by R.P. Burnham
It Doth Repent Me
A year after Bill’s murder Lowell and Fiona were married before a small gathering of family and friends. Lowell’s Uncle Bob and Aunt Sarah came from Chicago, Fiona’s cousin Tammy from Florida, and from Portland Marilyn, Lucille Durham and her two children. The remaining guests were from Waska: Tara and Meg, Becky and the boys, the two mothers of the wedding couple, Fiona’s Aunt Donna, and Cliff and Nadine Dalton. The only stranger was one John Brownawell, a divorced man who had been dating Fiona’s mother for the past several months. A Friday night had been chosen to avoid the usual trappings of a wedding. The Rev. John Covington married them at the Congregational Church, though both the presiding official and the venue were negotiated compromises. Lowell and Fiona had wanted a justice of the peace but deferred to the wishes of their mothers, both of whom had never been married and seemed to want a church wedding.
It was a somber ceremony as much as it was joyous. The one thing that brought a smile to everyone’s face was the ritual of jumping the broom, which was done to pay homage to Fiona’s black blood and to the centuries of oppression that black people had suffered in America. But little else elicited smiles. For one thing, Pat, who had taken Bill’s death very hard, was in poor health. All her spontaneous vivacity had deserted her, and within four months of her younger son’s death she had to be hospitalized for a heart condition. She had aged markedly during this time and looked twenty years older. And then there were the witnesses. They had asked Uncle Bob to stand with them, but every time Lowell looked at his uncle he remembered whom he had always thought would be standing with him on his wedding day. Fiona, who in the ordinary course of events would have had one of her two cousins with her as her nearest female relatives, instead asked Lucille Durham. If she had asked Marilyn, too many unpleasant associations would arise; if she couldn’t ask Marilyn, it would be awkward to have Tammy as witness. But she too, like Lowell, had only to glance at Lucille to feel haunted by the ghost of the beloved departed. There was also the unpleasant and awkward necessity of keeping Marilyn and Becky apart, rather difficult to do when the guests only filled the first aisle of the church. Fortunately nothing untoward happened, but most of the people at the ceremony were aware of the history behind these two different woman and were never quite comfortable. Still, the wedding was a triumph over the tragedy that had befallen them last year. It was the end of a long road littered with guilt, misunderstandings and struggles to redeem and be redeemed. For a long time things were not normal between Fiona and Lowell. On more than one occasion Fiona thought they would have to part. On more than one occasion Lowell felt unfit to be her loving companion.
The activities following the murder were a blur. On the night itself their cottage was a crime scene, and they didn’t get to bed until past two o’clock. The following days entailed interviews at the sherif’s department and with the FBI (since the crime was a civil rights issue), painful, tear-wrenching meetings with Pat and Becky, making funeral arrangements and meeting people at visiting hours. One small consolation was the response of the whole town—strangers and casual acquaintances as well as friends— to Bill’s tragic and senseless death. Old colleagues of Pat’s in the waitressing game who remembered him as a bright-eyed boy tagging along with his mother on nights a baby-sitter was unavailable, neighbors who recalled him finding their lost cat, classmates who remembered his friendliness in school, old girlfriends who once thought he was the cutest boy in the world and who upon hearing of his death were filled with a stinging, poignant nostalgia for the lost times, the coach of the baseball team who always admired his sportsmanship and decency when playing the game, the hardware-store man who trusted him with errands, the now elderly lady who remembered he was the only boy who didn’t run away when a baseball broke her window—these and scores of others all remembered Bill as a decent and good man and thought enough of him to pay their respects at the visiting hours. Many others said a word or two of comfort on the street or phoned their condolences, and of course Pat received many, many sympathy cards.
During the five days leading up to the funeral they stayed in Waska, sleeping at Pat’s house. After the funeral and the solacing words of Rev. Covington, they returned to the cottage, and the terrible repercussions of the murder started to have their effect. For weeks Fiona was so traumatized she would jump at the slightest noise. The sound of a car door slamming induced extreme anxiety where she would visualize someone coming to kill them. With time and—reluctantly—medication, she eventually got over this extreme reaction.
