The Least of These.

by Kathleen Neely

  Going back to the bedroom office, I pulled up the news articles I’d located regarding D.J. and the accident, bookmarked them, and went to another search engine. I typed Claire Bassett into the browser. Once again, the same news articles surfaced, but I managed to find an address. She lived in Wexford, a short drive from here. I found a phone number and again faced the decision—call or drop in for a surprise visit.

  How would Claire Bassett react to word of her husband? Perhaps the accident came on the heels of other issues. She may have thrown him out and wouldn’t welcome news of his whereabouts.

  Gathering all of my findings and all of my questions, I left Tyler tending to our houseguests and went to see Stella.

  In the thirty minutes since she had left my house, she had unpinned her hair. I was accustomed to seeing it pulled back and secured with a net, and it always took me by surprise when I saw it down. Long and light blond, she had brushed it to a smooth glow that accentuated natural highlights. She was a beauty. Why had she never married? For the two years I had known her, she hadn’t dated anyone with regularity.

  “Hope you’re full of wisdom tonight, ’cause I have some heavy stuff here. I need to make some decisions.”

  “Sofa or table?”

  The table would have been more practical, but the thought of a soft place to land tempted me.

  “Sofa. I’m weary.” I sank into the soft comfort, an old-fashioned patchwork quilt tied with yarn thrown over the arm rest. Among the array of magazines lined on the coffee table, two of them published my work. Both had an author picture following my article.

  I picked up one and smiled. “You still have this?”

  She plucked it from my hand and returned it to the spot. “I like the recipes.”

  She sat beside me, and I laid the laptop between us.

  “Read. Nod when you’re done, and I’ll open the next.”

  As Stella read the article about the accident, she gasped, covered her mouth, and then wiped a drop of moisture from the corner of her eye. She nodded. “Go on.”

  I pulled up the next article, followed by details about D.J.’s family and a photo of Claire that I found online.

  We sat side by side, silently, until Stella asked the question that I had pondered. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I thought I’d ask a wise café owner for advice.”

  “Oh, Scott. He needs help.” She placed her hand on my arm.

  “I know. But does he know that? It’s hard to be helped until you know you need it.”

  “Does he know you have all this information?”

  “No. Not sure if I should talk with him first or go see the wife. What if she’s hostile toward him and kicked him out? I’d make matters worse by trying to talk him into seeing her.”

  “I guess you have your answer. Go see the wife first.”

  I laid my head back and squeezed the bridge of my nose, which did nothing to alleviate the tension. “How do I get myself involved in these things? I only wanted to write a documentary.”

  “People come with messy stuff. It’s never neat and cozy when you look deep.”

  My head rested on the sofa cushion behind me, my hand covering my eyes. Stella touched my hair, smoothing it back. My street days were over. I could get a decent trim. Such a useless thought among the weighty issues.

  “I’ve got to go see Caroline. She needs to know what she’s done, needs to know about kids like Edwin. Did she ever see the lives, the faces? Was money worth the cost?”

  The changes in Edwin had happened so fast. The big brother I could always count on withdrew. His mood swings were like a roller coaster, and then the light went out of his eyes. How was it that no one noticed? Had I been the only one looking?

  My voice cracked, and I covered my face to hide my weakness. “Was it worth the guilt of those left behind?”

  Stella put her arm over my shoulder and drew me closer.

  “Scott. Look at me.” She touched my hands to move them from my face. “Look at me.”

  I obeyed. Her face held compassion.

  “You were fifteen years old. You were a child—a child placed in a terrible situation. You’d lost the intimacy with your brother, the only person you’d ever had a relationship with. You had a domineering father and an absent mother. Don’t carry this burden of guilt. It’s not yours. Put it where it belongs. Your brother made bad choices. Your parents didn’t parent well. A fifteen-year-old kid can’t be expected to handle the gravity of that situation.”

  I put my arms around her and leaned into her softness, the blond hair whispering lavender against my face. I felt her tension release, and she melted against me. My lips brushed her cheek but then I caught myself, unwilling to allow my vulnerable state to ruin our friendship.

  As I pulled back, she kept her head down. I tipped her chin upward with my hand.

  “Stel, what would I do without you?”

  Her eyes were moist, creating a reflection pool in which I could see myself— my weakness.

  “What do you want, Scott? I mean, really want?”

  “I guess I want to fix everybody. But I can’t seem to fix myself. I can’t forgive myself. I haven’t seen my father in two years. I have little respect for the man. So why is his approval so important?”

  “Because he’s your father. It’s a bond that’s not easy to break. You can create distance in your life but not in your heart. It might be time for a visit.”

  I nodded. “We’ll see.”

  But that wouldn’t happen. Not without a Pulitzer in hand. I stood to walk to the door, and Stella walked with me.

  “Thank you. You always help me to see things more clearly.”

  She brushed my hair back. “You know, sometimes what we want is right before our eyes.”

  She moved her hand to my face and placed a soft kiss on my cheek.

  Later that evening, I dialed the number of the Wexford home of Claire Bassett. It had been disconnected. That gave me only one option.

  I would pay a visit to the Bassett home.

