by R.P. Burnham
The Fatal Shot
Fiona woke to the sounds of someone walking across the living room below. Still half asleep, she was slow to realize she could feel Lowell pressing his body against her in the cool of a Saturday morning in early May. When she did, she panicked at the alien sound. Her heart started thumping and she had to suppress a cry of terror before her mind cleared. She took a deep breath and turned to Lowell, whose eyes were wide-open and whose face broke into a smile. “Hi, chipmunk,” he whispered and then kissed her. “Bill’s been pacing,” he said, still whispering. “He’s still in a bad way.”
On Monday, two days from now, he would have his first appointment with the psychiatrist. Although last month when Becky’s attitude changed he had been glad to think his behavior was attributable to depression, the closer he got to the day of reckoning the more apprehensive he became and the more he was prey to irrational fears. Living in a house filled with reminders of his chaotic past was obviously contributing to his problem, and when Lowell learned of his deteriorating mental condition, he talked him into coming to the cottage. That was last Sunday. Since then he had been mostly quiet and uncommunicative, resisting their attempts to soothe his hurt, but last night they had talked until midnight, with Fiona and Lowell acting as dual therapists.
One of the irrational fears he did articulate was that he was afraid if he was clinically depressed, medication wouldn’t work for him. He had read that some people were impervious to its effects and immediately concluded that he was one of them. Fiona had tried to explain that almost always it was severely afflicted people who resisted the medication, which was not his case, and she pointed out that not one of the residents of Phoenix Landing who suffered from depression was impervious to it. Lowell, always levelheaded and sensible, had pointed out that the depression might very well be normal. He had made a big mistake (Lowell meant the adultery), and it had led to his life becoming a mess. He had separated from his wife, lost his job, and was uncertain about his future—if these weren’t reasons to be depressed, what were? But talking to a psychiatrist and sorting it all out, including the baggage he carried with him from his childhood, was bound to make him see his way clear. This advice, or perhaps more importantly, the reassuring tone in which it was given, made Bill feel better, and they had all gone to bed feeling hopeful. But hearing him pacing when they woke up told them it was only temporary relief they had administered.
In bed they exchanged a glance in which they communicated perfectly: neither was going to give up, and both understood that if they could just get him to the psychiatrist in one piece the rest would take care of itself. “I have a few ideas,” Lowell whispered as he swung his legs to the floor. “He needs to keep busy.” He pulled on his pants to augment the T-shirt he wore to bed while Fiona, also dressed in a T-shirt and her underwear, donned a bathrobe—something she did only because Bill was in the house.
Bill had heard them stirring and had stopped pacing. He was sitting at the table composing his face as they came down the narrow stairs from the loft, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He looked for all the world like a guilty child caught snitching cookies.
Lowell’s greeting, a hearty “Morning, Bill,” was too forced, but that was because he had noticed Bill’s shocking appearance. Overnight he had deteriorated in every way, and that was on top of a week of decline. He sat slumped in his chair, worn down, defeated. He hadn’t showered or shaved for several days. He looked unkempt and seedy, like the street people she saw in Portland most every day.
Seeing their reaction, he tried to rally. “Hi, Lowell. Hi, Fiona. Coffee’s on.” He spoke with a false cheerfulness disheartening to hear.
“I know. I can smell it. How are you doing this morning?” He went over to the counter to pour himself a cup.
“Not so hot. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Lowell, his back to his brother, turned after mixing some milk into his cup. “Same reason?” When Bill didn’t answer, he added, “As I said last night, soon you’ll feel better.”
This time Bill gave a slight nod for an answer.
During the week they had developed a strategy for dealing with his troubled state. There was a time to thrust, a time to parry, and most commonly a time to back off. Fiona’s instincts told her this was one such moment. “I’m fixing a bowl of cereal and a banana. Same for you, Bill?”
“Yeah, thanks, Fiona.”
Lowell raised his eyebrows as she passed him on the way to the kitchen. He took his coffee to the table and, showing he was on the same page as she, started talking casually about the weather and the beautiful day.
She didn’t listen. While she prepared the breakfast she thought about the vulnerability she saw in Bill’s eyes. It was more than not wanting to let them down, though that was part of it. He had stolen no cookies, but the guilt was real enough. It was the guilt of being alive, of being small and in pain and believing he deserved to be in pain. Every time she caught a glimpse of his soul, it brought her back to the roots of her own consciousness of a self living in the world, back to the terrible times she had to endure after the girl whom she had accidentally knocked off the swing took her revenge by calling her a stupid nigger. The days that followed that event, the saddest, most unhappy days of her life, still were never very far from her consciousness. She could summon up the loneliness and isolation crushing her every moment simply by seeing someone else in pain. The girl that was she had only her mother to trust; shy, afraid of being hurt, feeling different, and forced to hide herself away, she thought her life was always going to be this way. Then she discovered another’s pain. One day in the same school yard a group of boys were teasing Gary Lewis, an awkward, homely boy with a huge Adam’s apple that made his long neck look like the snake that swallowed a mouse in a nature film shown in class. She’d heard kids taunting him about that before, but on this day it was his shabby clothes that were the object of the boys’ taunts. He stood humiliated and defenseless surrounded by the thoughtless and ignorant boys. Suddenly she recognized in his eyes the same emotions she felt. He too was different; he was lonely; he was shy; and probably he thought no one else felt as he did. He was blaming himself for his family’s poverty; in some perverse way he was even thinking he deserved their taunts. But he didn’t. She knew he didn’t. She saw that he was a victim of injustice and cruelty, and in bringing the lesson home she saw she too was the innocent victim of injustice. The insight opened doors for her into a future of hope and promise. And she had been right. Even though her life at the time remained pretty much the same, she had grown into a future of self-sufficiency and fulfilled love. But when she saw that wounded and lonely vulnerability in others’ eyes, she did not forget that not everyone saw an open door. They were the ones who lived on earth as strangers. They were the street people and drug addicts, the criminals and the suicides, while those who saw connections and had doors opened might become the poets and prophets if they connected to humanity and did not forget the isolation. Or if not that (for she was no prophet, no poet), they had a chance to become something almost as rare: a good person. Bill was a good person, but he did not believe it. She felt he was a brother, not just because he was the brother of the one she loved, but a brother in solidarity and humanity. As much as Lowell did, as urgently, she wanted to save him. She thought she saw what was at risk even more than Lowell did. He loved Bill so wholeheartedly that he could not contemplate failure.
When she brought the cereal to the table they were talking about the Red Sox. Lowell had become a Cub fan during his years in Chicago, but now back in New England his apostasy had come to an end and he was following his boyhood team again. He actually got Bill out of himself for a while discussing Red Sox pitching, but it took an effort just as eating his cereal was clearly a matter of will, not desire. They both could see he had no real appetite and was eating only not to cause concern.