But with Lowell time seemed to make things worse. He was gripped by the kind of natural depression that he had tried to convince himself Bill had suffered. He often brooded the whole day and would be either in a black mood or in a state of lethargic indifference when Fiona came home from Phoenix Landing. They both knew that he needed to get back into the world, but an unfortunate problem with the building suppliers had delayed the Habitat for Humanity project for a month, so while Fiona had her work he was forced to stay home and look for things to do. He repaired the damage done by the Nazi invaders, sanding and refinishing the tables they had gouged and repainting where French had put his stupid slogan. The desk that French had urinated in was discarded and a new one purchased. He spent several days replacing documents destroyed and dealing with bankers and lawyers to set up trust funds for Johnny and Trevor’s college educations. After these tasks, however, the days consisted of long and barren periods of brooding followed by a desperate search for something to do—anything, a walk or a trip to the store or repairing an imagined loose deck board, removing brush from the wooded area—and then more brooding. He hated himself for his moral lethargy and hated himself for resenting Fiona’s gathering recovery and most of all hated himself for hating the world that could make him feel this way.
One lonely-sad day while he sat moping on the stairs to the deck trying to find a way to live with the knowledge that Bill was dead forever, he espied a fairly large ant carrying a dead ant of the same size and appearing to be of the same species down the steps. Curious and in need of distraction, he watched it from his seat and then began following it on foot. It went from the stairs towards the lake some thirty feet away via a circuitous path, following, Lowell believed, the scent trail laid down either by itself or by its comrades. Several times when the scent was lost it would make a circle of about a six-inch radius until it picked it up again. Many, many times it would stop to readjust the weight of its dead cargo, which weighed as much as it did. He had seen ants carrying many times their own weight so that he was sure balance and not the burden of his cargo necessitated these readjustments. The scent trail it followed was very precise and entailed going up and down blades of grass, across dead leaves at some points and under them at others, over rocks both small and large here, around them there. Once or twice the trail went perpendicular to the shore for some distance, but mostly the shore seemed to be the direction it was heading. About halfway to the shore, a distance which Lowell figured to be in ant measurement the equivalent of a mile, it had to fight another ant. When they first met their feelers raked over each other’s head as if they were mates communicating information, but quickly he was disabused of this notion. They fought, sometimes rising on their back legs, other times rolling on the ground in a sort of wrestling hold. The first bout lasted about a minute, during which time his ant dropped its cargo to concentrate on its opponent. It emerged victorious, and after picking up the dead ant it continued on its way, only to be waylaid again by its rival twice more. After the third fight the rival gave up. Near the shore now, Lowell saw some mounds which he assumed were the ant’s home, but it passed them, going right down to the bank. About ten minutes had passed at this point, surely, Lowell thought, a long time in ant measurement. Now right at the edge of the embankment, it appeared the ant started to go down, but just then waves generated by a passing speedboat lapped the shore. One particularly large wave struck the ant and sent it flying so far away that Lowell lost t
rack of it. He studied the shore and water for several minutes, his eyes searching for the tiniest movement that would tell him his ant had come through, but neither it nor its cargo were found.
His pulse quickened. His mouth went dry. Tears stung his eyes. The feel of not to feel it. The pain ever new, ever present. Needing to think, he sat down on the ground and clasped his hands under his knees. It wasn’t that he felt like an ant or that he could see his brother’s fate in the happenstantial ending of a cluttered journey or that he also felt the ant had a right to his life. It was that he witnessed it and could do nothing.
