by Lisa Unger
He watched Matty Bauer being lifted onto the gurney from the collapsed hole in the ground. It was only about twenty feet down, but the light above looked far, far away. He shouldn’t even be down here. The other men had protested his decision; he was barely well enough to be back to work. But he had to go. If that hole was going to cave in on anyone, it was going to cave in on him. Buried alive. He was that already.
With Travis and Melody in jail, and Maggie and Elizabeth finally knowing the full truth of what happened to Sarah that night, Jones felt as though the sky above him was filled with enormous thunderheads, waiting for the slightest drop in pressure to fill his world with light and sound and sheets of rain. But there was only silence. They all held it close, he, Melody, and Travis. They wouldn’t, couldn’t, release their grip on the secrets they’d carried for so long. He suspected that none of them even knew how. The ugly truth of that night had woven itself into their individual self-narratives; none of them even knew who they were without it.
“You must confront and release this, Jones,” Maggie had said to him when he confessed to her. “You cannot carry it with you any longer. How you face it, what you need to do, is up to you. I support you.”
“You want me to tell someone the truth. Admit to the authorities what happened that night.”
She hadn’t answered right away. She’d looked small and sad sitting in the chair beside his bed. Even he didn’t know what the consequences would be, what he would have to answer for now, a lifetime later. It would be up to politicians and lawyers to decide who paid now for what. Sarah Meyer, Tommy Delano, Chief Crosby-even Sarah’s parents-were all dead and gone. Whom did it serve to dredge up the dead? Was it right to resurrect a horror just to ease his guilty conscience through confession and whatever punishment might be doled out? He would at least have to step down from his job, wouldn’t he?
He was guilty of cowardice, of inaction, of allowing an innocent man to be convicted of murder. But Tommy Delano was not an innocent man; he was innocent of murder but guilty of different things. He’d said himself in his letter to Eloise Montgomery that it was only a matter of time before he would fail to control his appetites. Maybe, in a sense, their silence had saved the lives of other girls. But, no, that was a wishful rationalization. They’d done wrong, pure and simple.
“I don’t know what I think you should do,” she’d said finally.
She’d pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged her legs, looked at him with wide eyes. There was something about her expression, like she was preparing herself to say good-bye.
“We’re coming for you, Detective. Hang in there.”
The voice above him brought him back to the moment.
“How’s Matty?” he called up. His words seemed to bounce and spiral. Every so often, small bits of dirt broke off from a ridge and rained down on him.
“He’s okay.” Jones wasn’t sure who was calling down to him. “He’s with his mama, on the way to the hospital.”
“Good. That’s good.”
It was cold and quiet down at the bottom of the hole. Jones found his mind clear here; he could think clearly for the first time in years. There was no place to hide in the quiet solitude, a place he’d avoided at all costs through the years. He always had the television or the radio on, a newspaper or a book in his hand, a glass of wine or beer on the table before him. He’d made a life out of avoiding himself, partaking of any and all of the daily distractions offered in a busy-addicted world. But he knew. He knew himself, knew what he was, knew what he was going to do. Had there ever been any question?
He’d toyed with all the options before him. When Leila Crosby (no, not Crosby; her married name was Leila Lane. Why could he never remember that?) had brought by the jacket she’d found while cleaning out her father’s place, he’d felt as though it had all come full circle. He saw that the jacket was as clean as the day he’d received it, not bloodied and covered with dirt, as he’d imagined all those years. The chief had lied. But it might as well have been soaked in gore; the sight of it made him sick, made him want to weep and scream in pain. He could barely keep himself together in front of Leila.
“What in the world was it doing there, Jones?”
“I have no idea. Maybe Travis took it? I lost a jacket in my senior year. Did my mom ever go ballistic, having to fork over another hundred and fifty dollars.” Lies came so easily to him; they always had.
He’d taken that jacket and shoved it in the bag still in Elizabeth’s attic, and then put the whole mess into the trunk of his car.
The rain was coming down harder, lightning strikes following one after the other, the thunder so constant it sounded like a freight train. It was gone, the bundle he’d been carrying around for a hundred years. It was down in the hole, covered with dirt, buried finally. He hadn’t thought ahead. He didn’t know how he’d explain to Maggie what he’d decided to do, didn’t know what her reaction would be to his cowardice. He figured she’d leave him. Not right away. She’d fight the good fight, try to reconcile his actions with her love for him. They’d go to counseling, fight and cry together. But, in the end, she’d leave him. It was just as well. He didn’t deserve her. He never had.
He turned to walk away from the hole and saw a slim, hooded form moving toward him. He looked around for another vehicle, but he didn’t see one, not that he could see much in the rain, with the lights from his truck casting everything beyond their beams into pitch-blackness. He rested his hand on his gun as the form drew nearer. It wasn’t until he was two feet away that Jones realized it was his son.
Ricky pulled back his hood. The rain had made his hair flat, washed some of the goop from it. It hung limp around his face. Jones thought Ricky looked just like he had when Jones used to lift him naked from the bath. Jones would dry his hair with a towel and kiss his face and belly and say, I love you so much, Ricky. And Ricky would throw his arms around Jones’s neck and say, I love you so much, too, Daddy. It was so easy to love each other then, when he was small. Jones could so easily manage all of Ricky’s needs then, help him with the simple things, like falling asleep alone and learning to pee standing up, comfort him through nightmares. He could chase his son around the house and play hide-and-seek for hours, things even Maggie didn’t always have the time or patience to do. He didn’t remember when that ease had left their relationship, when the stakes had suddenly seemed so high that he was afraid to appear soft, to let things slide.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
He didn’t know how to answer his son, so he just shook his head.
“I know everything,” Ricky said. He wiped some of the rain from his face and pulled his hood back up. A bolt of lightning lit the sky; the thunderclap that followed was weaker than the last. The rain was letting up.