With his coffee finished, Lowell rose to put some bread in the toaster. While he waited he watched two fishermen going by in a b
oat close to shore. “Look at the fishermen,” he said. “I thought I’d see them right after ice-out, but these are the first two I’ve seen.”
The two men were young, in their early twenties. One, with blond hair under his cap, was standing and casting; the other, a darker man, was trolling and controlling the small motor from the aft seat of the boat. The motor was essentially noiseless as it propelled the boat slowly through the water. Bill, after a noticeable pause during which he searched for something to say, asked, “Was there much ice fishing last winter?”
“Quite a bit. One time we had to help a guy who got his boot wet when he saw the red flag go up. He ran to the hole so quickly he slipped and one foot went into the water. We dried his boot and gave him a new pair of socks.” He had returned to the table as he was speaking and now started buttering his toast. He smiled at Fiona. “I’d say that was the big event of our quiet winter, wouldn’t you?”
“Except for being snowbound. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, and the storm that blew down all those trees. That was big doings.”
“I like it here in the evening,” Bill said, responding to their light banter. “It’s so peaceful, so quiet.”
While Lowell chewed at his toast, she could see his mind working. He was searching for a way to awaken the old Bill whose presence was momentarily in the room. He drained his orange juice. “Hey, Bill. You used to fish when you were a kid. I take it you haven’t lately.”
“Not since I got married. Not that Becky had anything to do with it. It was just a matter of time.”
“I was thinking of getting a boat this year. Maybe just a canoe because I’m reluctant to add to the noise on the lake.”
“You could get one of those little putt-putts like the fishermen had. They don’t make much more noise than a kitten.”
Fiona saw Lowell’s face lighting up at Bill’s response. It was the most interest he’d shown in anything the entire week. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Johnny and Trevor would love boat rides too. And maybe combine the ideas—get a canoe, but a big one with a straight back that can be both paddled or have one of those little motors. So what do you think? Do a little fishing this summer?”
But once again Bill’s internal devils seized him and he answered flatly, “Yeah, maybe that would be fun.” Then, realizing he was causing pain, he apologized. “Sorry, I’m just too down. A minute ago I forgot myself, but…”
“You’ll have many more minutes like that, hours, days, weeks,” Lowell said, speaking with conviction. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “That doctor is going to make everything better. And then you won’t have to forget to feel good. Life will be good, just like it used to be.”
Bill managed a weak smile. “Sometimes when I think of Becky and the boys it seems like a dream. If I’d only remembered that when…”
He stopped before self-pity lowered him to pathos. Several times Fiona had seen him trying to avoid going in that direction. But the temptation towards it must mean that he found relief in self-pity, and that couldn’t be good.
He turned from where he was sitting and looked out the window, studying the light of the sky on the smooth lake. “But ‘if only’ doesn’t mean diddly. It’s my own damn fault, the mess I’m in. I have no one to blame but myself.”
Lowell turned to him. “Like I said last night, you made a mistake. It led to consequences. But it can be undone. Becky loves you.”
“I don’t know why. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her love.”
Lowell frowned. “Of course you do. You’ve made something of yourself. You haven’t lost it. It’s just misplaced. Fiona and I have noticed that everyone on the softball team likes you. Why? Because you’re likable. You are a good guy, a good man. You think of others, even of insects—”
“But I didn’t think of Becky when I betrayed her with that woman.”
“That was the mistake. Fiona says that woman could seduce a saint.”
“That’s true, Bill,” she said, for the first time feeling she wasn’t intruding upon the brothers. “She knows every trick in the book. If anything, we should have warned you about her. I should have warned you. She’s my cousin and I knew how she was.”
“But I made the choice. I made it and have to live with the consequences.” He was clinging to the only thing that gave him dignity in his own eyes—accepting responsibility. She respected him for that but wished he would relent and find the middle ground between self-pity and self-blame. It would be like wiping the slate clean and starting over. His dignity was making him unable to move.
Lowell saw it too and tried to move him past the sticking point. “You’ve done that, Bill. You’ve paid the price. All I’m trying to say is that you’re going uphill now, but soon things will be easier. I know they will. As sure as I know Fiona and I love one another, you and Becky will be a pair again. And you’ll be a good father to the boys. They’ll grow to manhood through you. You’ve suffered a lot of pain, but pain makes you wiser. It deepens us. Johnny and Trevor will be complete, whole human beings. They’ll have substance. Not like those shallow rich kids I knew at the University of Chicago. You’ll be the reason.”
Just as he had last night, he was speaking with conviction and in a soothing tone that seemed to calm Bill. He ended in what in inflection sounded like a peroration. Bill whispered or mumbled something she could not hear, but it seemed to satisfy Lowell. He nodded and then began clearing the table. Bill took his and Fiona’s cereal bowls to the sink, where they began washing the dishes.
Fiona went into the bathroom for a shower. When she emerged the brothers were outside. Up in the loft she dressed carefully. They were attending the orientation meeting for Habitat for Humanity in Portland in the afternoon where Lowell was going to greet and assess the crew that would help him build the house. It was a casual affair, but being nervous at the prospect of meeting new people, she chose jeans for their casualness and to make sure she made a good impression, one of her better silk blouses. Looking into the mirror, she had second thoughts about its appropriateness and debated changing to a T-shirt before deciding that it would do. Then she spent some time drying and brushing her hair. When in high school she discovered black history and began proudly identifying with the heroic civil rights movement, she used to wish that she had kinky hair that would allow her to have an Afro, but now she was pleased that her soft and wavy hair was easily manageable.
Downstairs she heated water for her tea. While she waited for it to boil she went out to the deck to discover the brothers were working on the dock. It was the last remaining structure from the days of Judge Edgecomb and was in need of much work. They were replacing eight or ten boards and all the hardware. She did not offer to help, however, since she had work of her own to do. A state inspection of Phoenix Landing was occurring next week, and she had to get all her resident profiles, progress reports and work sheets updated and in order. Usually she did these tasks at work, but Anne Marie was very disruptive and stubborn on Friday, and she had had no chance to do her paperwork. She typed the data and made her corrections on the new Macintosh Powerbook Lowell had gotten her for her birthday last month. In the middle of the morning the brothers came in for a break. She had already surmised that the renovations on the dock was what Lowell was referring to when he whispered to her in the morning that Bill needed to be kept busy. As they drank apple juice and ate a granola bar, she learned Lowell had other plans as well. While Fiona was working at Phoenix Landing tomorrow, they planned to put the dock into the lake in the morning and in the afternoon go shopping for a boat or canoe. Lowell’s plans seemed to be effective, for Bill appeared to be in good spirits.
After the dock was finished, she found out why when Bill casually let drop that they planned to ask Johnny to come with them when they shopped for the boat. She wondered if at least part of his deterioration today was because he wasn’t seeing Johnny as usual. His son was attending a birthday party. She had spoken with Becky in the middle of the week.
