Listen

by Rene Gutteridge

  He wanted to make it over to Grayson, tell him it was Hunter and to not shoot. But he was squeezed between people and police tape and police officers, all trying to control the crowds.

  A few people down, on the left, was Reverend Caldwell, his Bible clasped in his arm.

  Kay came up behind him and gasped, just as Damien noticed what everyone was staring and pointing at. His gaze stopped on the spray paint across the large brick wall of the factory. Expansive purple and green letters glowed against the light. They might as well have been written in blood.

  Jenna Underwood is a virgin.

  A list of words went on with such vulgarity that Damien’s stomach turned over.

  Kay gripped his arm, crying. “That’s what this has been all about? That Jenna’s a virgin? They’re crucifying her for being a virgin?” She covered her mouth. “And this whole time I thought . . . she wasn’t.”

  “Stay here,” Damien commanded, then shoved past the police tape.

  The nearby officer caught him with a strong arm and his stick. “Get back!”

  Damien tugged against his strength. “That’s my daughter! Jenna! Where is she?”

  The officer let go of him but grabbed his shirt. “Sir, calm down. We don’t know what’s going on yet. Nobody has come out, but we saw movement inside just moments ago.”

  “That’s my daughter,” Damien repeated, staring again at the crude words spray-painted around her name.

  “Sir, have you seen your daughter today?”

  “Not since she left for school.”

  Grayson suddenly noticed him. No words needed to be exchanged. They instantly understood each other. Grayson issued a signal with his hand, and the men in bulletproof vests and helmets began inching forward, their automatic weapons poised to strike.

  Damien found himself unable to watch. He turned his head, scanning the crowd for Jenna, hoping she was not inside. Then he saw him.

  Hunter.

  He stood on the other side of the large crowd, pushed against the police tape, bundled up in a hat and coat and gloves, watching with a somber expression. There was too much chaos to call out to him, and he was too far away anyway. Police movement kept impairing Damien’s view. He was even afraid to blink for fear he would lose sight of his son.

  “Stop right there!”

  Damien’s attention jerked toward the warehouse. He tore away from the officer’s grip but stayed next to him, watching, with the rest of the crowd, as two shadowy figures emerged from the gaping hole that was once a large door to the factory. Their silhouettes were created by the car lights shining in through the broken windows at the back of the warehouse.

  Their hands were raised over their skinny bodies, and soon they stepped into the light provided by the police and the other nearby cars.

  “Is one of those your daughter?” the officer asked.

  Damien shook his head. He recognized one as a cheerleader. He thought her name was Madison. The other girl didn’t look familiar.

  “Get down on your knees!” Grayson shouted at them through the megaphone.

  They both dropped quickly, keeping their hands up. A group of police rushed toward them.

  Damien tried to find Hunter. He still stood in the crowd, watching. Was he wrong? Were these two girls responsible for the Web site? Or was something else going on?

  “Damien! Where’s Jenna?” Kay cried from the front of the crowd.

  Damien intended to find out. Without any more hesitation, he bolted for the factory. He heard Grayson shouting at him, but he didn’t stop. What were they going to do? shoot him?

  He stumbled over the gravel, barely keeping his balance, twisting his right ankle. Pain shot up his leg, but he didn’t slow down.

  “Underwood, get out of the way!” Grayson yelled.

  But Damien ran right up to the girls, who were still on their knees, their hands raised, their bodies shaking in the cold. Both grew even more fearful as Damien approached.

  The girl on the right, with her pink-streaked ponytail and overdone makeup, boasted a dark purple bruise on the side of her face, which bled into a greenish yellow toward her mouth. The other girl didn’t look much better. Her bottom lip was split open. Dried blood trickled down her chin.

  Suddenly Damien was shoved out of the way, thrown to the ground by one of the SWAT guys. Grayson stood over him.

  “Where’s my daughter?” Damien called out to the two girls, who’d been yanked to their feet and were now being frisked. “Where’s Jenna?”

  Neither answered. One glared at him as if he’d spit at her.

  Damien turned his focus toward the factory.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. “Damien, don’t. We haven’t secured the building. We don’t know who or what else is in there.”

  “I can’t stay here, Lou, and wonder—”

  Both men saw it at the same time. A crackling, breaking sound, then a flash of orange.

  “Fire!”

  “It’s not safe,” Grayson said. “We don’t even know if she’s in there!”

  Damien took one more look at the girls’ bruised and bloodied faces. “She’s in there.” He ran through the open factory door. Thick, black smoke climbed the walls, blocking the car lights that had once streamed through the open windows.

  Grayson came up beside him, covering his mouth with his jacket.

  “She could be anywhere,” Damien said. He didn’t have one clue which way to go. Above him, fire danced across the beams. They ducked against loud popping.

  “Jenna! Jenna!” Damien choked on the thick smoke. He wrapped his arm across his mouth and tried to look for any movement or hear any sound besides the strange and low groan of the fire.

  “Dad!” Her voice was distant, muddled.

  “This way!” Damien shouted to Grayson. They made their way along a wall where a tiny sliver of light led the way. Deep against the shadows of the far corner of the building, Damien saw movement. “Jenna!”

