The Sinners' Garden

by William Sirls

“What do you think Kevin will say?” Judi asked.

  Rip shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “What is happening around here?” Heather said. “Between the iPod and those flowers out there at McLouth . . . something’s up.”

  “Wow,” Rip said. “You should be a detective.”

  “Shut up, Rip,” Heather said and nudged Judi. “Andy say anything else strange today?”

  Judi didn’t answer. She was just staring at a different album, and Heather could see that the page was loaded with old pictures of Judi and Todd. She looked over at Rip, who just shook his head.

  Heather leaned over and closed the album on Judi’s lap. “I think we need to have us a little bonfire and ditch some bad memories.”

  “Amen,” Rip said. “But again, that would make too much sense. And we don’t trade in good sense in this household.”

  Judi smiled mirthlessly. “You minding your own business would probably make sense too.” She pointed at the basement door. “As it would have then. We’ll never find hinges that match.”

  “What I did was wrong,” Rip said. “I’ve said it a hundred times now. I screwed up that night. But you didn’t. That is the truth, and the sooner you realize—”

  “Hang on,” Heather said, regretting what she was about to say before she said it. “I’m not all that sure what you did was wrong, Rip. Judi was getting hurt.”

  “Great!” Judi yelled. The only fight Judi seemed to have left in her came when she defended Todd. “I was getting hurt, yes, but what followed has hurt way worse than that!” She pushed away the albums and stood up, walking to the window.

  Heather cringed and then she said carefully, “If I didn’t tell Rip what was happening, Todd would’ve continued to hurt you. Eventually he would’ve left, or you would’ve finally left him. Why don’t you understand that?”

  “Did you see his face, Heather? What my brother did to my husband’s face?” She shook her head, eyes bright with tears, as if she were reliving that terrible night.

  Rip stood and walked up right behind Judi. “How about what he did to Andy’s face?”

  Rip had a good point. The only point. But Heather had also seen Todd’s face. She saw it well before Judi did. Even before Todd was in the hospital.

  When Heather told Rip about Judi’s bruises, Rip had planned on waiting for a time when Judi and Andy wouldn’t be home, but when he saw Andy get hit with the boiling water and Todd holding the pan, things changed.

  Nobody except Rip and Judi, maybe not even Todd, knew exactly what had happened that day.

  Heather arrived at the scene and rode with Todd in the ambulance. When he finally woke up in the hospital, Todd said he could only recall running down to the basement to hide from someone, and then hearing somebody kick in the basement door.

  Heather wasn’t all that surprised that somebody had convinced Todd that it probably wasn’t in his best interest to press charges against Rip or even have the matter looked into further. Rip hung with a little different crowd in those days, and she couldn’t recall any of them carrying Bibles.

  “How many times are we gonna go over this?” Judi said, covering her face with her hands. She started to cry in earnest.

  Heather got up and went to Judi. She put her arm around her and whispered, “It isn’t fair what you have been doing to yourself. Blaming yourself. Almost reveling in taking the blame. It’s been out of control for years and is only getting worse. You aren’t happy anymore unless you are unhappy.”

  Judi sucked in her breath. “What are you talking about?” she asked between her fingers.

  Heather took her hand and looked at her. “I love you like a sister. But I can’t watch you play the martyr anymore. You aren’t to blame for that terrible night. For not protecting Andy. Not even for not protecting Todd.”

  “But if Rip hadn’t—” Judi began.

  “If Rip hadn’t beaten your husband, would he still be here? Think about that, Judi. Would that be good? Really?”

  Judi tore away from her and sat down again.

  “When are you gonna let Rip off the hook?” Heather asked.

  Rip came over and kneeled in front of Judi. He had compassion in his voice as he touched her knee. “When are you going to let yourself off the hook?”

  “Enough!” Judi said as Andy came through the door. The poor kid was so used to Judi’s drama that he didn’t even flinch.