Becky had called her at work to ask about Bill. During the conversation she had said that he was showing a lack of confidence as a father. He used to insist upon his rights to see Johnny and Trevor, but after his drunk-driving arrest he became erratic, sometimes manic, sometimes quiet and moody. He knew his behavior confused Johnny, which made him even more tense and which Johnny also sensed. They discussed various ways to get around this problem, but as always could only settle their hopes on the psychiatrist.
While Lowell was showering and she and Bill made tuna salad sandwiches for lunch, she broached the subject. She asked him if Johnny could swim, if he had ever gone fishing, and if he had ever been in a boat before, and when he said no to all three questions, she said, “It will be wonderful to see him experience these things for the first time.”
“Yes, it will.” His eyes went far away, but this time he was not looking into the dark places: his eyes shined.
“You love Johnny very much, don’t you?”
He nodded, then a stricken look passed over his face. “I don’t want to let him down. That’s what I keep worrying about.”
“That’s not possible,” Fiona said softly. She reached over and touched his arm. “He loves you very much too. That I know for a fact.”
But she had made a tactical error and she knew it. The shine left his eyes and in its place she saw a dullness, like a spiritual cataract. As always he tried to hide it. He turned away and began looking out the window. There were no boats to see, no people, only earth and water and sky. But he was not looking at them either.
She had no chance to undo her mistake. Lowell finished showering, lunch was quickly eaten, and they departed for Portland so that they could arrive in plenty of time to be at the one o’clock meeting. They repeated the invitation for Bill to join them, but again he declined. Last night he had refused by saying that not being part of the organization he would be out of place at the meeting; today he had a new and better excuse: he said he was tired after sleeping little last night and from the work he did in the morning. He would rather watch the Red Sox game on television and maybe take a nap.
His presence was, nevertheless, with them in the car. His troubles and ways to help him comprised a large part of their thoughts and conversation lately. They both agreed that this morning he was in the worst condition they had seen. She thought the symptoms he displayed were strong evidence that he was clinically depressed; Lowell was not willing to give up on his theory that it was natural depression; and both agreed his symptoms were the result of intensified worrying because he regarded his appointment on Monday as a day of reckoning. All in all, then, they were merely repeating themselves. But Lowell did add a new piece of evidence. He said that while they were working Bill was in good spirits. For him that was proof he was going to be all right. And then he added another comment. “I love you all the more for letting him stay with us.”
“I think of him as a brother,” she said.
They drove on, past farms, cool, shaded wooded areas, and the houses from the suburban invasion for a while before Fiona broke the silence. “I hope we’re doing him some good. It was very distressing to see the way he looked this morning.”
“So you’re glad he’s with us?”
“Yes, very glad. I only miss one thing.”
He looked at her, then went back to the road. “I miss making love to you too. It’s only a few more days.”
She remembered thinking of Bill as a street person, the only difference being that he had a family to love and support him whereas the lost souls of the street almost never did. He was worth the sacrifice. “I’m not complaining. It’s our duty to help him as much as we can.”
“Besides,” Lowell said after thinking for a moment, “it’s good he’s there for another reason. I’ve felt uneasy ever since we had that run-in with Murray and French last month.”
She felt a stab of panic. “You mean you think they’d come to the cottage just like they came to your mother’s house?”
He stopped for a red light. They were approaching the city now. “I doubt it. I don’t think they even know where we live. I just meant I feel better knowing Bill is there as an insurance policy. We should get timers too so that lights go on if we’re out to a movie or something some night. Bill won’t be there much longer.”
When the light changed a car taking a left shot in front of them. Not seeing him at first, Lowell had accelerated and then had to slam on the brakes. The shock made her panic, which subsided into a tense nervousness. Ever since those Nazis interrupted their rose planting she had been possessed with an irrational feeling of foreboding. Bill’s troubles deflected her attention but had not allowed her to forget. Perhaps Bill even made her fears more intense since they were a constant reminder that things were not right. Her panic upon waking this morning was one result. But she had real fears as well. That these two men had not driven by accidentally meant that they were targeting Lowell and her. Another symptom of her foreboding was the return of her shyness and discomfort at the prospect of meeting new people. She had talked to Lowell about her nervousness in public, though not about her dreading the Habitat for Humanity meeting. She knew her fears were irrational since the kind of people who would volunteer for such an organization were not likely to be racists, and she knew no one would ever say anything regardless of their personal opinion; but with the ugly word “mongrelization” bouncing constantly in her head, she feared seeing in someone’s eyes the look that killeth. Thus as they drove through the streets of Portland she grew quiet and answered Lowell’s remarks with a brief yes or no. He seemed to understand, for after he parked the car he put his hand on her knee and told her he knew she was nervous but that she should remember her shyness was an appealing quality that made people like her.
Of course her were fears were groundless. She met many wonderful people at the gathering, including a black carpenter from Philadelphia who was genial and friendly. His name was Amos MacDuff. He had retired early because of some unspecified syndrome, but twice a year, in the winter in the south and in the summer in the north, he and his wife spent two months building houses—though he said with a chuckle, his wife’s contribution was to have dinner ready for him at the end of the day. She’d been married to a carpenter for thirty-five years and still didn’t know the difference between a hammer and a sawhorse. He also told Fiona about the civil rights movement in Philadelphia in the 1960’s where his parents had organized a renters’ strike against slum landlords and he, a boy, helped by handing out leaflets and picketing. Fiona felt comfortable enough with him to tell him how the civil rights movement had inspired her with pride when she was in high school. She spent a long time with Amos since Lowell was busy learning the levels of skill of the people who would be working on his project. She felt that she had made a friend.
The meeting went to 4:30, after which a conversation continued on the sidewalk outside the door with a group comprised mostly of the foremen for the project. While Lowell discussed plans, Fiona talked with the wife of one of the company representatives. They had chatted earlier, and the woman had found out Fiona worked at Phoenix Landing. She had a niece, her sister’s daughter, who, she thought, might be a candidate for the halfway house. She described the girl as sweet and loving until her junior year in high school when she started doing drugs, become estranged from her parents, had an abortion, and dropped out of high school. Shortly after she was diagnosed as a manic-depressive, she ran away from home in Fryeburg, Maine and came to the streets of Portland where the girl’s mother and this woman had searched for her several times. A few weeks ago they had finally discovered her panhandling on Monument Square. They had talked to her and given her money, but she refused to come home with them, even though both of them saw something in her eyes that wanted the safety that home provided. She wanted to know if this girl, now a young woman, would benefit from the programs at Phoenix Landing. To Fiona this story was a familiar one; many of the residents had nearly identical experiences. She told the woman t
hat entering the program voluntarily was the best guarantee of success. Maybe this girl was not ready yet, but there seemed to be grounds for hope. Her answer seemed to please the woman, who gave her a hug when Lowell came over to collect her for their walk to the Old Port section of town where they planned to have a beer at Gritty McDuff’s and then go to dinner.