  “Dad, over here!”

  Flames roared nearby. The heat, though a few feet away, seemed to scorch his face. Damien made it to Jenna, who was huddled in the corner. He pulled her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and cried, pointing to a boarded-up window. “I tried to get out this way, but I can’t get the wood off the window!”

  Grayson handed Jenna his flashlight, and he and Damien tried to pry the boarded-up window.

  “It’s not budging!” Grayson yelled. “Let’s go back the way we came!”

  They all turned, but the fire had shifted and now blocked the path they’d used to come in.

  “Is there another way out?”

  Jenna shook her head. “That door over there is steel, and it’s locked.”

  Grayson hurried over, tried to kick it in, but with no luck.

  “I’m sorry.” Jenna clung to Damien. “I’m so sorry!”

  “We’re going to get you out of this. Lou, over here! Let’s try this board again!”

  The smoke hung low against the ceiling. Damien coughed as he tried to breathe. Each man grabbed a side and they tried to pry it again, but it wouldn’t move. Damien turned, grabbing the flashlight from Jenna. He scanned the floor for anything that could help. Then he saw a small steel pipe near the wall.

  He rushed over and grabbed it. His hand sizzled. The fire was three feet away from it, but it had already acquired its heat.

  Damien handed over the flashlight. Grayson lifted the wood just enough to slide the metal bar in. With every ounce of muscle he had, he pried the wood. Within ten seconds, the board popped and now hung by only two screws. They easily pried off the other side. Damien shouted for Grayson to climb through and help Jenna out. He lifted Jenna and dumped her through the window. Grayson caught her and then reached for Damien’s hand.

  But suddenly a searing pain shot up Damien’s arm. He caught a glimpse of Grayson’s eyes, wide with fear. He lost his footing. Tried to scream. A horrendous smell and unbearable heat stopped his breath. He reached for Grayson
but instead fell backward. As he hit the ground, he saw it . . . his arm was on fire.

  But his baby girl was safe.

  And even as agony like he never imagined existed overtook every one of his senses, Damien knew he could die with peace. He wanted to say good-bye, but there was no time.

  He closed his eyes. The pain fled.

  36

  “Dad?”

  The sound of his name pulled Damien from a deep, dark, safe place.

  “Dad?”

  He opened his eyes, searching for her. “Jenna?” All that came out was a whisper.

  “I’m right here.”

  His family’s faces came into focus.

  Kay leaned toward him. “You’re at the hospital, sweetie. Your arm is burned, but you’re going to be fine.”

  Damien stared at it, wrapped tightly in white gauze. His mind swirled in a strange, dizzy state. Maybe pain meds? An IV methodically dripped above him. “How bad is it?”

  “You’re probably going to need some skin grafts.” Kay stroked his hair.

  Damien tried to move, but pain stabbed through his arm. He looked at Jenna. Dark blue bruises swelled against her cheek. With his good arm, he reached to her face and touched her cheek.

  Jenna actually smiled. “They got one punch in, but I really stood my ground. I got Madison right across the face. In self-defense of course. She fell down.”

  “Did they start that fire?”

  “No. I’d brought a lantern from the garage. It was on the ground, and in the fight, I accidentally kicked it over.” Jenna stared at her hands. “I didn’t go there to fight. I went there to tell them I forgave them. You should have seen the look on their faces when I said that. But then Madison got mad, and that’s when I had to hit her.”

  Damien searched her face, trying to find answers, trying to comprehend it all. “How did you end up there?”

  “A little bit of courage goes a long way.” She glanced at Kay.

  Damien took her arm. “There were some really horrible things written on the walls, and there are a lot of people out there—”

  “I know. It’s okay.” Jenna sat on the edge of the bed. “I knew what they were planning and I came anyway, because . . . of Frank.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah. He always stood up for what he believed in, so I decided to have courage like him. Stand up for myself. I hadn’t done that. I’d just let them say what they wanted about me, but I never stood up for myself.” Tears glistened in her eyes. Kay wrapped her arms around her. “But not tonight. Tonight I fought back. With truth. I don’t care what they say about me.”

  Captain Grayson entered the room, looking weary but relieved. “You gave us a scare. Both of you.” He touched Jenna’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Jenna nodded.

  “How about you, big guy?”

  Damien grinned. “Besides having my arm melted off, I’m great.”

  “These girls are going to have a lot to answer to.” Grayson faced Jenna. “I’ll need a statement from you. Tonight if possible.”

  “No problem,” Jenna said.

  Hunter entered, carrying a can of soda and what looked like a heavy burden. “Can I talk to you, Dad, for a second? Alone?”

  The three of them started to move out of the room, but Hunter looked at Grayson, who stopped and returned to the bed.

  Damien’s gaze shifted between them. Then he said to Hunter, “That must’ve been tough to watch out there. To read. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  “Nobody believes that,” Hunter said, lowering contemplative, withdrawn eyes. “Everyone knows what those girls are about.”

  “There was a post saying that whoever was behind the Web site was going to reveal himself tonight.”