All his life he had never been a religious man. He understood and could respect the need for religion. He could see it sprang from the deepest part of our humanity, the consciousness of our mortality. Was God more than a name we gave to that impulse beyond time? Or did he really watch, whether sadly with brimming eyes or grimly with indifference? Or did he have a white beard and like a grandfather love us from afar? Whatever it was, he, it or noneness always did nothing. He felt lost, confused, angry, a leaf in the wind, a witness to his own inertia, and he could see no way to free himself from this dilemma. And that is how he remained for the rest of the day.
Fiona came home that night with some exciting news. Murray and French had been arrested in Wyoming on their way to some Nazi stronghold in Idaho. Their being in custody made her feel safer, she said, obviously expecting Lowell to share her feelings. But he, remembering the ant and the unanswered questions, only said that it wouldn’t bring Bill back.
As the weeks passed and summer came into full bloom, Fiona thought about his deadened response to the news of the arrest of the Nazis frequently. She was beginning to see that her most serious problem was Lowell’s mental state. She herself was by no means free from the after-effects of the trauma—at unexpected moments she could think of what Bill had done and feel guilty, occasionally she was abnormally nervous, and sometimes her sleep was disturbed with nightmares about French and Murray—but she felt herself growing stronger with time and knew that it was going to be up to her to hold them together. Her plan, when she finally formulated it, was a simple one. She would ask advice from the wisest woman she knew, Lucille Durham.
She arranged to meet Lucille on lunch break. They had met frequently for lunch during the past year, but this was the first time they had met since the murder. They bought sandwiches at a deli and ate them on a bench near Monument Square. Fiona spent a long time talking about the murder, about Lowell’s depression and about all the sympathy that had poured in for poor Bill. Lucille didn’t say much, probably thinking that Fiona wanted most of all to unburden herself. But she wanted more. “He saved my life. He jumped in front of me. I’ve thought about that a lot. Why did he do it? Was it because he felt his life was already ruined and he did it for his brother? There’s an amazing bond between those two brothers—or there was. But I can’t explain why he did it.”
Lucille chewed at her sandwich. She was wearing a long flowing summer dress of light blue and leather sandals. Numerous gold bracelets circled both wrists and a necklace with what looked like an African gazelle adorned her neck. Large gold rings hung from both ears. She reminded Fiona again of an African princess. Taking a sip of apple juice, Lucille said, “It was an instinct, I’m sure. People are capable of the most heroic sacrifices, but when they come they aren’t planned. Like the proverbial soldier who falls on a grenade to save his buddies, you know. I don’t think you can ever have an answer.”
“I know one thing. If I hadn’t met Lowell and fallen in love, Bill would be alive. In that way it’s my fault. I don’t understand why he did it, but I know it should have been me.”
But Lucille would have none of that. “You don’t really mean to say you’re sorry to have fallen in love, do you? Of course you’re sorry it happened. I’m sorry too. It’s a terrible thing to die a senseless death because of some bigot. But let me tell you what my grandmother used to say about being sorry. She said being sorry doesn’t pay the butcher’s bills.”
Fiona was taken aback at this unexpected response. She looked at Lucille, her eyes questioning. Silently they asked: “But what can I do?”
“Who’s to blame for that young man’s death? Those racist Nazis and their hate. You spoke of loving your young man as the cause. Well, if it wasn’t for racism it wouldn’t have happened either. And see the difference: you loved, they hated. You know our people have been persecuted for centuries. They’ve been branded and chained, they’ve been maimed as slaves and murdered and lynched for wanting to be free. You can’t change the horrible death of that fine young man, but you can work for justice and enlightenment. Justice is a continuing struggle. It’s not solved in a day or a year. It took centuries to get where we are today. It might take another century to make people see how hollow hate and racism are. But your duty is clear. You must be brave. You have to be brave. It’s not just your life you’re living. You’re living for every oppressed person in the world. We have a right to happiness as much as everyone else, but because of our special circumstances, we have a duty. You do see that, don’t you?”
“That I have a duty? Yes. But that I have to be brave?”
