Stillwater

by Mary Jo Hazard

  That night there was another fire—at the Baileys’ house. It happened about two in the morning, and their back porch and kitchen were destroyed, but the firemen were able to save the rest of the house. Uncle Tony and Gabriel were the first ones there.

  CHAPTER 17

  After church on Sunday, I walked over to Maggie’s because my bike had a flat tire. She hadn’t said anything about her father lately or come over early in the morning, so I assumed things were better. The streets of Stillwater were quiet—it was another hot day, and not many people were outside. Most people had their shades drawn, but the smell of fried chicken and pot roast drifted out of some of the houses, reminding me that I’d skipped my breakfast to get to Maggie’s faster.

  The fire truck was inside when I walked past the firehouse. The firemen must have washed it earlier that morning and put it away. I stopped for a minute at the park and watched Mr. Thompson pushing his little girl in the swing. She was giggling and shouting “Higher and higher!” just like I used to do when my father pushed me. He’d tell me the swing wouldn’t go any higher or I’d be in heaven. I’d look for angels flying around or sitting on the clouds, but I never saw any.

  I pushed my sadness away and ran the rest of the way. Maggie and Louanne were waiting for me on the sidewalk. Mrs. Miller had set us up with apple juice and cinnamon toast on the cool, shady part of the front porch.

  “Did you go to church?” Louanne asked, fingering the pleats on her new pink sundress. Aunt Michelle had taken her on several shopping sprees to get her mind off of her parents’ divorce, and she was always wearing something new.

  “Yes, and I’m never going to Father Flanagan’s Mass again,” I said. “He’s so boring.” My grandfather called him “Father Giveagain” because his sermons always ended with long pleas for money.

  “He’s like the song that never ends,” I said, shaking my head. “Guess how many times he said ‘thee apawsels’?”

  “Seven?” Maggie said.

  “Nope, fourteen times. I counted.” I finished my toast and took a sip of juice. “And you know Mrs. Earl? She sat in the pew right in front of me.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Maggie said, holding her nose. “I sat next to her two weeks ago. Mrs. Earl thinks soap is a decorator item.”

  Across the street, O’Malley’s door banged shut, and he ran down his porch steps two at a time. He jumped into his car, rolled down the window, and stuck the light on the top. The engine coughed a few times, the siren sounded, and Stillwater’s one and only police car peeled out. We watched it turn left on Hudson Avenue and then nothing—dead silence.

  “Oh no,” Louanne cried, jumping out of her chair. Before we could say anything to her, she was running down the street.

  “Where is she going?” Maggie asked.

  “O’Malley stopped at her house,” I said, getting up. “Hurry.”

  We chased Louanne down the street, and when we rounded the corner, O’Malley’s car was parked in front of the Dodds’. Off in the distance another siren sounded—the ambulance wasn’t far away.

  A small crowd was milling around on the sidewalk in front of the house. Most of the people were still in their church clothes. The front door of the house was open, and somebody inside was shouting.

  “We can’t go in the house,” Maggie said, biting her bottom lip. “It sounds like Uncle Tony’s going crazy.”

  “You can wait on the porch, but I’m going in.”

  “Grace, don’t. You’ll get in trouble.”

  We started up the porch steps but stopped when we saw the ambulance/hearse roaring down the street. It screeched to a stop behind O’Malley’s car. Since it was acting as the ambulance, Mr. Nunnalley was driving it; he used to work at the mill with my father, but after he retired, he became a volunteer for the rescue department. He opened his door, raced around to the back of the ambulance, and helped another man pull the stretcher out.

  “You kids get back,” Mr. Nunnalley said, maneuvering the empty stretcher up the steps. He brushed past me into the house.

  “Grace, wait here,” Maggie said, grabbing my arm.

  More and more people were coming over to watch the excitement. Maggie and I leaned against the porch railing, worried about the shouts coming from inside the house and wondering what was going to happen next.