  “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “I think someone caught wind of what was going to go down tonight and knew the town was very caught up in this Web site, and that could be a great way to save a sister in danger and get some very misguided girls caught. How can you run away from an entire town showing up?”

  Hesitancy flashed across Hunter’s expression.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  Hunter looked Damien right in the eye. He nodded so slightly Damien wondered if he’d seen it. But then he said, “I’m the one doing the Web site.”

  Damien was surprised by how quickly his emotions showed their hand. “Why?” he whispered.

  “At school we were talking about social experiments and about people who risked a lot to make a difference, and I just came up with this idea one day. I hear things at school. See things. How people talk and the damage that it does.” Hunter looked like he was on the verge of tears too. “You always taught me the power of words, and I wanted to show what they can do when misused. It sort of got out of hand. I didn’t expect everyone to go all nuts. But I couldn’t stop either. There was a point to be made. And then I heard there was this plot against Jenna because she told the police . . .”

  “Son, I know your heart, and I know your intention was good. That’s all that matters to me. Whatever the consequences, we’ll face them together, right?” Damien glanced at Grayson.

  “He confessed just a few minutes ago,” Grayson said. “Even brought his own evidence.”

  Hunter pulled out a long, telescope-looking gadget from the backpack on the floor. “I brought this to show the police that it’s really me.”

  “You planned on turning yourself in tonight.”

  “After I knew Jenna was safe, yes.” He fingered the gadget, looking at it as if it were a good friend. “Frank knew, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?” Damien asked as he and Grayson exchanged glances.

  “He caught me one day, behind a house, as I was preparing to listen. He asked me what I was doing. I made up some stupid story he didn’t believe. Later I went to him and sort of spoke vaguely. I just wanted to know what he thought. Before he died, in front of our house actually, he told me that it was time I stopped. I told him I would . . . but all this stuff started happening. Then Frank died. Then they thought it was you.”

  “That’s when you posted our conversation. You wanted to prove I wasn’t behind this.”

  Hunter nodded. “Plus, you said some really profound things, things I think this town needed to hear.”

  “And you sent the crossword puzzle, then took it back?”

  “Yeah. I thought I was protecting you. I went through your briefcase one day. It was right there in the center pocket.”

  Damien’s heart swelled with love for his son, even as his body tensed with waves of pain. The courage and compassion his children showed overwhelmed him. But now what would happen?

  37

  The Bloody Stain

  By Damien Underwood, staff writer

  On a cold Thursday in December, only days before Christmas, Marlo collapsed under the weight of its own words, never to be the same again. What began with thoughtless words ended with a consuming fire.

  Though Marlo would always be marred by the bloody red stain of disgrace, I had hoped it might welcome the painful cutting out of its deepest regret. A long scar would remain, but it was that scar that could cause Marlo to fight harder for innocence and goodness.

  Months later, people walk the sidewalks again but rarely wave at neighbors, shake hands with those whom they have much in common, and trust one another. It has become evident that trust begins with words. Trusting someone to speak kindly when you are not present means trustworthiness in many more countless ways. To know trustworthiness first with words, then with actions was to be this town’s richest attribute, the most desired character trait.

  Except Marlo could never quite forgive what it had done.

  Ideally, the power of words was never to be taken for granted. Everyone in town might have vowed to never be undone by their own words again. If there was something to be settled, it should be done face-to-face. If there was a grievance, then courage would find them talking openly about it.<
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  But instead, Marlo continues to reel and rage, reminding one another of the sins committed.

  Only forgiveness can stand now. Only forgiveness can wipe the slate clean. Who is willing to stand up for that?

  On March 13, my son, Hunter Underwood, stood before a judge to receive his sentence. On his way to the courthouse, people taunted him. Yelled at him. Booed him for invading their privacy. He took it like a man, because he had done what they accused him of.

  Inside the courthouse, he held his chin high, ready to accept the consequence of his actions. For the first time he was dressed in a suit. He looked handsome and mature. And scared to death.

  The judge sat high, cloaked with the authority of the robe and the title. She gave a brief lecture on the law and how many laws he’d broken. Hunter nodded, understanding full well that no matter any good he had done, he still had to face the law.

  But then, to everyone’s surprise, the judge told Hunter that in the right situation, mercy is oftentimes more powerful than punishment. The stain can be a reminder but not always a verdict. So she sentenced him to community work and a lifetime of sharing his passion for the power of words.

  He did just that. In July, his essay “The Power of Words” was published by Time magazine, and the story of Marlo was told in People. Hunter finished his community service three weeks ago.

  On Sunday, our pastor taught from Genesis, which recounts a loving God who speaks the world into existence. I found myself thinking about how true it is that our words have the power to speak life—and also death—into whatever they touch.

  Life and death are indeed in the power of the tongue. And words are as permanent as ink pen on a crossword.

  It is with deep sadness that I tell you this is my last column for the Marlo Sentinel. My family and I are moving away to heal and find joy inside community. For community has richness and fulfillment to offer. And our family has much to give.

  We’ve committed ourselves to taking care of my good friend Frank’s sister, Meredith, and providing whatever she needs for the rest of her life. It is the least we can do for a man who fought hard to save the town he loved.