He was feeling elated. He was never happier than when he had a project, and after the cottage was finished he had many days when he would look for things to do. Now his plate was full and he was happy. While they walked toward the waterfront and then at the bar, he talked about the people, sharing with her his assessment of all of them and the procedures he would use to make building the house efficient. All the volunteers had provided a self-description of their skills and knowledge level when they submitted their applications, and Lowell and an official from Habitat for Humanity had probed deeper this afternoon. Most of the volunteers claimed at least rudimentary skills in carpentry and painting. There were two electricians and a roofer from the company donating the shingles who would oversee their installation, and the driveway tarring and vinyl siding were similarly to be constructed with donated material and people from the companies to oversee the work. The project was weakest in plumbing, with only one retired plumber with professional knowledge; he was going to have to train a couple of the volunteers to be helpers. Lowell had already decided he would do all the finish carpentry, window and door installation, and the final mudding of the wallboard. He was very pleased with the enthusiasm of the volunteers and considered them all eminently teachable. Fiona asked about Amos and was pleased to learn Lowell had decided to make him his right-hand man. Amos was a pro and knew everything about the art of building, he said, and he had an easy way with people that would make the work go smoothly. In fact, he too would be entrusted with much of the finish work. Learning this, she found herself weaving scenarios in her head wherein Amos and his wife would come to dinner at the cottage and they would talk deep into the night about life. She was as excited as he was.
At dinner in a new Thai restaurant in town where she ordered Pad Thai and he got a chicken red curry, the talk about the project continued. The only other subject discussed was the food. Fiona was very pleased with the Pad Thai, but Lowell had trouble with his meal. The green beans were so lightly stir-fried they squeaked as he chewed them and caused shivers to run up and down his backbone. Fiona, after laughing, suggested the only remedy was to avoid eating such a dangerous vegetable.
She was aware—and was sure Lowell was too—that Bill had not been mentioned for over five hours. It was enough that he was there lodged in the back of their minds, loved and cared for; nor did she forget the Nazi poison they had to endure, which came to consciousness whenever someone would look at them peculiarly for a moment before turning away. But they had a life to live and a right to live it; when they were happy each to the other was world enough and time.
In that happy and positive frame of mind they drove to Waska for Meg and Tara’s party, arriving at 7:30, a fashionably half hour late as Tara observed in greeting them. The party was an annual event to plan the softball season. It was always held in May, sometimes like this year in the earlier part of the month, sometimes nearer to Memorial Day. The determining factor was their landlady Mrs. Fournier’s annual tea party, also always scheduled for May, where she and her lady friends discussed roses and other gardening delights. This year she had invited her friends to come on the weekend before Memorial Day. A running joke among all those privileged to know both Mrs. Fournier and Meg and Tara was the contrast in the parties. One had much libation and loud rock music, the other tea and perhaps a string quartet by Schubert. While in her capacity as their landlady she always asked that they keep the noise to a minimum, in her capacity as their quasi mother she was indulgent. Often she would even make an appearance at the affair, drink one beer and chat for a while.
Tara greeted them wearing an old-fashioned man’s hat with a wide brim and a small red feather in its band. She wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt that showed a softball pitcher winding up with more arms than Shiva to indicate the ferocious speed being generated. Below her were the words HIT THIS ONE, BABY! It was a Christmas present from Meg. She was already in party mode, with her glove hand clutching a beer.
“Hey, you guys, it’s almost a year since you met. Think of it, Fifi. Because of softball you met your honey.”
Lowell grinned. “We’ll always regard you as our fairy godmother, Tara.”
“Yeah, that’s what everybody says. But don’t expect any cash if you lose a tooth.” She ushered them into the apartment, but before closing the door she peered down the stairs. “So where’s Bill? Did he bail out because he knew Marilyn was coming?”
Lowell exchanged a glance with Fiona. Even with Tara and Meg they didn’t want to share too much information about Bill’s state. “Well, maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s just that he isn’t up for a party now.”
“That’s too bad. I bet I could cheer him up.”
“I bet you could.”
“And how about you guys?” Meg asked. “I mean about those Nazi creeps. Are you feeling better about it?”
“Oh, no,” Fiona said. “I’m still bothered plenty. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I would and I am. I wish something could be done.”
Tara, as always, had an opinion. “If you ask me, I think some of those cops are Nazis. Why else would they do nothing? There’s supposed to be civil rights laws to keep yahoos from bothering people. And, hey! Wasn’t Bill going to see some of the cops he knew and ask them to look into the matter?”
Fiona began feeling uncomfortable. Her fears, never very far away, became conscious.
Lowell, lightly touching her back, comforted her. “Bill didn’t get a chance to do anything. I don’t think it would have made any difference anyways.”
Meg too noticed her discomfort. Her response was to change the subject. “Fifi, what do you think of the absurd hat Tara is wearing?”
“It certainly is something else,” Fiona volunteered. She turned to Tara. “Where’d you get it?”
But Meg answered for her. “Oh, we were helping Mrs. Fournier clean out her attic. It had belonged to her husband. Only when she put it in the junk pile did Tara claim it.”
“Correction,” Tara said, “I liked it from the moment I saw it, but I thought Mrs. Fournier wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. When it was available, I took it. It was like rescuing a stray cat.”
“Cat! You’re allergic to cats.”
“And you’re allergic to this hat. Admit it!”
“It’s not dignified, Tara.”
“When did I ever worry about my dignity?”
“Not tonight, that’s for sure,” Meg said. “But come on, you guys. Come meet the new members of the team.”
They walked through the kitchen to the living room where the other guests were sitting. With the hostile and purposeful absence of Phoebe Waite, Helen Sapienza, and Adele Sartory, and with a couple other members of the team regretfully absent, it was a small group. Tara’s brother Ted and his wife Charlene were there, as well as Bette Curier and the new members of the team whom Tara had recruited from recent C.A. teams. Marilyn was not present but expected momentarily. They were already talking about softball. Tara had signed them up for three tournaments this summer, and they were discussing the level of competition. One of the new recruits, Hester Johannson, a tall and powerful blond Nordic goddess of a woman, was a third baseman. That being her position, Fiona gracefully offered to play the outfield and cede third base to the newcomer, but Hester refused. She said that when she played at Courtney Academy Coach Seaver always complimented her by saying she was the second-best third baseman to play for the team. Fiona Sparrow was the best. As Fiona felt herself blushing and a wide grin spread across her face, the rest of them clapped and hooted loudly.
