that borders on fear. His gut lurches. He drops his glance, hating that she has to see him here like this.

  The guard shoves him again toward the table.

  When he sits opposite her, she bends toward him. “I’ve come every day since I heard from Holly, and every day Jason”—she indicates the deputy, who’s retreated and is leaning now against the wall near the entrance door, with a terse nod—“told me you were sick, not able to talk. The drugs—” Breaking off, she looks away.