  27

  Scott Harrington

  I knocked on the door of D.J.’s bedroom. He had stretched out on the air mattress with a book.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure. Is it Pete? Is he worse?” D.J. closed his book and stood up.

  “No. Not about Pete.”

  I opened the closet door and pulled out a folding chair. Turning it backward, I straddled the seat, motioning for him to sit in the one easy chair I kept in the room. I needed to get a sense of his state of mind before contacting his wife. I wouldn’t tell him I intended to see her, but I had to get some perspective from him first.

  “D.J., I know your real name. I know a little about your situation.”

  He gave a pensive nod. “The accident?”

  I leaned in, resting my arms on the chair’s back. “Yeah, the accident.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. D.J.’s eyes looked past me, though there was nothing to see but a blank wall. It took me back to St. John’s the day I asked him what he did before living on the street.

  I waited out the silence, and he again met my eyes. “I figured you knew. You’re a reporter. Didn’t expect you’d let me in your house without checking me out.”

  “So do I call you D.J. or Andrew?”

  He rested his head back, much like I had done last night at Stella’s. “I don’t know anymore. I’ve been a different person this year, out there on the street. But being here, in a house with other people, part of me is starting to remember how it felt to live.”

  We had come a long way from that first grunted introduction over breakfast. “How can I help you? What took you away from home?”

  He placed his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his folded hands for a long time. Had he shut himself off again? Did he plan to answer? Then he turned back to me.

  “I don’t expect anyone to understand this. Heck, I can’t understand it myself. Everywhere I looked, I saw pain. Pain so deep i
t became physical, like it stabbed me right in the heart. I couldn’t walk outside my house without seeing the spot where it happened. My chest burned like I wasn’t getting enough air. I couldn’t look at my daughter. I love her so much that the thought of something like that happening to her would kill me. I’d look at her and know that’s what I did to my brother. I couldn’t hold my wife and know how much we loved each other when I’d destroyed my brother’s marriage.”

  He turned an agonized expression downward. I shared that level of pain. Someday I might tell him.

  “I guess on top of that, I walked around, still walk around, every day with the guilt. I should have been punished, but the legal system didn’t punish me.”

  I nodded my understanding. “So you punished yourself.”

  “I had to. How could I go back to normal life like nothing happened? Matthew didn’t have that option. There had to be punishment.”

  Another emotion we shared. The guilt still stabbed at me when Edwin’s face—forever young as I grew older—crossed my mind.

  I pointed to the book on the floor beside the air mattress, tattered and worn from use. “What does your Bible say about that?”

  D.J. grinned, such a rare sight. “It says I’m forgiven. But that’s then. In the big picture. Here on this earth, there should be consequences.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever read that part.”

  “Well, it just makes sense.”

  I could philosophically argue that point, but it would be counterproductive. “What now? Do you want to go home?”

  “More than anything in the world. But I can’t do that.”

  “Why? Same reasons that you left? There are some better options than the parking lot shed.”

  “No. Different reasons. How can I walk back in after what I’ve done to my wife and kids? I abandoned them. I couldn’t handle the guilt and now I’ve added more guilt on top of that. I can’t go back like nothing happened. I’m sure they’ve all moved on by now.”

  “How would you feel about getting some help?” My hands formed a steeple resting on the chair.

  “You mean counseling?”

  “That’s a start.”

  He shook his head. “No. No money and I won’t panhandle. And when Pete’s gone, I’m headed back downtown. I won’t live off you.”

  “D.J., I can’t let you do that.” Even I heard the sadness in my voice.

  He grinned that half-grin again. “You really don’t have anything to say about it.”

  “I can help you.”

  He seemed to be considering. Had I broken through a small part of the wall he’d built around himself? Pete had, so there was still the basic human need to care and be cared for.

  “You’re a good man. Thanks for what you’re doing for Pete, and for wanting to help me. Let’s get through this thing with Pete. He’s getting weaker all the time. Some days he doesn’t want to get out of bed anymore.”

  “The hospice nurse will be here this morning.”

  I left D.J., hoping he’d consider another path. In the meantime, I would contact Claire Bassett. It didn’t sound like a hostile break up.

  After spending the rest of the day writing, I spent more time looking for people in cyber space. Sam Pulkowski lived in the South Hills, a short ride across town.

  Tomorrow would be a busy day. I planned to pay a visit to Claire Bassett in Wexford, Sam Pulkowski south of the city, and Caroline McMann in the county jail. I needed some fresh air and walked over to update Stella.

  ~*~

  The clock said 6:00 AM, but too many issues competed in my brain. Along with the constant sound of coughing from Pete’s room. My body refused to go back to sleep.

  I got up and set up the coffee. The sun started to rise without much promise—gray and threatening.

  It was way too early to head out, so I opened my laptop to put final touches on two of the bios, but it was hard to concentrate with the sound of Pete’s constant cough.

  I walked over and knocked before opening his door. He lay there, wracked with cough. The sallow complexion alarmed me. He had become a skeletal form of his old self.

  Should I call 9-1-1? But what would they do? This was hospice care. We all knew how it would end.

  “Hey, Pete. You OK?”