She had never heard that the coach thought so highly of her. When she played for her, she would be heavy on critic
isms meant to make her a better player and very miserly with her praise. The unexpected compliment put her in a good mood for a party. She relaxed and listened to some of Tara’s tales, enjoying not the stories themselves—for she had been present at the scene of most of them and had heard Tara repeat them dozens of times—but the laughter of the three new members of the team. One of Tara’s tales was about the time she hid Meg’s clothes when she was in the shower after practice. She had dressed a dummy used to demonstrate CPR in health class with Meg’s things and placed it on a bench outside the gym, which is where Meg, dressed in a ragtag potpourri of an old sweatshirt, her uniform pants and a pair of rubber flip-flop sandals for the shower, found it after a lengthy search and many accusations hurled at Tara. As always in telling the story, Tara imitated the limp mannequin slumped on a bench with a blank face and claimed nobody could tell which was the real Meg and which the dummy.
They were all laughing at Tara when Marilyn showed up with her new boyfriend, a muscle-bound, tall, dark man with matching black eyes and hair. His name was Tony, and he was pretty full of himself. Fiona saw him stealing admiring glances at himself in the full-length mirror above the bookcase, and as he was introduced to people he acted like a rock star mixing with the hoi polloi.
Marilyn, wearing skintight slacks and a revealing, low-cut sweater that displayed her cleavage, had waved at her and Lowell as others in front of them were being introduced to her new beau. Then she got sidetracked talking to Meg about something for a long time before she finally brought Tony over to be introduced. By this time Lowell was engrossed in a conversation with Ted Wright about building houses, so she was alone.
When Marilyn introduced her, saying she was a cousin and old friend from childhood and the softball team, he nodded casually and looked at her for the merest fraction of a second, then rudely stared across the room at Hester Johannson. “Marilyn, who’s the tall blond. She looks like she’s in great shape.”
He was so patently rude that it had to be purposeful. She felt hurt, followed by a new emotional response to this common event of her life: anger. She was, in fact, seething with anger. Lowell was still talking to Ted and hadn’t noticed Tony’s boorish racism. She was on her own. Unpracticed in put-downs and rejoinders, however, she could think of nothing to say.
Marilyn identified the tall blond as one of the new recruits and then turned to Fiona. She too had noticed the affront and tried to make up for it. “I hear you and Lowell were snowbound during that February blizzard. Did you have food and stuff? Were you okay?”
“Yeah, it was fun actually. We had planned for an emergency and had all kinds of stuff—more than we needed actually.”
“And you had each other. That must have made the love nest cozy.” She leered when she said this.
Fiona made no answer, but just then Ted went to get another beer. Marilyn took the opportunity to introduce Lowell to Tony. He nodded curtly to Tony, indicating that he had seen the rudeness and was paying it back with interest. Very soon they found an excuse to drift off as Marilyn followed Tony over to Hester where they began talking loudly about physical conditioning.
In the meantime she and Lowell found themselves talking to the third woman Tara had recruited. Unlike the other two, she was not a C.A. graduate. She was from Bedford and had met Tara when she got her oil changed at Tara’s place of employment. She also had not played high school softball; instead she had spent four years in the Midwest where she went to college and there had played on a women’s fast pitch softball team in the night league in Des Moines.
Marilyn and Tony continued talking to the Nordic goddess. Then as if by some unseen signal people starting circulating. The conversations were mostly about softball, but other topics came up. One of them became the occasion for Fiona to get some vicarious revenge on Tony. All the put-downs and comebacks she was too shy to say were not beyond Tara’s ken. When she heard Tony railing against the price of gasoline, she whispered to Fiona, “Socially Unacceptable Vehicle—SUV, that’s what he drives. Let me jump him through a few hoops.” She turned and asked in a loud voice that caught everyone’s attention on their side of the room, “Hey, Tony, what do you think causes the price of gas to go up?”
“Think? I know what it is. It’s greedy, slimy A-rabs.”
Tara’s face brightened. She was going to enjoy this conversation. “Oh, really? How’s that?”
“They pump the oil because we showed ’em how to do it. Now they’ve got us over a barrel.”
“Well, it’s their oil, isn’t it? Can’t they charge what they want? If we don’t like it, we don’t have to buy it.”
He shook his head. “That ain’t the way it works. There’s a better solution. If you ask me, we should invade them A-rab countries and take their oil. They’ve cheated us long enough. We give ’em all kinds of help and what do we get in return? Terrorists. I’ve had it up to here with those towel heads. They need a dose of their own medicine.”
Tara’s eyes widened as she was about to deliver a rejoinder, but she was interrupted by Meg. “Tara, where’s the Beatles’ greatest hits CD? We have a request.”
“It’s probably there on the shelf somewhere. I was just listening to it the other day.”
“Of course you couldn’t put it back.”
“I forgot. Will never happen again.” She turned back to Tony. “What about Nigeria, Venezuela, and Canada?”
“What about ’em?”
“They sell us oil too. And at the same price. You going to let them off the hook?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I know you’re pulling my chain, but hell, no. Canada’s all right, but the others need to be whipped into shape too. They all have to learn not to mess with America.”
“Hmm, I see,” Tara said with exaggerated thoughtfulness. She put her thumb on her chin and tapped her nose with her index finger in such a way that Fiona had all she could do not to giggle out loud. “I suppose your vehicle gets about the same mileage as a tank? That two-story SUV out in front of the house is yours, I presume.”
“Yeah, it’s mine.” He glared at her belligerently, folding his arms and raising his chin into the air like Mussolini as if daring her to challenge his right to drive whatever he wanted.
“And you see no relationship between the car you drive and the price of gas?”
“What I drive is nobody’s business, especially some A-rab’s. It’s none of your business either.”
Tara shrugged. “You sure have an interesting foreign policy. Maybe later we can discuss your ideas on domestic policy. I’m sure you’ll have some valuable thoughts on that too.” She turned. Not having found the CD, Meg was calling her again. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll find it.”
Fiona had watched Marilyn as much as Tony and Tara throughout this exchange. If she was embarrassed at his buffoonery, she was hiding it. She actually seemed to think he was holding his own. All she said after Tara crossed the room was, “That Tara’s such a tease.”
“I know she was pulling my chain” was Tony’s final comment before heading off to the bathroom.
Marilyn watched his back, not fondly but lustfully. It was his buns she was eyeing.
Embarrassed, Fiona asked about him. He was a professional body builder at the gym in Portland where she worked out, she said, and a real stallion in bed. She went on extolling his virtues, though Fiona was thankful she spared her the details.
When he returned from relieving Marilyn’s treasure, Fiona made an attempt to engage him in conversation. “Marilyn tells me you’re a bodybuilder.” She paused and licked her lips, but her mouth would generate no moisture. The unease she felt in the presence of potentially hostile strangers, made worse by his demonstrative rudeness and the hint of racism, caused her tongue to feel glued inside her mouth as she filtered her words through a dozen worries. Does he notice my uneven teeth? Am I saying something stupid? Does he hate blacks? She was also afraid Marilyn would embarrass her by referring to the love nest or by mentioning Bill. Somehow sh
e managed to add, “So you met at the gym?”
