by W.H. Harrod
Terrance sat quietly as Mrs. Bidwell took the cups and saucers and went into the adjacent kitchen. He heard her deposit the dishes on the counter when the phone rang. The sound of her footsteps conveyed her intentions as Mrs. Bidwell walked over to pick up the phone.
She answered the phone, not bothering to address the caller by name. “Hello…Yes, thanks for calling me back so soon.” Her words became more difficult to hear. “I can’t take any chances. I’ll need to find out for sure.” Terrance then overheard her say to the caller. “So, I am going to need some help…Now, if you can…Very good, thanks.”
Terrance listened as she hung up the phone and returned to the counter where he again heard the sound of cups and saucers being placed on a tray. A minute later, Mrs. Bidwell returned to the parlor.
She placed the steaming hot cups of coffee on the table before she spoke. Her tone of voice indicated a degree of concern. “Mr. Butler, some additional thoughts occurred to me while I was getting the coffee. I’m being selfish regarding this very important matter—thinking only of myself—now I see this is not right. So please, excuse the whining of an old lady—do whatever is best for you. Why should I be afraid of that bunch of horrible people? I’ve already lived my life. I have very little, if anything at all, to lose. I’m sure you’re right in thinking that a story of this magnitude, no matter how abbreviated it might turn out, is still going to get people’s interest and become a feather in your young cap. If the cartel does come here, I’m sure the local authorities will protect us. So you go right ahead and do whatever you think is best. Whatever you decide will be all right with me.”
Terrance’s confusion intensified as Mrs. Bidwell spoke. He didn’t expect this, especially now, after reflecting on what she said earlier about the cartel finding them. Before she said this, he’d just about convinced himself to agree with her on her plan to dump the whole story and return to their previous normal lives.
“Excuse me, you’re now saying I can, and should, do whatever I determine is best with all this information, using all, part, or even none if I choose?” Terrance’s tone of voice exposed his disbelief at her suggestion.
“That’s correct,” responded Mrs. Bidwell calmly.
“You’re not concerned that part of the story I propose to write will solve nothing and, most likely, destroy the reputation of the person you’ve known for twenty years as Joseph Right?”
“I haven’t said it wouldn’t bother me for the public to find out the truth. I’m simply saying you have a responsibility to yourself to do whatever you feel is right. If you’re willing to assume the risks that may go along with your actions, then who am I to say no.”
Terrance heard only part of Mrs. Bidwell’s response as his mind suddenly fixated on the image of his lifeless body being dumped into a deep quarry somewhere between here and Mexico never to be seen again. What would happen to his adoptive parents? How would they feel, and what about Jess? Maybe Mrs. Bidwell was an old lady, but did that mean she had to give up her remaining years of life because of him.
This decision required some serious thought. He didn’t know for sure if they discovered his true identity in Harmony or if they did follow him back to Kansas or that this story would be picked up nationally and read by someone close to the case back in Illinois. He needed to be sure about this decision. He needed more information.
“Mrs. Bidwell,” began Terrance, determined to ferret out every last morsel of information before he made a final decision, “how did you come to know about the cartel, that they were so ruthless and violent? Did Mr. Douglas, I mean, Mr. Right, tell you about them? What else might he have told you about his life prior to coming to Kansas?”
Mrs. Bidwell looked surprised at his request.
“Please, Mrs. Bidwell. It’s important I know everything you know about this matter.”
Her delay only whetted his curiosity. When she finally spoke, the reluctant tone in her voice made an impression on her inquisitor.
“There are other things he confided to me over the years, but I’m not sure I should betray his trust, even now.” Again, she fell silent.
“Mrs. Bidwell, please.” Terrance pleaded in earnestness.
Mrs. Bidwell sighed, her resignation apparent. “Well, I probably should tell you Joseph fully expected to be discovered by either the law or the cartel every single day he lived here. To his amazement, no one ever showed up. I’ve known the truth about him, at least in part, for the last fifteen years. He told me something terrible happened back in Illinois, and he had to run for his life. I expect you want to know if I know who murdered that man in Harmony. I don’t. I never asked what happened, and I was never told. I do know Joseph was very angry about being drawn into the cartel’s business unknowingly and told if he ever tried to leave he would be killed. You’ve probably already figured much of this out, I would imagine. It had to occur to you that something like this happened, didn’t it? You probably concluded, just as I did, that Joseph or Howard hated that Whiting character, and he certainly had enough reason to kill him. Although it would be wrong, maybe he did do it. I expect if I were in his place, I would have thought about it, wouldn’t you?”