  “What’s going on now?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Andrew,” Judi said. “Go wash your face, honey.”

  “Go wash yours,” Andy said as he walked by. But when he approached the staircase, he came to a dead stop. Heather noticed the odd way in which he was looking at his iPod. Like he was protecting it. He put in an earbud and headed up the stairs.

  “Look at this one,” Heather said, grabbing an album again, trying for a quick subject change until Andy was out of hearing distance. She tapped on a photo. “Isn’t he cute?”

  In the photo, a group of kids, including her and Judi, surrounded a blindfolded Rip. They were all under ten years old and were in the backyard at the Harts’ house, celebrating little Kevin’s birthday. Rip was smiling and two-handing a wooden bat, standing under a Scooby-Doo piñata.

  “I still am cute,” Rip said, pointing at the two men who were sitting at a table in the background of the picture. It was her dad and Walter Hart, Kevin’s father.

  Heather touched the photo again and nudged Judi, relenting. She knew her friend had had enough pressing for one night. “Did your baby brother tell you that I visited him last week?”

  “No,” Judi said, a little surprised. “About what?”

  Heather smiled at Rip. Thanks for keeping it between us.

  “About them,” she said. Her finger was right beneath her father and Mr. Hart. “Mostly about my dad.”

  “What about them?”

  “Tell her, Rip,” Heather said.

  “We were talking about her father being in heaven.”

  Heather liked the way that sounded. She wanted to believe that all of those chats her father had with Mr. Hart had finally made him a believer. But how much progress Mr. Hart had made . . . only Dad and God knew, so that big block of doubt sat in her gut like a rock.

  “Of course, you’d have to talk to Rip about that instead of me,” Judi said. “He’s Mr. Advice about everything lately.”

  “Hey,” Heather said. “He’s trying to help you. We just want you to get on with your life.”

  “I’m just fine,” Judi said as Andy came back downstairs, one of the earbuds of his iPod in, as usual. He was wearing his light-blue pajama bottoms and maize and blue T-shirt that had Michigan Wolverines on the front. He walked around the couch and stopped directly in front of Heather. He had a glassy look on his face when he pointed down at the album.

  “That’s when we were little kids,” Heather said, grinning at Andy. “Right there is your Uncle Rip.”

  Andy leaned over and placed his finger on the picture and said, “They are able.”

  “Huh?” Heather said. “That was my daddy and Kevin Hart’s daddy.”

  Andy just stared at her. He dropped to his knees in front of her and placed his finger on the photo again, right beneath her father and Mr. Hart.

  “Heather Marie,” he said.

  “Here we go,” Rip said.

  “What is it, Andy?” Heather asked.

  Andy’s eyes were closed. A peaceful smile quickly came and went and then he opened his eyes and tapped on the photo again.

  “They are able.”

  Heather looked at Judi. It was only a three-word sentence, but Andy sounded like someone else.

  “They are able to what?” Rip said.

  Andy’s eyes blinked quickly. He looked around the room and suddenly came across dazed, reminding Heather of someone who had just come out of a concussion.

  “I just did it again, didn’t I?” Andy said.

  “Yeah,” Rip said, glancing over at Heather, then back to Andy.

  “
What did I say this time?” Andy whispered.

  “More importantly,” Rip said, “who told you to say it?”

  “I don’t know,” Andy said. He showed the iPod in his open palm and then held up an earbud. “But whoever it was told me through this.”

  Kevin Hart stared at the bottle of scotch and wondered what in the world could possibly be in it that made it worth nine hundred dollars. Probably not his smartest purchase ever, but he got a nice charge out of the heads that turned at the country club when he outbid Jack Summers for it at the Benning Scholarship dinner a few weeks back.

  “Try to outbid me, Jacko,” he said and laughed. He opened the bottle and poured a half glass of it onto a few ice cubes before walking out the door and onto the deck outside his master bedroom.