But his self-absorption was too complete for him to notice any of her imperfections. That would imply that he thought about other people. She had asked him about his favorite topic, and on that he was glad to speak. He made no secret of the fact that sparks flew when he and Marilyn first met, and Marilyn interrupted to add that they still were. He went on to say that many people thought he should compete in muscle shows, but, he said, he didn’t develop his body for judges but for the ladies. As long as Marilyn appreciated his efforts, that was enough.
Tara returned with a plastic bag in one hand, causing him to frown and suddenly clam up. An awkward moment passed before Marilyn asked if Phoebe was going to play softball this summer. “I’m assuming that she’s not here is a good sign. If she plays, I don’t, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” Tara said. “Neither she nor Helen and probably not Adele either are planning to be on the team.”
“No loss,” Marilyn sniffed. “With the new recruits we’ll have a stronger team.” She turned to Fiona. “You’ll play, right, Fifi?”
“If I can. But I’ll be helping Lowell a lot of weekends building a house for Habitat for Humanity. I can definitely make night games, though.”
Marilyn’s eyes narrowed. “You’d rather bang nails than hit a softball?”
She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Well?”
“Well, I want to do both, but if there’s a conflict I want to be with Lowell, so I might miss a few games. We’ll see.”
Tony was decidedly cool to Tara. He had turned his back when she came over to them. Now Marilyn took his arm and they drifted away. Tara raised her eyebrows, and looking at the bag she was carrying, said, “Gotta empty this.” She went out the door and down the stairs. Fiona watched Tony and Marilyn. She thought his lack of a sense of humor and his inability to laugh at himself were very bad signs. Who could like such a man for himself? She was sure he was a racist. When he was near she sensed some of the same invisible hostility she could feel in the presence of Murray and French. It meant Marilyn and he didn’t have a human relationship. Only sex was left. For the first time in her life she felt sorry for her cousin. She had always seemed so controlled, so in command of her destiny, that she made Fiona feel inadequate. Now in love with Lowell, she saw how hollow Marilyn was. She could be destructive, she could satisfy her lust and selfishness, but she could not be creative; she could not make the world sing.
Lowell, who came up to her and put his hand lightly on the small of her back, could tell she was thinking of Marilyn. He glanced at her and Tony. The latter was looking bored as he listened to Bette Curier talking about one of the championship games. “That man is a cretin. What does Marilyn see in him?”
“That’s what I was wondering. Do you know what I think? She doesn’t relate to people. Everything is sex. She was just using Bill.”
“I think he would agree. In fact, he told me something like that.”
“That she was using him?”
“That it was only sex. He said he was stupid to think it was anything more. But you’re unfair to Marilyn in one way. I can name two people I think she genuinely likes.”
Fiona glanced at her cousin. She was making a gesture as if swinging a bat and saying something about a fast ball right over the plate. “Who are?”
“You and Tara. She likes you both. I can tell.”
She nodded at the justice of the observation. “You’re right. And I can’t really dislike her either. She has been supportive. Tony’s different, though. He’s a racist.”
“I would guess that’s just one of dozens of things wrong with that guy.”
Tara came back up the stairs. “What’s with you two standing apart and not partying? How many beers have you had?”
Lowell smiled. “I’m ashamed to admit it to a champ like you, Tara, but we’ve only had one.”
“Well, have another. There’s plenty of beer and plenty of time. It’s not even ten o’clock yet. The party’s just starting.”
Fiona exchanged a glance with Lowell. She tilted her head slightly. “We were up late last night and have had a long day. Actually I think we’ll be getting home.”
“Oh.” Her face showed her disappointment. “Can’t you stay another half hour?”
Lowell shook his head. “Too bushed.”
They said their good-byes as briefly as politeness allowed. Marilyn said she would give Fiona a call. Tara suggested they have a beer when they got home. Meg told them to ignore such a ridiculous suggestion.
After the late night yesterday and the activities of the day, both were sleepy on the drive back home. They talked a bit about the surprising revelation of her coach’s high opinion of her, but many miles went by in silence, and they arrived home with only the thought of their heads sinking into their pillows. The cottage was dark, which meant that Bill was already in bed. That was good. A repeat of last night’s therapy session would be out of the question.
Arm in arm they walked down the path, partially illuminated by the quarter moon and the Milky Way. “Except for Bill, this has been a great day, and such a beautiful night to end it.” Lowell spoke in a hushed voice, as if paying reverence to the mystery of the universe. She pressed his back in response. The stars in the clear sky shined brilliantly. She sensed the double awareness of peacefulness and perplexity, but her mind did not dwell on them. Closer, here on the earth, was another mystery—a reddish glow in the window of their cottage that moved in a darting, furtive way. Lowell, concentrating on where they were walking, did not notice. At first assuming it was the reflection in the window of a passing boat’s running lights, she was slow to realize she didn’t hear the roar of an engine. She looked around for another possible source for the strange light, but again her mind jumped when she noticed their door was partially opened.
“Bill’s left the door open,” she said. “That’s strange.”
Lowell swung it open and they stepped inside. He reached over and switched the light on, and then she gasped. She saw a military man dressed in fatigues. It didn’t make sense that the army—but the thought remained incomplete when she recognized the man in fatigues and the other one. So it was happening. They were here. Still it wouldn’t compute, and she had no words. Darren French, with a dark scowl on his scarred face, stared at them. Behind him Rett Murray looked ashen, as if sick to his stomach.
Her fear, beginning as a tingling in her lower back, radiated upwards, making her head feel light and her mouth dry. Then her stomach became heavy and her legs willowy. She began trembling and was afraid she was going to faint, though even this was not a clear thought because she could not think. She wanted to run but could not. Her breath was coming in gasps.
Lowell was speaking, and she struggled to clear her head and attend to what was happening. Instinctively she drew closer to him for safety, standing slightly behind him. Her hand clutched the back of his jacket.
Now Lowell’s sounds cohered into words. “What are you doing in our house?” She followed his eyes. Over the fireplace was written NO MONGRALIZATION IN AMERICA. She noticed the misspelled word.
“We walked in—the door wasn’t locked.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“Your brother is stinking drunk. You’ll find him sleeping over there.” He pointed with his thumb towards the breezeway.
“If that’s true, I’m sure he didn’t invite you in.” Lowell’s voice dripped with angry sarcasm. It scared her because it could make French angry in return. A vision of the fight in front of the rosebushes flitted through her mind.
“You’re trespassing. Even if the door was open, you have no right to come in. And this”—he pointed to a crowbar beside the door he had just noticed—“means you were planning to break in. I see you’ve already done a lot of damage. I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t do it, Edgecomb. We came here to teach a nigger lover a lesson in how to be a white man.”
“I do
n’t need any lessons from cretins like you. Just get the hell out of here.”