She nodded and the light caught her gold earrings and flashed brilliantly. “And fight for justice too. Yes, you have to be brave because you’re fighting for justice. That’s the only thing that will redeem Bill’s sacrifice. Lowell has got to realize that too. He already knows what a mean, paltry thing prejudice is. It violates any decent person’s sense of fairness. It judges by appearances, not the humanity of a person. It’s ignoble. But if he just broods and despairs, he lets the hate and the ignorance win. I think he already knows that. Your job is to remind him of what he knows.”
She was very nervous when she returned home that night. She meant to follow Lucille’s advice but was uncertain how to begin. After an awkward supper and a cleanup, Bill retired to the couch, not reading or watching television, only staring blankly in front of him. She spent time in the kitchen making a shopping list and knowing she was being a coward. Just as she was working her courage up to talk with Lowell, her cell phone rang. It was Becky. She was thinking of bringing a wrongful death suit against Len Carter and the Nazi Party and wanted Fiona to ask Lowell what he thought about the idea. She felt it was the only way to get rid of the anger, the frustration and the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed her every day. Fiona, not certain revenge would help, listened sympathetically and told her she would get back to her.
“Who was that?” Lowell asked. “Becky?”
Fiona got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the couch. “Yes, she’s feeling awful and was looking for ways to punish the Nazi Party.”
Lowell sniffed. “She feels awful, does she? I like that. If it wasn’t for her Bill would be alive today.”
She sat in the chair facing him. “Lowell,” she said in a low voice and barely daring to look at him, “I don’t think that’s fair. If she has one fault it’s that she’s a mother first. She thought she was protecting Johnny and Trevor.”
This was the old disagreement between them; before they had always recognized each other’s position and given each other space. This time Lowell wasn’t willing to do that. He glared at her. “I don’t know why you defend that rigid, self-righteous and cold-hearted bitch. Sure, Bill did a horrible thing, but he was sorry and he tried to make amends. But nothing he could do would please her. And you know she drove him away.”
“But she always loved him. You’re just seeing Bill’s point of view. You have to realize how deeply hurt she was. She felt betrayed. It was so unexpected. She didn’t know if she could trust him.”
“Well, she could have. And then everything would have been different. She drove him away because she was heartless.” He ended by shouting at her, something he had never done before.
Her head snapped back in shock as if she had been slapped. Wisely she refrained from shouting back; instead she let silent time go by while she tried to calm h
erself and indirectly him. Then, speaking very softly, she enumerated what she saw as the many other factors that led to the tragedy.
If they had accepted Tara’s offer to have another beer, the two Nazis would have been gone by the time they got home. If Murray hadn’t angered French and made him want to prove he was a big man, the shooting probably wouldn’t have occurred. If Marilyn hadn’t seduced Bill, if the pair hadn’t seen them planting the roses and if the fight hadn’t happened, things would have been different. She reminded him that Tara felt guilty for baiting French last year and probably contributing to fueling his hatred. These were only some of the obvious links, she said; probably there were other factors and circumstances and other people feeling guilty for things they had done. It simply wasn’t fair to blame Becky for her sad, human response to feeling betrayed.
Lowell listened to her in silence, though she could see she had reached his sense of fairness. He still, however, would not yield on Becky. “Okay,” he said, “Okay, okay. You’re right. But the thing that plunged Bill into depression and made his last days on earth a hell was her rigidity. It’s still unforgivable.”
“You know what I think? We’re ignoring the most obvious reason”—she stopped when he looked at her with widening shocked eyes. Hovering in the air between them was the ultimate cause of Bill’s death: if a white man had not fallen in love with a half-white black woman, Bill would be alive today. But she did not mean that. Again she paused to calm herself by taking two or three deep breaths. “I mean it was hate. All the other ifs don’t matter if those two weren’t infected with racist hatred.”
Lowell nodded grimly. “Of course,” he said, “I’ve thought about that hate a lot. But why they hate I’m not at all sure.”