  He enjoyed alone time, and other than the door being closed at the office, he got little of it. He glanced out over his backyard and onto Lake Erie, where the moon and stars cast smears of light on the water, giving it a glass-like effect. A little breeze came in from the east and he took a deep breath, reminding himself of the busy night ahead and the one thing he absolutely couldn’t afford to do.

  Get caught.

  After all, what would people think?

  He knew nobody would ever suspect him of it, particularly Carrie. Even after ten years of marriage, she still looked good, and he would pay whatever it took to keep her that way. Still, she was dumber than a bag of hammers and didn’t have the faintest idea what he was up to. Nobody did, and he planned on keeping it that way. Still, he couldn’t help himself from thinking about what Andy had said to him this time at church.

  Does Ripley know what is going on? How? And has he been telling that little nephew of his to say these things to me . . . things that he doesn’t have the guts to say to my face?

  He shook it off. That type of nuance would have been long lost among the tar and bong resin that caked Ripley’s brain. Still, the thought of pink-slipping the pothead danced through his mind like a happy little dream. But as good as it sounded, it wouldn’t look good. Too many people were buying into Ripley’s born-again spiel and it would ruin all the goodwill he had gained from being the only employer in the county to give Ripley anything that even resembled a real job.

  Regardless, that ex-con wouldn’t dare call me out on any funny business, because credibility is on my side . . . and the whole town loves me.

  He sipped his scotch and closed his eyes. It tasted amazing.

  He turned around to look at the bottle and saw Carrie entering the bedroom. She looked like a million bucks and he laughed under his breath. I probably put half that amount into her. It was worth it, though. At least some of the time.

  “We’re having dinner at the club on Tuesday,” she said, catching sight of him.

  “For what?”

  “Some preplanning for the Cochran girl’s fund-raiser. The insurance company isn’t even considering coverage for that surgery she needs. Poor thing.”

  “I’ll probably be working on Tuesday night.”

  “I’m going to pick up a dress for it.” She said it as if she hadn’t heard him, and even if she had, it didn’t matter all that much.

  Hart shook his head. “You mean buy another ‘one and done’ dress to go with the other three closetfuls?”

  She gave him a long, doleful look. “It’s less expensive than thirty million, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t say anything. He’d never hit a woman in his life, but a big part of him wanted to backhand that smirk right off her face. Besides, she was right. He was pretty sure that Michigan divorce laws split everything down the middle and she’d clearly been paying attention to their monthly statements.

  “I’ve got to run to the office for a little bit,” he said.

  “Working late again on a Sunday?” she said, her tone slightly more conciliatory. “You’ve been at it quite a bit lately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, giving up. “See you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said.

  “No hurry,” she said.

  No hurry, he thought. That was good, because he had another busy night carefully mapped out in his head.

  Another one where he wouldn’t get caught.

  It was going perfectly.

  The door on the side of the garage had been left partially open, and picking the lock that led into the house from there was a breeze. He shook his head and laughed under his breath. I’m getting pretty good at this, but soon it will all be over.

  He carefully stepped into the house and listened. At their age, he was certain they were fast asleep. No lights were on. He adjusted his black ski mask and pulled the tiny flashlight out of the pocket of his black pants. He twisted it, and a tight little cone of light cut through the darkness, giving him a decent view of the kitchen—a small table, a tiny island counter, and the reflection of his light off the shiny wood cupboards. He stopped and waited, listening for any movement upstairs. He heard nothing and smiled. He backpedaled into the garage and picked up the wheelchair. He hoped it would make a difference. He carefully walked back into the house and placed it right in the middle of the kitchen. He stepped back to the door and lifted his arm, watching the black glove on his hand move slowly through the darkness as he made the sign of the cross.

  And then he left.

  THIRTEEN

  Would you consider him to be dangerous?” she asked.