When he took his mobile phone from his jacket, French simultaneously reached into the inner pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out a gun, causing her to gasp out loud. Again she sent the command to her legs to run and again they would not obey. Instead she flinched and would have lost her balance if her hand hadn’t been holding Lowell’s jacket. She felt him flinch too, but he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. She could feel—or was it hear?—his heart thumping.
“Put the phone down!” French shouted. “And don’t make any sudden moves.” When Lowell started to lean down to place the phone on the floor, French screamed hysterically, causing his spittle to spray the air. “Just drop it! Now!”
The phone clattered on the hard floor, jangling her already shattered nerves. Then amazingly Lowell, despite his fear, despite his racing heart, was able to speak calmly. In a soft, soothing voice he said, “This is not necessary. Don’t let things get out of hand.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” French sneered. “Everything is under control as long as you do what you’re told.”
Lowell shrugged. “I see what you’ve done. You’ve done a prank. Let’s keep it at that.”
For the first time she could remember, Murray spoke. “Yeah, he’s right, Darren. Put the gun away. Let’s just leave.”
French turned and glared at his partner, but before he could speak Bill’s voice came from the breezeway. “Lowell? Fiona? Is that you?”
“Jesus,” French muttered. “Hey, you, come out here where I can see you.” He backed up against the fireplace, looking towards the kitchen and then back at her and Lowell. He was very nervous. His eyes went crazy.
“Who’s that?” Bill asked.
“Bill, you better come out here. We’ve got a situation here. Don’t be surprised.”
There was a stirring and a little crash as something was knocked over, and then Bill appeared in the kitchen. He looked sleepy and unsteady on his feet. He frowned when he saw French and Murray, then blinked. “What the hell are you doing here?” Fiona was quite sure he hadn’t see the gun.
Still calm and in control of his voice, Lowell said, “We have a bit of trouble. Some uninvited guests.”
In contrast, French was almost hysterical. His eyes were demon eyes. Beads of sweat checkered his forehead. He waved the gun. “Don’t stand there stupidly. Get your ass over to where they are.” He pointed with the gun.
“Yes sir, Mr. Man. Whatever you say.” He slurred his words and showed he was in fact drunk by the unsteady way he moved across the living room past French and Murray. When he stumbled against the desk, he said, “I smell piss. Jesus, did I?” He looked down at his pants.
When he got to them he started whispering an explanation. “I’m sorry, Lowell. I drank some whiskey this afternoon. I meant to have just one drink to help me sleep, but I didn’t stop. I’m sorry, really sorry.”
“Hey, what are you whispering? Cut it out,” French said.
Bill stared at French, forcing him to drop his eyes. “I was just apologizing to my brother for drinking his whiskey.”
“Once a drunken bum always one. Were you drunk when you sucker punched me last month?”
Bill’s eyes were clearing, but he still wasn’t thinking straight. “No, I wasn’t. You want to go at it again, put the gun down. I’m ready.”
She felt a flash of anger. It was the booze in Bill speaking, and he was only making a very dangerous situation more dangerous. Now with two men recklessly out of control, what was needed was a calm approach. Too afraid to speak herself—it might egg French on to do something rash—she looked to Lowell to speak softly as he had done earlier.
But French had passed the point where he could be reasoned with. He was in control of himself now, but in a scary way. Something cold and inhuman possessed him, and drunk with its irrational power, he waved the gun. “Two against one—you like those odds, don’t you. Forget it.”
Murray still looked ashen. “Come on, Darren. Put the gun away. Let’s just leave.”
“Shut up. I’’ll decide when we leave, not you.” Then he grinned and pointed the gun at her. “One way of stopping these mongrels from taking over is to kill a mongrel. What do you think, Murray? She’s already polluted with the blood of her nigger father. We should put her out of her misery.”
“No, don’t even think it. Don’t joke about it. This is not politics. Don’t be stupid.”
“The mongrels are the stupid ones. They weaken the breed.”
“You’re totally wrong,” Lowell said, his voice not calm but rather betraying his desperate urgency. “She graduated from college with high honors. Why don’t you just leave. Trash the place if you want. I don’t care.”
“You don’t care.” He repeated Lowell’s words with a sneer. “You don’t make the conditions, nigger lover. I do.”
From the moment Fiona saw the gun, she understood that the physical fear that had been paralyzing her was because she was afraid French was capable of what he had just threatened to do. She had feared this danger and lived with it for a long time, yet she had always dismissed it as irrational. Now that it was real, she was possessed by the horrible feeling that she had fallen into her destiny. She was so nervous she wanted to cry. All her life she had fought against the feeling of being a helpless victim of circumstances, and here she was with her life endangered just for coming home early. She was more helpless than she had ever been in her whole life. It was intolerable. This man hated her because she was black, and nothing she could do would make him change his mind. Instinctively she understood that to survive she had to be calm. A sudden move might cause him to pull the trigger. Any sign of weakness to his bullying and sadistic torture might also fuel his madness. She had to find the strength to control herself. Lowell had done it; she could too. Before tonight what was hateful about feeling like a helpless victim was that when she thought of her blackness as exteriorly imposed upon her, it alienated her from her own identity. It made the schizophrenia that Lucille Durham and Du Bois spoke of real. And now it was real.
“Should I shoot me a nigress?” the fiend asked. He looked insanely out of control. He didn’t see her. He saw her blackness. His eyes not human eyes. They were what made her think of destiny—a cold, impersonal thing, unstoppable, indifferent. But quite suddenly she discovered the calm place inside she was searching for. She knew it might be a psychological defense, but it calmed her and she concentrated on strengthening it.
I am black, she thought. I am a black person. Not the skin, not the thick lips. Me. Black, black, black.
She looked at Lowell. He was staring at French angrily, hiding his fear. His fists clenched and unclenched. How lucky she was to love him, but the thought caused a chill of horror and her panic tried to surge up. It might be the last time she could think of him. The man was capable of murder. She had seen it in his eyes.
Lowell had not returned her gaze; his mind was working, even as his eyes remained fixed on the gun and the trigger finger. Then with a gesture and a guttural sound, he deflected French’s attention.
French turned. When his eyes moved, so did the gun. It pointed at Lowell’s head.
“Maybe a nigger lover would be a better target.”
Lowell shook his head. “You’d just get into trouble. I’m not worth it.”
Then once again Murray tried to stop him. “Darren, put the gun away. It’s too dangerous. Let’s just leave.” Then he looked at Fiona and said, “I didn’t know he had a gun.”
His confession infuriated French. “Rett,” he snarled, “shut your goddamned little trap, or I’ll point this dangerous thing at you.”
Murray’s face reddened. “You crazy bastard. You planned this, didn’t you?”
“When you’re on a mission, you’ve got to plan for every possibility.”
“But this is a political mission. A gun is not necessary.”
French laughed a dry, ho
arse laugh. “You really are a fool, Murray. But you’re a bigger fool if you think your sniveling can stop me.”