  Finally we heard Mr. Nunnalley’s voice. “Coming through. Move away.” We stood up as he backed the stretcher out of the front door one step at a time. O’Malley was pushing the back end. The other volunteer squeezed by the stretcher and hurried down the steps to open the ambulance doors.

  “Grace,” Mr. Nunnalley said, shaking his head. “You girls get on outta here. This ain’t a place for kids.”

  “That’s my friend’s uncle,” I said, hoping he understood. “I have to wait for her.”

  Aunt Michelle followed O’Malley out the door and grabbed his shoulder. “O’Malley, be careful on those steps. Hold on to that stretcher—they’re steep.”

  O’Malley stopped for a second and looked at her. “I won’t let anything happen to your brother, Michelle. Don’t worry.”

  A thin white blanket covered Uncle Tony from head to toe—only his head stuck out. Thick brown straps pinned him to the stretcher and kept him from moving anything but his head. His face was sweaty, and his eyes were closed, but he opened them and looked at me when the stretcher stopped.

  “Uncle Tony,” I said, trying to comfort him. “I’m sorry, I wish…”

  He nodded slightly and shut his eyes.

  I reached out to touch him, but Mr. Nunnalley yelled, “Grace! Come on, O’Malley, let’s get this thing moving.”

  I pulled my hand away and flinched as they bounced Uncle Tony down the steps and slid him into the back of the ambulance.

  O’Malley jumped in his car, started it up, and turned on the siren. Mrs. Dodd, Vinnie the butcher, and Louanne walked out on the porch. The patrol car and ambulance turned on their sirens as they pulled away from the curb. The sound lingered long after they were gone.

  “Grace,” Aunt Michelle said, taking me into the house. “Vinnie’s driving Mother and me to Utica to be with Tony. I phoned your grandfather, and he invited Louanne to stay with you until we get back. Will you help her get some things together?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Maggie and I helped Louanne pack some things, she put a leash on Gabriel, and we walked up the street to my house. We made sure the gate was locked and put the dog in the front yard. It was almost like having a dog of my own—although my mother said that was never going to happen on God’s green earth. Denny brought out a bowl of water and some old balls for the dog to chase. My mother was cooking fried chicken, and she invited Maggie to stay for dinner.

  “Chocolate cake too,” she said, smiling at us. “I know that’s your favorite, Louanne.”

  My mother made one of her best dinners ever, but when we sat down at the table, she and Denny were the only ones who enjoyed it. The rest of us just moved the food around on our plates. Denny asked for seconds, but my stomach was queasy, and as soon as Denny finished his last bite, I asked my mother if we could be excused.

  “Are you girls sure you don’t want any more?” My mother said, looking sad. “I know it’s been an awful day, but if you eat a little something, you’ll feel better.”

  “We’re just not hungry, Mrs. Bryant,” Lou said. “Can I have my cake for breakfast?”

  “Sure you can,” my mother said, getting up from the table. “And if you girls do the dishes, I’ll take Denny and Gabriel out for a walk.”

  I washed the glasses and rinsed them in cold water, and Louanne polished them until they sparkled. Maggie washed off the kitchen table and emptied the trash.

  When we were finished, the three of us flopped down on the rug in my bedroom to play Monopoly.

  “Louanne, do you think Uncle Tony could’ve had a breakdown because we found his fire truck?” I asked after we’d been playing for a while. “He didn’t seem that upset in the carriag
e house—he even used his blanket for the kittens.”

  “Don’t forget the fire last night,” Maggie said. “My father said Uncle Tony and Gabriel were there—O’Malley told him.”

  Louanne shook her head. “It wasn’t either one of those things. Aunt Michelle said she was making chicken and waffles for lunch and Uncle Tony lost it. He said waffles were breakfast food and she was deliberately fixing them to make him mad. It didn’t have anything to do with the fire truck or the fire at the Baileys’. She never knows what sets him off.”

  I thought about the note on his bedroom door—“Michelle deliberately irritates me.” Poor Aunt Michelle—she tries to make everyone happy. It must be hard for her.