  Brianna Bruley was clearly just out of college and close to six feet tall. Despite being so young and new at her job, Heather was just as impressed with her as she was the first time they had met in the small office the station called the “media room.” The reporter actually sounded more like an employee from the Wall Street Journal than the Benning Weekly, whose couple thousand readers were probably going to eat up this story about Benning’s dark-clothed prowler just as much as they had the last one.

  “Of course he’s dangerous,” Heather answered, studying the playing card–size tape recorder that sat on the desk in front of her. Something about the little red light that flashed made her nervous. She picked her words carefully before answering. “Anytime someone enters a house uninvited, it should be perceived as a threat.”

  “It’s almost as if we have a Robin Hood among us,” Brianna said. “First, $5K in gift cards, then the Little League equipment, and now a custom wheelchair?”

  Heather didn’t mention the new tires that magically showed up on old Mrs. Coventry’s car or the bicycles that Eric Bower’s kids were now riding. If this story got too big, it wouldn’t look good for the department, and it wouldn’t look good for Heather, who was already skating on thin ice with Chief Reynolds for her car “looking like it was in a demolition derby.” She reconsidered Brianna’s statement.

  “No Robin Hood here,” Heather said. “At least in the stealing-from-the-rich-to-give-to-the-poor sense. These things weren’t reported stolen.” She narrowed her gaze. “But that still doesn’t give this person the right to break into people’s houses.”

  “Right. But you agree that he is more of a Santa Claus, per se? Shows up at night and only leaves things?”

  Heather shrugged. “Looks that way.” She knew Brianna was gunning to bolster her Summer Santa moniker. Heather couldn’t blame the kid. It was kinda catchy.

  “Now the obvious question,” the reporter said. “Why not just give these things to people, instead of doing it the way he is?”

  “That’s the question everyone is asking,” Heather said, standing. It was time to end the interview. Short and sweet, that’s the way Chief Reynolds liked it. “What’s important is that we catch him, and we will. Because whoever this person is, despite his generosity, he is still breaking the law.”

  “Maybe this person wants to get caught,” Brianna said.

  “What do you mean?” Heather asked.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Heather thought about it. “Why?”r />
  “Just thinking out loud,” the woman said. She crossed her arms and Heather got a good look at the Rolex. Nice watch for a rookie reporter.

  “Something makes you think that,” Heather said. “Please share.”

  “Just a hunch,” Brianna said. “Kind of like he is trying to do some good to make up for some bad. Maybe it’s this person’s way of balancing some scale in his personal life. That’s the type of person I’d be looking for. Oh, that and the fact that this person also has to have some pretty deep pockets. Just saying.”

  Heather smiled. “You ever thought about being a cop?”

  “No.”

  “You should,” Heather said.

  “I don’t like guns.”

  Me either, Heather thought. She was also thinking about scales and deep pockets. Make that one deep pocket.

  Kevin Hart’s.

  Rip took the change and dropped it in the tip bucket that rested against the serving window at the Dairy Queen. He grabbed his butterscotch sundae in his left hand, Andy’s banana split in his right, and turned toward his nephew, who had been peeking over his shoulder the whole time. Now that Andy was out of school for the summer, Rip wanted to make sure that he and Andy got together at least a couple times a week during Rip’s lunch hour, and today Andy had hit the lottery.

  Chelsea Cochran was the girl behind the counter.

  “Here you go, Rico Suave,” Rip said, handing Andy the banana split. “Why don’t you say something to her?”

  Andy looked at him like he was crazy and Rip laughed. They went and sat at a picnic table that was shaded by a pair of trees at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Uncle Rip,” Andy said. “What’s up with this Santa dude?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read about him in the paper. And then Mom was talking about him with Heather,” he said, stabbing at his banana split with his spoon. “I think it’s pretty cool what he’s doing. You know, wearing a mask and giving people stuff.”

  “Nothing wrong with helping people out.”

  “I heard Mom say she thinks it’s Mr. Hart, but she’s probably just being weird like usual.”