She stood and leaned against the new desk. “Why they hated, or why people hate?”
“Both. But it is a good question why people hate.”
“I’m not sure. I do think people as individuals are basically good. But why people grow hardened and don’t care about others, can let them live in horrible poverty and injustice and not care and even kill them, I don’t know. I remember on the softball team we never had any trouble until cliques developed. And no one ever lynched a black man alone. It’s always a mob. So people do evil more easily when they have help.”
Lowell leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He grimaced at some passing thought that was unpleasant. “All those right-wingers I met at Chicago were filled with themselves and were contemptuous of poor people. But racist hatred is more. It’s some kind of disease of the ego. Somehow self-regard gets distorted to group identity. And did you ever notice it’s always people of low self-esteem, society’s losers, who are the racists? French and Murray fit that to a T.”
“Yes, they do. I think in a just society where everyone is cherished hate would disappear. When no one is exploited and used, then thrown away, hate will disappear. I was talking with Lucille today at lunch, and she said something like that.”
“What did she say?”
“That we had to work for justice. That would be the only way to redeem Bill’s death.”
“I take it she didn’t mean criminal justice. I don’t want revenge. I don’t care what happens to French and Murray as long as they’re put away.”
“No, she meant a just society.”
‘Yeah, I know. I want that too, but… I mean, what I really want is the one thing I can’t have. I want Bill back.”
He looked up at her with his face ashen and his lips trembling. She didn’t hesitate. Instantly she was beside him on the couch and took him in her arms and held him while he cried his soul out. “He was such a good man. He was kind. He cared for everyone, all living creatures, even little ants. And those that couldn’t love, who could only hate, they killed him.”
Lucille was right of course. The knowledge to free himself from grief was in him already. That he could discuss hate and evil as an abstract topic was another good sign, and in fact from that day forward he started slowly to get better. He still had bad times, especially on any occasion that was strongly associated with Bill. His birthday was one such day; the first time they played softball was another. The game was preceded and followed by several days where he felt the sadness possess him like a clinging, crawling vine. Other times for no clear reason a dull despair would seize him and not let go; nightmares of being little and helpless would disturb his sleep. But he discovered, as does every generation, that time, which can wear away mountains, can also soften and wear away grief. And the way is the same old way: busying the mind with distractions opens life again into the sunny day. For him the housing project was the call to life. In early July the building supplies were finally ready and work began. Remembering Lucille’s advice, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the project, in his mind dedicating it to Bill’s memory. The month delay had led to several changes in personnel. Five or six people had to drop out due to previous commitments, and replacements had to be found quickly. These changes made Lowell’s job more difficult in that he had to assess and train the newcomers along with his other duties. For the first two weeks he was putting in ten hour or longer days, so that by the time he arrived home each night he was completely exhausted. It was just what he needed.
He and Fiona drove to Portland together even on the long days, for neither of them wanted her to be alone at the cottage. Towards the end of each workday he would assess the work remaining and call her to arrange to meet for dinner at a restaurant. When, with Amos MacDuff’s help, they got past the inevitable inefficiency and confusion of beginning a large project and his hours became more regular, he and Fiona got back to last summer’s routine wherein the first thing they would do when they got back home on hot and humid July and August nights was to take a swim, followed by a beer and a leisurely dinner. Fiona volunteered on Saturdays where she met Amos’s wife Millie, and before long the happy thought she had upon first meeting Amos came to pass. The carpenter and his wife who didn’t know the difference between a sawhorse and a hammer came to the cottage for a Sunday afternoon of relaxation followed by a lobster dinner.
Amos was short and stocky with powerful arms and the thighs of a fullback. He was very black, bald and round-faced with deeply etched smile lines that reflected his genial personality. When he laughed in a deep, neighing chortle, his whole face crinkled into a benign and jovial black Santa Claus. Millie, in contrast, was quiet and very neat, with copper-colored skin and wearing rimless spectacles that gave her an air of seriousness. Her graying hair was brushed back into an old-fashioned bun. Unlike the rest of them, who were dressed informally, she wore a white blouse and a prim long skirt with hose, even though they had been told swimming was available. She looked like what she in fact was: a retired librarian.