“So, I’ve never questioned the right or the wrong of the matter of letting him live in my home all these years. I think I’ve become a fairly good judge of people over the span of my life, and I can tell you, without blinking an eye, Joseph Right was one of the finest human beings I have ever known. He did more, cared more, and suffered more than any hundred other people put together. So my conscious is clear.”
“The cartel,” Terrance interjected, “that’s true? They are as violent and ruthless as you’ve told me?”
“Every bit, if not more,” replied Mrs. Bidwell hurriedly. “Joseph would often remark that he should leave so as not to endanger me, also. He was always concerned someone else might be with him when they did get around to coming for him. That’s one of the reasons he refused to socialize with others or to attend public affairs or have his picture taken; he was afraid they would kill whomever was with him.”
“Why, then, did he haul kids around in his van? Wasn’t he worried about them being hurt?”
“Oddly enough,” explained Mrs. Bidwell, “the cartel wouldn’t intentionally harm children. Turns out at least part of their former religious upbringing still maintained some control over their useless, miserable lives. Possibly, it was a matter of honor not to harm children, but everyone else that lived and breathed had better watch out. Joseph loved every minute of being with those kids. Those young people brought great joy to his life, allowing him to not completely give up on mankind and its violent and selfish nature.”
Terrance took some time to ponder the decision now placed in his hands. What should I do? So many conflicting thoughts banged around in his brain. His most prevailing notion to dump the whole story remained consistent with his natural first inclination to always get up and run. He didn’t consider himself a real journalist. He worked only part-time, and he surely didn’t want to get hurt doing it. He only wanted to earn enough money to allow him to attend to law school. Ultimately, what purpose did he serve by printing all or even part of the story? It was all history now. It merely served to amuse the readers of the newspaper for a few days. But then, as always, their interest moved on to something else. Plus, all the main players in this affair, excepting the cartel members, died long ago, and no matter how much information he provided, they stayed beyond the law. They were unreachable except for their hard assets in this country.
He, likewise, didn’t relish destroying the reputation of a person who provided valuable services to the entire community for years. Even at his young age, he knew people needed role models, someone they could look up to. This guy fit that description to the letter. What happens when he exposes Joseph Right as an imposter? Everything he accomplished will be overshadowed by this new and incomplete information. The end result will be that the citizens of the community will become more cynical about government, community leader
s, and elected officials. Plus, they will have lost one of the few people they believed deserved their admiration and respect. All this for the sole purpose of providing the bottom feeders of society, the ones who read all the scandalous information they can get their hands on as often as they can, something new to gloat over for a few days.
But again, who am I to tell people what they should or should not think or read, questioned his still evolving value system. What if every newsman went around hiding important information from the public? Hasn’t that been tried before with horrible results in a number of cultures throughout history? One of the essential ingredients for a democracy is an informed citizenry. The people have a right to know what’s going on around them. It’s their responsibility to make responsible decisions about this information. Who appointed me censor over what information is good for them to hear, or not to hear? No one.
What if all reporters feared reporting certain stories because someone would get mad? What if they only reported the nice stuff that goes on? What happens to the informed society idea then? Throughout the history of this country and the world for that matter, brave men and women have gone forward, putting their personal safety on the line to bring all the news, to all the people. What right do I have to think I’m different?
Mrs. Bidwell sipped her coffee while observing Terrance wrestling with the issues confounding his decision. “Mr. Butler,” the sound of her voice broke the long silence, “there is, yet, one additional important matter I should inform you of before you make your decision.”
This admission of new information jolted Terrance from his mental turmoil. “Go on, I’m listening,” replied Terrance.
“Mr. Butler, this is a most delicate matter. Rest assured, I do not broach this subject lightly, but my conscience dictates that you should be informed of things that are of a very personal nature.” She halted as if awaiting her listener’s response.
Terrance didn’t disappoint her. “Mrs. Bidwell, I must know everything that you know about this. No matter what, please tell me. Our personal safety and the reputations of others are in the balance.”
Once again, Mrs. Bidwell delayed responding. When she did, it came with all the force of a locomotive. “In your report, you mentioned a young lady, a Miss Whitney McClain. What else, if anything did you learn about her?”