  Lou said that Aunt Michelle had told him she’d make him anything he wanted, but it was too late—he threw the waffle batter on the floor, then the waffle iron, and finally the syrup. He yelled so loud that Aunt Michelle got scared and called Vinnie the butcher.

  Maggie scratched her head. “Was your aunt wigged out?”

  “Wigged out?” Lou said, raising her eyebrows. “She felt awful.”

  “This is Uncle Tony’s fifth hospitalization this year,” I said. “Remember the list on his door?”

  “I sure do,” Maggie said, looking at her wristwatch. “Hey, what time is it? I forgot to wind my watch again.”

  “Almost eight,” Louanne said, checking the clock on my nightstand. “What time do you have to be home?”

  “Crap!” Maggie said, jumping up. “I have to be home by eight. It’s my father’s night off.”

  “Hurry,” I said. “That’s only five minutes.”

  “Damn,” she said, running out of the room.

  Two hours later, the house was quiet. My mother and brother were sleeping, and Doc was still at his weekly poker game in Saratoga—about ten miles away. Most of his games lasted until midnight, so we had plenty of time to look at my father’s file.

  “I’m going downstairs, Lou,” I said, taking my shoes off so I didn’t make any noise. “Want to wait here or come?”

  “I’ll come, but what for?”

  “I found my father’s funeral file in Doc’s office. There was a lot of stuff in it, but I didn’t have time to check it out then. I have to know how he died, so I hid it.”

  Louanne frowned and put the Monopoly game back in the closet. “I thought it was an accident.”

  “But what kind?” I said, moving toward the door. “Leave your shoes here, because the stairs squeak. I don’t want my mother to wake up.”

  Doc had cleaned the office so well I could even see my reflection on the desk, but he wasn’t a furniture mover. The file was right where I had stashed it.

  “Grace, don’t go through that here,” Louanne said in a worried voice. “Let’s take it upstairs in case your mother wakes up.”

  “She won’t wake up,” I said, spreading everything out on Doc’s desk. “She never does.”

  The first thing I picked up was a dried red rose with a white ribbon tied around the stem. It might have been beautiful once, but now the petals were flat and faded. I held it up to my nose and sniffed, but the scent was gone, and it was turning to dust—just like my father.

  Setting the flower aside, I picked up a sympathy card. “Thinking of you” was inscribed in blue cursive letters on the front, and inside it was a note in handwriting so small I could barely read that said, “Dear Sarah, Things will never be the same without Den, but we’ll always remember his smiling face. Sincerely, Margaret and Bill Walinsky.”

  The Walinskys were right; things weren’t the same. I couldn’t hold my father’s hand, kiss his cheek, or hug him; the list of things that I couldn’t do after he died went round and round in my mind like a song that never ends. I took a deep breath and picked up another card. “I’m so sorry to hear about Denny’s death. I cannot imagine what you’re going through, Ava and Sam Smith.”

  “Can I see them?” Louanne whispered.

  “Sure,” I said, handing them to her. “They’re sad.”

  The next one I opened was from the Jensens—the minister and his wife. It was a pretty card; there was a white dove on the front flying over a green valley, but on the inside under the printed verse, Mrs. Jensen had written, “God needed him.”

  I threw the card in the trash can. Mrs. Jensen didn’t know what she was talking about—we needed him more than God.

  “How could she write that?” I whispered. “How?”

  “Please, bring Daddy back, God. I need him.” I’d beg to God after my father died. I’d kneel beside my bed, fold my hands, and look up at the ceiling, praying that when I woke up, he’d be in the kitchen waiting for me. I thought if I prayed long enough and hard enough, God would work a miracle, but he never did. I grabbed the card from the trash can, ripped it into a million pieces, and stuffed them in my pocket.

  “Grace, what are you doing?” Louanne whispered, looking concerned. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s that Mrs. Jensen,” I said in a low voice. “She wrote ‘God needed him,’ which is ridiculous. God has everything; he doesn’t need my father.” I pushed the rest of the cards over by the rose and picked up the newspaper clippings. I unfolded the yellowed clipping on the top and gasped.