While Lowell gave Amos a tour of the cottage, pointing out the various structural problems he encountered and how he solved them, the two women sat on lawn chairs on the deck and chatted. Millie was very religious and deeply involved in her church, having a hand in arranging fund-raising bake sales, teaching Sunday school, singing in the choir and helping the minister with clerical work. Fiona, listening attentively and politely to Millie’s description of her churchly duties, was apparently too convincing and giving a false reading of her interest, for she was taken aback by a sudden question.
“How about you, dear. Are you a good Christian?”
The simple answer was no—she wasn’t a Christian at all. She’d gone to church as a child because her mother, though not religious, believed Christian instruction was good for children, but nothing specifically Christian ever took root in her. In high school when she made her mostly independent study of black history she admired how the black church served to unify and lead her people, but when she read graphic descriptions of how Southern whites used lynching as a way to terrorize blacks into acceptance of subservience, for the first time she began questioning how God could be an ethical and good being and allow such horror. Later she concluded the only answer was that the G
od to whom people gave credit for a sick child being cured or for a drought ending—but not for blacks being lynched or for the Holocaust—was either a very evil and whimsical fellow, a limited being, or more likely nonexistent. But she was at a loss how to explain these views of Christianity to her new friend.
She started to stutter an inconclusive response when she was rescued by Amos returning from the tour of the cottage with Lowell. “Millie,” he said, “you know it’s impolite to ask people about their religion. Remember the time you asked Mohammed Jabar if he was a good Christian?”
“I didn’t know his name,” Millie said with a sheepish grin that showed she could laugh at herself. “It wasn’t as idiotic as that scoffer implies.”
“You mean you’re not religious?” Fiona asked.
Amos scratched at an unruly tuft of hair, then smoothed it down. “I try to be a good man and do no harm. I figure that the man upstairs takes that into account.”
“So do I, and so does Lowell.”
He grinned. “Let’s hope it’s enough, but in the meantime we have Millie outnumbered.”
“Things happen that make you wonder,” Lowell said, suddenly serious.
They all knew what he was referring to. Amos and Fiona exchanged a glance. She had told him of Lowell’s depression.
Amos regarded Lowell for a moment before he spoke. “Like your brother. I know. It’s happened to me, and I wondered.”
“To you?” Lowell asked. “You mean you’ve lost a brother?”
Amos, a little taken aback by his vehemence, tried to lessen Lowell’s expectations. “Well, I suppose it depends on the definition. Now we live in a nice neighborhood of Philly, mixed you know, both white folks and black. But in the ghetto where I grew up folks were killed all the time—brothers in drive-by shootings, drug murders, stuff like that. And the cops kill all the time, including years ago when they bombed a whole neighborhood to get a radical group. But I’m talking about a man who was like a brother to me, a brother with a capital B. So, yeah, I know how you feel.”
He sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My best friend when I was a kid, he was like a brother to me. In fact, when we were sixteen his mother got into trouble—I won’t say what—and had to give him up. My mother took him in, and we shared my bedroom. Then during a race riot he was coming home from work minding his own business—this was some eight or nine years later—when the cops shot him in cold blood. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, you see, and he paid the price.”
“My God, what did you do?” Fiona asked.
Amos shrugged, a world-weary gesture that spoke volumes about how it feels to be a black man in America. “There was a trial, but of course the cops got off. Tragic mistake, the judge said. But no one ever said they were sorry.”
“What an awful thing,” Fiona said. She felt angry and worried about Lowell at the same time. It looked as if he was retreating inside and was going to have another bad night.
“It gets worse. He had just got married and had a one-year-old son. Me and Millie had just been married too, but we took him under our wing even as we raised our three daughters. I’m proud to say he’s got my old carpentry business now, and he’s a community activist. He’s even running for the city council next election.”