Then everybody knew. Bill and Lowell exchanged a glance wherein they seemed to understand each other, but she had no time to ponder its significance. Her eyes went to the gun. She saw French’s finger start to squeeze the trigger, and she let out a scream. Everything became a confusion of action without words. She found her legs and turned, whether to duck or to run was unclear to her. Lowell lunged towards French and Bill jumped in front of her. The loud report of the gun stunned her ears even as Murray screamed “No! Don’t!” and she fell to the floor. From there she looked up to see French with a look of horror on his face and paralyzed with uncertainty. Murray was next to him grabbing the arm with the gun. Someone groaned in agony. Everyone’s breathing came in gasps, louder, it seemed, than the gun’s noise. She started to get up to run, only to stop when Murray, his eyes wide with terror and his mouth a gaping hole, ran by her through the door, followed a few seconds later by French. It seemed a long time before she realized what had happened and that she had not been shot. The bullet meant for her had been stopped by Bill’s body when he jumped in front of her.
“Call 911. Bill’s been shot!” Lowell screamed as he dropped to his knees beside his brother. She could see the blood spurting from his chest as she in panic looked for the phone. It was several feet away on the floor. She picked it up and turned it on, hoping that it worked—for in her panic she wasn’t sure where she’d left her phone last night or even if it was charged. But the LED light went on. After waiting in agony for the welcome to come up, she dialed the three digits. Upcountry the system was new, and it took four rings before a woman sleepily answered.
She tried to speak calmly but knew her voice was hysterical. She was trembling so that the phone shook in her hand. She told the woman a person had been shot in their home and that an ambulance was needed immediately. She identified the victim, but did not explain how he came to be shot. Right now that wasn’t the important issue. She gave the directions, even emphasizing that the sign for their place had a pine tree painted on it. She spelled out the name Edgecomb to make sure it was perfectly clear. She ended, saying, “Hurry. Please hurry. He is in critical condition.”
Lowell had elevated Bill, resting his head in his lap while he held him in his arms. With his right hand he was trying to stop the flow of blood from his chest wound. Bill was still conscious. His eyes were open and he appeared to understand Lowell’s attempts to comfort him. Seeing that Bill’s blood had already soaked through Lowell’s pants, she ran to get a towel to be pressed against the wound. “They’ll be here in five minutes,” she said as she handed Lowell the towel and tried to help him get it arranged. She ripped Bill’s shirt open so that he could put the towel against the wound, which was either in his lung or lower windpipe. Thick blood oozed from his mouth. Then with nothing more to do, she stood.
Lowell’s attention was totally on his brother. He would not take his eyes from Bill’s face as he tried to comfort him. “You’re going to be okay, Bill. Just hang on. The ambulance is coming.”
Bill frowned and tried to shake his head, only moving it an inch at most. Already he was weak; probably he was in shock. But the message was unmistakable, even though Lowell refused to acknowledge it. Lovingly he stroked Bill’s cheek.
A look of urgent desperation possessed Bill’s eyes. His lips seemed to form the letter B.
“You want Becky to know you love her?”
His eyes widened: yes. Then they narrowed again, and he tried to work his tongue in his mouth thick with his life’s blood.
He started gagging, which panicked Lowell. The blood he was losing was making the white towel a deep, dark red. “Easy, easy,” he said, but he understood what Bill was trying to say. “You love Johnny and Trevor. I know, Bill.”
His eyes started to roll and his breath was even more labored. He gasped for air.
“Hang on, Bill. I hear the ambulance,” he lied. Again he gently stroked his brother’s cheek. “Bill, please. I love you. Ever since ever you’ve been the most important person in my life.”
The tears in his eyes were the evidence that Bill heard him. He tried to speak again but couldn’t. He gasped for air and started gagging. He seemed frustrated at not being able to speak, but he wasn’t suffering. He was beyond pain.
“Becky? You want to say you’re sorry. She knows that, Bill. She loves you. She always has. You’ve got to hang on for her sake and the boys’.” Then after another piercing look from Bill, in a different, more resigned tone, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.”
“Should I go up to the road?” Fiona asked through her tears. “Every second counts. What if they don’t see the sign?”
He looked at her, frowning impatiently at the interruption, then without answering gazed down at Bill’s face.
She heard it too. Bill was making one final effort to speak, and being unable, he attempted to rise. When he couldn’t do that simple thing either, his eyes widened as he stared intently at his brother; then with a gurgling sound his head slumped against his chest and he went still. She had heard the term “death rattle” before and knew that was the sound he made.
Lowell knew it too. With his eyes wild with despair, he looked up at her. “I don’t think he’s breathing,” he said intonating the statement into a question.
“He’s lost too much blood,” she said. “I think…” She drew her hand across her tear-drenched eyes, as sad from the devastation she could read on Lowell’s face as much as for the sweet and tortured soul who had departed. She wanted to hug Lowell but knew he was not ready to let go of Bill. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. Far away she heard the sound of the useless ambulance.
Out the window the dark form of the mountain loomed across the lake. Above it the stars twinkled brightly. She knew Bill had died for her, but she couldn’t comprehend its finality. Only now did she understand one thing clearly: the significance of the look of horror in French’s eyes after he pulled the trigger. What he had done was only real to him after he did it. All his posturing and sadistic toying with them had been nothing but adolescent idiocy as he tried to prove he was in command. Bill died because of that stupidity, and it should have been her. She thought the guilt she was already starting to feel was going to overwhelm her, and she asked herself, thinking of the angry impatience with which Lowell had responded to her question, would he ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself?
If he didn’t, life would be poison. The thought was unbearable. More than anything in the world she wanted to feel his arms around her to comfort him and be comforted.
“Poor Bill,” she sobbed. “It seems so unfair.”
Lowell, lovingly stroking Bill’s cheek, looked up at her. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long time.
“He was a good man,” he said quietly.
“The best. He had a kind heart. He was a very good man. That’s what I always thought every time I would think of him.”
“It hurts most to think he was not happy these past months. He suffered a lot.”
“But the old Bill was always there. This morning when you were talking about fishing, I saw him. He was here. At that moment he was happy.”
Lowell considered for a moment.
“He was sharing a small dream with his brother,” she went on. “He was happy then. And remember he always thought of others. He—” But her voice broke and she began weeping uncontrollably. The last thing he ever did was to think of others. She was sure he did it for her and Lowell. He sacrificed himself so that they could be one and be whole. But that meant he knew he wasn’t whole.
“Why did he do it?” she wailed. “Poor Bill, poor Bill.” With a sudden motion she dropped to her knees and kissed the dead face finally at peace. “You know I loved him like a brother, don’t you, Lowell? You know that?”
He nodded, and with his free arm—for he was still trying to staunch the flow of blood from t
he wound even when it was unnecessary—he reached out and drew her to him. Together they kneeled on the floor, three in one.
That is how the police and medics found them.