  He held out his hand, a gesture that required much exertion. I took it and sat beside him, breathing the sick-sweet scent in the air.

  “Scotty, I thank ya kindly for this here bed.”

  The energy expended for those words led to more coughing. The trash receptacle beside the bed overflowed with bloody tissues.

  “I’m honored to have you here.” Words passed through the thickness in my throat.

  “I don’t aim to be here much longer, Scotty. I think the good Lord is callin’.”

  “You right with Him, Pete?”

  “I’m hopin’ so. D.J.’s been talkin’ to me ’bout that. Tells me things that’s in that Bible of his. We done talked to Him together.”

  “You keep doing that, Pete. He’s good to His promise.”

  “I’m fixin’ to see that promise pretty soon.”

  No reason to deny it. He knew. We all knew. “We’re here with you.”

  Pete reached for my hand again and curled his fingers around mine. The strength in his grip surprised me, but the voice was a whisper. “Take care of my boy, Scotty.”

  I tilted my head. “Your boy?”.

  “Deej. My boy. Lots troubling him.”

  I nodded. “I’ll watch out for him, Pete. You’ve got my word.”

  He closed his eyes and drifted into a rasping sleep.

  At 9:00 that morning, I placed a call to Mary Anne Marshall.

  “I wanted to update you. We brought your father to my home to ride out the end of this illness. The hospice nurse agrees we’re looking at the last few days. I wanted you to know.”

  “Has he asked for me to come?”

  How do you tell a daughter that he hasn’t asked for her? Dodge the question. “He’s medicated—in and out of sleep. I wanted you to have information. I work from home, so the address is on my business card. You’re welcome to come anytime. I understand if you can’t.”

  “Thank you for the call. I’ll think about it.”

  I hung up and went downstairs to talk with Tyler.

  “Hey Ty. I’ve got to go out today. Some important tasks. Pete’s going down fast. Will you stick around here?”

  “Sure. I’ll call if there’s anything to tell. And, Scott, thanks for reactivating my phone. I promise I’ll pay you back someday.”

  “Not worried about that. I’m more worried about you here alone with no phone and a dying man. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  ~*~

  A gray chill covered the city as I drove to Wexford, but at least the snow held off. The Bassett home was located in a subdivision that consisted of beautiful, stately homes. Tasteful—not the pretentious estate I’d escaped.

  I parked on the street and walked up the sidewalk. Pausing, I swept my gaze toward the driveway. I imagined the scene, and it chilled me more than the cold of winter. No wonder he couldn’t stay.

  I rang the doorbell twice, but no one answered. As I walked back to my car, two ladies wearing scarves and mittens approached me.

  “Can we help you?” Long blond hair extended beyond the knitted cap.

  “I’m looking for Claire Bassett. Is this the right house?”

  They flashed a guarded look at each other.

  “I’m Molly, her neighbor,” the brunette answered, her cheeks red from the cold. “This is her home, but she’s not here. Why don’t I take your name and have her call you?”

  I could do that, but I always liked the ball in my own court.

  “Could you tell me a good time to come back? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to me.”

  The blonde introduced herself. “I’m Jan. We’re friends with Claire. Can you tell us what this is about?”

  I wasn’t about to tell them much. “It’s abo
ut her husband.”

  They exchanged a look. “She isn’t here now. She’s staying with her parents.”

  “How can I find her?”

  “Slippery Rock. She works at the university.”

  They declined to share an address, so that would have to do. I could locate her parents, but it might be better to see her alone.

  My failure at finding anyone home gave me some hesitation about visiting Sam Pulkowski. Chances would be better of finding him home in the evening. I sat in my car and pulled up Slippery Rock University’s website on my cell phone. It listed employee extensions, and I dialed the number in the School of Education noted for Claire.

  “School of Education, Claire Bassett speaking.”

  “Sorry, wrong number.” I hung up the phone and headed north toward Slippery Rock.

  28

  Claire Bassett

  The calendar had turned to November, my second Thanksgiving without Andrew.

  It was too cold for Isabella to wait at the bus stop, so I drove her to school. The wind whistled through my loose car window. I’d need to have that repaired. My spirits matched this gray, agitated day. Like the wind, I moved without going anywhere. Icy fingers of cold attacked my windshield, requiring my defrosters to dissolve them. Would anything soften the icy fingers grabbing at my heart?

  Every visit to St. John’s came up empty, so I’d decided not to return. Don promised to call should Andrew appear. Until then, I waited, married but with no husband, unsure if it was better or worse knowing he lived on the streets. It had torn me apart when I thought he could be dead. Yet knowing he was out there, wasting away and freezing…I couldn’t erase that image from my mind.

  Pulling up to the drop-off, I helped Bella retrieve her little backpack, kissed her good-bye, and watched her walk the isolated path to the early arrival room. A caregiver waited at the door to greet her, waved to me, and then they disappeared into the red brick building.

  The office became a distraction from the horrors of my life. My coworkers may have thought me to be aloof, but I had fallen into the pattern of keeping to myself. Forming friendships and making small talk always led to discussions I didn’t want to have.

  Jonathan was a perfect gentleman, and I was grateful. “Hey, Claire. Did your kids like seeing the snow?”