Millie was beaming proudly. “Yes, we’re very proud of that boy. And he’s a good Christian.” She gave Amos a sharp look.
“Now, woman, I made him a carpenter. You and his mother made him a Christian. They’re related, you’ll recall.”
“Jesus was a carpenter who built a church.”
“And I’m a carpenter who built homes for folks to live in. It’s good work too.”
He looked at Fiona for confirmation. She smiled and nodded, still watching Lowell. “But how did you take the verdict, Amos? Weren’t you angry?”
“Oh, yes. I was for a while, but I reckon the Mrs. here had something to do with me getting over it.”
Lowell was quiet as this exchange was going on. While he listened he was reliving again Bill’s murder. He and Bill had exchanged a glance in which he thought they understood each other. If French started to fire the gun they were to separate to make difficult targets. Then when Fiona panicked and ran, Bill did the unbelievable thing and sacrificed himself. Later when Bill lay dying he had almost asked Fiona why she ran. He knew that question could only be taken in one way: she would know he was blaming her. But he knew in life there was such a thing as death’s shadow, things so categorical that they cannot be taken back, cannot be undone, cannot be redeemed. He recognized instantly that such an unfair question would have poisoned their love and had instantly censored himself, but for a long time afterwards he was so troubled to have even had the thought that he avoided confronting it.
Fiona, watching him carefully, knew something was happening. He looked better now; the shocked, stricken expression that reminded her of his face when he held the dying Bill was replaced by a more controlled introspection. And when he spoke, she knew her instincts were correct.
“It’s wonderful what you did for that young man…What’s his name?”
“Troy Gardner.”
“Troy Gardner. Well, you did the right thing. I’m trying to help my brother’s sons in the same way. I want them to know their father was special. Sometimes I think the worst thing is to die unknown and unloved and forgotten, just a number in the city morgue. My father disappeared many years ago, and for all I know that may be how he ended his days. I tried to locate him and couldn’t. But that’s why I don’t ever want to forget my brother.”
Amos nodded but did not speak. He listened, probably sensing like Fiona that something very important was being said.
“You remind me that others are honored after they pass. I don’t want to forget. For some reason I was thinking of one of the Nazis when you were talking about those cops who killed Troy. He’s this tall, skinny guy, not handsome, with this huge Adam’s apple and ratlike eyes. He’s awkward and doesn’t look you in the eye—not at all an appealing guy. At the trial I don’t think the jury is going to like him. But you know what? He didn’t want to have anything to do with the killing. He tried to get the murderer to put the gun away and leave with him. He’d come up here to do a stupid prank, and he got caught in something he couldn’t imagine. I feel sorry for him. At the trial I plan to testify that he is really innocent.”
Fiona listened to this with a warm glow growing inside. This was the man she had fallen in love with, and his words were reminding her of why she loved him. And she knew something else equally important: he was going to be all right. Bill’s murder was not going to destroy his essence.
And it wasn’t destroyed. Nine more months passed before they exchanged vows, but that they would spend the rest of their lives together was determined on that day past all doubt.
It was Millie who gave the reason in words that whenever Fiona thought back to them she always regarded as a benediction. “I know one thing. Whether you’re a Christian or not, we have to have love in our hearts to live right. We have to forgive.”
#####
a note about the writer
R. P. Burnham edits The Long Story literary magazine and is a writer. He has published fiction and essays in many literary magazines. He sets most of his fiction in Maine, where he was born and raised and has deep roots. The Least Shadow of Public Thought, a book of his essays that introduce each issue of The Long Story, was published in 1996 by Juniper Press as part of its Voyages Series. He was educated at the University of Southern Maine (undergraduate) and The University of Wisconsin–Madison (graduate). He is married to Kathy FitzPatrick, an associate professor of biology at Merrimack College in North Andover.
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