  “Local Man Shoots Himself on Paper Mill Loading Dock”

  My father’s smiling face looked out of the front page right at me. He was wearing his favorite green hunting jacket. His deer rifle was slung over his shoulder, and a dead buck was lying on the ground near his feet.

  “No! No! No!” Something inside me was screaming. “No! No! No!”

  “Grace, what’s wrong? You’re shaking all over. You’re scaring me.”

  “Lou,” I said, handing her the yellowed newspaper clipping. “I can’t read it. You do it. Please.”

  She took it from me, her eyes widened, and she tried to give the clipping back.

  “Please. I can’t read it,” I said, shaking my head. “Please.”

  “‘Dennis Michael Bryant, husband of Sarah, father of two children, Grace Anne and Dennis Jr., died early this morning from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.’” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I can’t…read…any…more.” She handed me back the paper.

  “It’s not true. It’s not true,” I said, feeling this couldn’t be real. “Please don’t let it be true.” I sank down on the floor, numb. Why would he do that? No way. He loved us too much. He wouldn’t kill himself. There’s some mistake.

  I made myself look at my father’s picture again. I gently touched his face with my finger. I moved slowly down his face to his lips and traced his smile; I loved his smile. I kissed my finger and traced his lips again and again and again. “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

  I wanted to scream—to run and never stop—to throw myself on the floor and beat my hands on the rug as hard as I could. “I can’t stand this,” I said, sobbing. “I loved him so much. Why…”

  Louanne wrapped her arms around me and held me while I cried my heart out. Her tears mingled with mine.

  “My mother said he died in an accident. My mother lied—she lied,” I said when I could finally talk again. I pressed my right hand against my heart. “Why?”

  “Maybe she thought you were too little—”

  A key turned in the lock; I held my breath and looked at the doorway.

  “Sarah, are you in my office?” Doc said, walking into the room. He scratched his head. “What are you two…”

  I held up the clipping and looked into his eyes. “Why, Doc? Why didn’t you tell me?” I cried, pleading for an answer.

  Running a hand through his thick white hair, he shook his head and sighed. “I knew this day would come, Grace, but God help me, I prayed every day it wouldn’t.”

  My mother walked into the kitchen looking dazed. She’d pushed her hair behind her ears and was holding her pink bathrobe together with both hands like she was freezing to death. She pulled out the chair next to me, screeching its legs across the linoleum. I’d begged
Doc not to wake her up, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t let Louanne stay with me either. He’d sent her upstairs in case Denny woke up and needed something. Mom’s face was pure white—like a ghost. She reached over to hug me, but I pulled back so she couldn’t. A voice inside me was screaming, “No, No, No,” and then I realized that I was actually screaming. My mother tried again to pull me against her, but again I pushed her away.

  “Don’t hug me. You lied to me. I hate you,” I said through my sobs.

  “Grace.” Mom’s voice sounded shaky. “Take a few deep breaths. Stop. Breathe. Take it slow.”

  I took a deep breath, but my chest was heaving.

  “That’s better. Keep breathing, Grace.”

  I wiped my nose on my sleeve, took another deep breath, and waited for her explanation.

  “You were only eight years old, Grace—the same age as Denny is now—when your father died.”

  “So what? You still should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t tell you. It was hard enough telling you that your father died in an accident.”

  “When were you going to tell me? When?”

  “I should have told you before now,” she said, starting to cry. “It’s just so hard.”

  “How would you like it if you found out accidentally like I did?” I said, flooded with anger.

  My mother shook her head and sighed.

  I faced my grandfather. It was even harder for me to believe that he’d kept the truth from me. “You didn’t tell me either,” I whispered, leaning toward him. “Why didn’t you?”

  “We were protecting you,” he said, taking his glasses off and wiping his eyes. “You had every right to know the truth, but you were too young.”

  “What is the truth? Why did he, how could he…” I started to cry again. I couldn’t talk; I felt like I was drowning. I covered my eyes, laid my head down on the cool Formica tabletop, and sobbed. When I couldn’t cry anymore, I sat back up and looked at Doc.