I waved him off.
“Just tell me what happened with Dad.”
“Jim came into the bedroom and saw Brad there, tied up. I’d shoved a bandanna into his mouth to keep him quiet. Jim squatted down in front of him. Brad’s eyes were bugging out. He was scared, man. Jim told him not to yell, and he took the bandanna out of his mouth.”
“And?”
“Brad was scared, man. He told Jim that whatever he’d been told, it was a lie. He said he never touched you. That was fucking dumb, because then Jim knew what had gone down.”
Another chill ran through me.
“What did he do?”
Toby looked to the sky, and he pawed at his face, stained with the tears that flowed in the retelling.
“He put the bandanna back into Brad’s mouth,” he said. Toby’s voice wavered. “Then he reached over and covered Brad’s nose with his hand. Brad thrashed, and Jim got thrown off. Jim pushed him down and straddled him. He placed his hand back over Brad’s nose. It didn’t take long.”
I sat there next to my own sick. Toby knelt beside me.
“It’s been a lot of years, but I always see that face, Mitch. I close my eyes sometimes, and I see Brad’s eyes. He knew what was going to happen to him.”
My jaw was slack.
“I’d never seen a man die before,” Toby said.
I found my feet, and Toby kept talking while I stared at the wash that crossed the valley and our lives.
“Jim and I undressed Brad and put all of his clothes and stuff into a trash bag. It was eerie. It was like Jim knew exactly what to do. He told me we’d sit there with Brad and wait for night to come.”
I shuddered.
“Your dad, he wouldn’t let me move. ‘Sit still,’ he said, and I did. He kept asking me if Teresa was going to talk, and I kept saying, ‘No, she won’t talk.’ But shit, I didn’t know. I couldn’t think straight.”
“Did she ever talk?”
“No.”
“What if she does someday?”
“I married her, Mitch. I think we’ve got this one locked away pretty tight.”
“When night came, we loaded Brad into the pickup and we drove out here. Parked about where you and I parked today. We carried Brad and a shovel. The rain was coming down fierce. God, it was hard. We were stepping through this hard country, carrying a full-grown man, the thunder and the lightning all around us, and we couldn’t see shit. It took us a long time to find the spot. Your dad didn’t want to bury him in the valley floor, so we went up on that wash, where the wind and the water wouldn’t get at him.
“When we started digging, the whole thing hit me, and I got sick. But your dad just kept going. It was like he was possessed or something. He dug the hole mostly by himself. He packed Brad into it. And he covered the guy up and tried to make it look like we hadn’t been there. I was useless. I sat there in the mud.
“When he finished, we walked back to the truck. Jim, he had a fifth of whiskey. We drained it. It didn’t help.”
“What about Brad’s clothes and wallet and stuff like that?” I asked.
“It all went down one of the wells a couple of days later. Your dad’s idea. He had it all figured out.”
I pulled the canister of Dad’s ashes from my jacket pocket. I finally felt steady enough for what I had come to do.
“I wonder why he picked this spot,” Toby said.
I knew that answer. Dad spent the last days of his life making peace with his past. I had brought him the final miles.
I shook the canister, and a fair wind took him away.
Dad’s Ranger bounced along the two-track road as we headed back to town. My head swirled. My heart ached, for Dad and for this old friend beside me in the cab. They had carried a terrible secret. Now I was under it too.
“I’m not proud of this thing, but I’m not ashamed of it,” Toby said. “Your call, Mitch. If you think we should say something to the cops and let the chips fall wherever, I’ll do that. Either way.”
I had been pondering that question for miles. And no matter how many times I looked at it or from how many angles, I returned to one conclusion. Sunshine disinfects, but so does darkness. Toby and Dad had put themselves on the line for me. For three decades, they had carried a burden so I wouldn’t have to. It was time for me to take some of the weight on my own shoulders.
“You’ve got kids and grandkids. I’m not interested in wrecking your life,” I said. “Nobody else needs to know about this.”
“You sure, man?”
“Yeah, I am.”
A few wordless miles fell behind us.
“Thank you,” Toby said softly.
“Didn’t you worry that somebody would come looking for him?” I asked.
“Every day,” Toby said. “But nobody ever did. It got easier as the years piled up. There are nights, you know, where I lie in bed and I think about it. Brad was a bad guy, and he tried to do a bad thing. But death…it’s final, man. That’s it.”
A shudder ran through me.
“How are you holding up, man?” Toby asked.
I couldn’t lie. “Shaky.”
“I’d tell you it gets better, but…”
“Yeah.”
“I tell myself that Brad made his choices,” Toby said. “The kind of things he did, you don’t always get to call the shots on what comes next, you know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“How did Dad explain his absence?”
“He didn’t. Guys on drilling crews, they come and go. Nobody ever asked. We worked alone for a couple of days, making sure we got rid of everything connected to Brad. Then Jim went his way, and I stayed here.”
I drove on.
“Dad came back that night and sent me away, you know.”
“He had to,” Toby said. “He kept taking swigs of whiskey and talking about it. There was no other way. You can see that, can’t you?”
I could. Seeing it, though, blew three decades of grudges all to hell. I was struggling with the letting go.
“I hated him, Toby. It was bigger than just that night. He sent me away, and I never forgave him for it.”
“Well,” Toby said, “maybe you can now.”
We weaved through Milford back to the diner, where Toby had left his car.
“Do you remember that girl Jerry dated? Denise?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Is that family still around?”
“The old man died a while back. Denise married a guy from Salt Lake and lives there. Her sister’s still around, though. Works at the Chevron. You looking to see somebody? I don’t want to be an asshole, Mitch, but maybe it’s best that you get on out of town. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I’m just curious. I’ll go quietly.”
I pulled into a parking spot at the diner.
“I want to thank you, Toby,” I said. “It’s weird to say that, I guess, but…well, thank you.”
Toby shook hands with me.
“Mitch, keep in touch.”
I started to leave, and he tapped on the glass. I rolled down the window.
“On second thought,” he said, “enjoy the rest of your life.”
I looked at my watch. Nearly two p.m. I had plenty of time to make Vegas. Then, the next day, I would be home to stay.
The gas tank full, I walked toward the store. Though vivid thoughts of an awful night still assaulted my head, the nausea was easing, and I knew that hunger would eventually come for me. I picked out a bag of chips and a big bottle of water.
The woman working the cash register scanned my items. She was about my age, a little heavy, with long brown hair and a freckled nose. I looked at the tag on her blouse and saw the name I knew. A little girl who looked like an old friend peered at me from the picture on a large button that read “World’s Greatest Mom.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
I smiled at her.
“No, I’m good.”
I left Milford the way I had come i
n with Marie all those years earlier. I drove south to Cedar City, and then I veered into new territory on the way to St. George, where I straightened out for the shot into Vegas. The yellow line led home, where I needed to be. I thought of lessons and losses, and of the burden I had taken on. I decided I would carry this alone. I hoped that my shoulders were strong enough to hold the load.
My thoughts drifted to my little boy and little girl, and I willed the highway to slide past faster. I thought of the world they knew now, and the one they would come to know. My heart brimmed as I anticipated being able to hold them again. Every opportunity they could imagine stretched in front of them, waiting to be discovered. Maybe I knew enough to help them find the path that would bring their dreams within reach.
Maybe.
And still I wondered: if my children someday learn my secrets, what will they think of me?
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Craig Lancaster, a journalist and novelist, is the author of 600 Hours of Edward, named a 2009 Montana Honor Book and the 2010 High Plains Book Award winner for best first book. He lives in Billings, Montana.
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