He did not expect this question. It floored him, and he needed to compose himself before answering. “I wanted to ask you about her, but with everything that’s going on I felt it would best be delayed until later. I have the eeriest feeling about this person. Is there something more you can tell me about her?”
Mrs. Bidwell ignored his question. “What caused you to begin asking yourself questions about Whitney?”
By now, Terrance had forgotten about the other matters. “I guess I first began to wonder when I saw her picture in the paper. Our facial features are practically identical, especially, our eyes. When the paper reported that she was a member of the society for people with different colored eyes, I began to wonder even more. Then I recalled the first time you and I met close up, in the light of day. You saw something that startled you when you saw my face up close. I’m sure of it. Later, I remember you asking me where I was from and about my parents, and I recalled telling you I was adopted. That’s when you mentioned the condition that described people who have different colored eyes. I was confused at the time, but now, I wonder if maybe you knew something all along.”
“Plus, the papers told about her being in Dallas for some length of time before she committed suicide. According to my adoptive parents, I was born in Dallas during that same period. Is it possible Whitney met someone in Dallas and ended up having a child she didn’t want? Is that what you’re going to tell me now?”
Without hesitation, Mrs. Bidwell responded. “No, it is not what I am going to tell you, and no, it is not possible she met someone and produced an unwanted child. According to the last decent person who knew her before she killed herself, she loved Howard Douglas up to the very end.”
“Then I don’t understand. What could she possibly have to do with this?” asked Terrance.
Before answering, Mrs. Bidwell went to her antique secretary sitting along the wall on the other side of the room and extracted a single piece of paper from a folder on the desk surface. She returned to the sofa and extended the piece of paper towards Terrance. “This will interest you.”
Terrance accepted the document and began to read it aloud. PARENTS DENIAL TO RELEASE INFORMATION TO ADULT ADOPTEE. TEXAS CENTRAL ADOPTION AGENCY. “She did have a child.” Born, May 1, 1979. “That’s my birthday, too, the day that I was born in Dallas.” Travis Howard McClain. “Was he named Howard because Howard Douglas was the father? But this would mean that she was pregnant when she left Harmony. But why would she do such a thing?” Terrance halted for a moment and looked to Mrs. Bidwell. “Am I right? What happened to make her leave? Please, you must tell me.”
Mrs. Bidwell once more ignored his question. “Are you ready to hear another story—a very sad story?”
Terrance merely nodded, too unnerved to speak.
“Very well, but before I begin, please finish reading the handwriting on the bottom of the document you have in your hand.”
Terrance complied without hesitation, and when finished, he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. A different Terrance Butler looked up ready to hear what came next in this ever-expanding tale of sorrow.
Mrs. Bidwell told Terrance the whole pathetic story. She told about Howard’s indiscretion in Mexico and how Richard set him up and used it to drive Whitney away to a place where she would never be found, except by Richard. She told Terrance about the baby born only six months after Whitney disappeared from Howard’s life, and how Richard pressured her until she finally relented and gave the baby up for adoption. The latter possibly playing a large part in the reason she committed suicide.
Then she went on to tell about the stranger who showed up the day of the funeral and told Howard the entire story of their betrayal by Richard while presenting him with the same piece of paper Terrance held in his hand. How Howard then determined he would exact retribution from all those responsible for ruining their lives, and how for the next three months, he went about making plans to do that.
She told about the Missouri connection, and how Howard pulled it off. Then finally, she related that Howard arrived in Kansas as the piece of paper in his hand suggested looking for two things: to locate the child conceived of his and Whitney’s love and to find a way to make a new life as best he could so he might observe this child from afar and stand prepared to step forward if it became necessary.
Terrance made no effort to respond. Rather, he sat quietly, attempting to digest all this new information. Though it would take more time to absorb everything, two things immediately stood out: Nothing was said about who killed Richard Whiting and most importantly, was he the birth child of Whitney McClain and Howard Douglas?
Terrance looked up seeking more answers only to be cut off as usual by the teller of this amazing tale. She responded to the questions he had not yet voiced. “I don’t know. He never told me. I suppose for security reasons he didn’t want me to know. Your being here right now is purely a matter of your good fortune or your bad fortune depending upon how you choose to look at it. And, I still don’t know who killed Richard Whiting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