“About what?” Jones couldn’t believe Maggie would tell him. She wouldn’t. Neither would Elizabeth. It wasn’t Ricky’s problem, his burden.
“Melody told Charlene about the accident,” Ricky said. “She told Charlene about how that girl Sarah died, and how you all kept quiet.”
Jones wanted to deny it, to push past his son and run away. But he couldn’t, not anymore. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to run. Instead he covered his eyes. How could he look into his own child’s face with such a stain on his heart?
“Dad, it wasn’t your fault.”
He felt his son’s hand on his arm, was surprised by how big and strong it felt. He remembered when he could hold Ricky in his open palms, a tiny bundle that barely weighed ten pounds.
“It was,” Jones said, looking at the boy now. He’d spent so much time trying to teach Ricky to take responsibility for himself and his actions. He had to do the same. “In so many ways it was more my fault than anyone’s. I was driving. I let Travis talk her into my car.” Jones had to stop for a second, his throat closing around the words. But then he went on.
“She didn’t want to go with us that night. But I let him push her into it. Later, I told her what Trav
is had said. It made her so angry. I was the lynchpin. If I had changed anything I’d done that night, she’d still be alive.”
“Dad.” Ricky lifted a hand to stop him, but Jones couldn’t keep the words from coming now.
“Then, after she fell, I drove us away from there. Melody and I, we left her in the park. I could have gone back for her. I tried to go back. But she was gone.”
Ricky put both his hands on Jones’s shoulders. “Dad, listen. Whatever you did, you didn’t kill that girl. It was an accident.”
“It’s not that simple. I…”
“Please listen, Dad,” Ricky said. “Later, after you’d gone, Charlene’s mom told her that Tommy Delano took Sarah’s body. He’d been following her. He was the one who did those things to her.”
Jones stared at his son, who was level and calm. Jones had never discussed this with anyone except Maggie; he could barely believe that somehow Ricky knew more than he did about the night that changed his life.
“No,” Jones said. “It was Travis and Chief Crosby who took her. They moved her body and they framed Tommy Delano. And still I kept quiet.”
“No, Dad. Charlene’s mom said that when the chief and Travis went back, they saw Tommy Delano putting her in his car. They let him take her.”
The rainfall had tapered to a drizzle. But they were both soaked to the skin. Jones could hear the thunder rumbling, moving farther away. He’d never allowed himself to dwell on what happened to Sarah, on whether Travis was capable of doing those things to her. He’d never wanted to know the ugly answers to the questions he had never dared to ask. He told his son as much.
“Dad, it was an awful thing, a terrible thing, that happened. But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill her. You didn’t violate her dead body. You made mistakes. Okay. But you have to stop punishing yourself now. It’s time.”
Jones almost couldn’t stand to hear the words. Would he be so understanding, so forgiving, with his son? He knew that he wouldn’t.
“I should have said something,” Jones said. His voice sounded as faint and powerless as regret itself. “At least I should have done that.”
Ricky dropped his hands from Jones’s shoulders, dug them deep into his pockets. “Maybe you were scared,” Ricky said. “Maybe you didn’t have anyone to help you be strong, Dad. You were just a kid, younger than I am now.”
Jones looked at the wet ground. Was it so easy for Ricky to forgive him? He didn’t have any words for the son who was already twice the man Jones had ever been.
“Do you remember when I stole that CD from Sound Design?” Ricky asked. “I was like, twelve. It fell out of my jacket when I got into the car, and you knew I didn’t have any money. You made me take it back. Remember? You told me I’d never enjoy a moment of listening to it, knowing that I’d stolen it.”
Jones did remember. He remembered the shock of seeing the CD, the wave of disappointment he felt. But most of all he remembered the fear. He was so afraid that he’d failed his son somehow, that he’d passed along some defect of character that had allowed Ricky to steal something he wanted rather than ask for it or work for it. He didn’t remember the words he’d used with his son, but he knew they’d been hard, even cruel. He remembered the stricken look on Ricky’s face. He’d never forgotten it.
“So I had to go in alone, give the CD back and apologize. I hated you for that then. I thought it was stupid and mean because no one would have ever known better. And, you know what? I would have enjoyed that CD, every last track. But I understand now that you were right. Of course you were. But maybe you didn’t have anyone to help you stand up and own up. If you hadn’t forced me to take back that CD, I wouldn’t have. Not ever. And maybe I would have stolen again, and again, until I got caught. And maybe then I’d have paid a higher price than just a little embarrassment.”
When did his kid get so smart? Jones wondered. He reached out to touch Ricky’s face, felt his smooth cheek. Jones let his hand drop to Ricky’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He wanted to pull his son into his arms and hold him close, kiss his head. Why was it so hard? With something like effort, he took the boy in a tight embrace. He held on for a second, but then he had to pull back, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
“It’s too late for me, Ricky. And I don’t feel like I deserve your kindness right now.”
Ricky stared at his father with wide eyes. “You saved her.”
“Who?”
“Charlene. She said you came on that boat and carried her off. She said she’d never been so happy to see anyone, that when she saw you, she knew she was finally safe. You helped that kid out of the well, even though you’re still hurt.”
“It’s my job. That’s what I do.”
“Yeah, but not everybody could do that job. Mom’s right. She said you care about people, you help people, that’s who you are.”
Jones didn’t know what to say to the kid, so he just stood there, studying his face. Ricky looked so much like Maggie, fine-featured with big, intelligent eyes. Maggie was right about a lot of things, like how he hadn’t really looked at his son in years, could only see the things that angered him. He could see now that Ricky possessed all his mother’s wisdom and kindness, her desire to fix and save.
“How did you find me?” Jones said.
“We followed you to Grandma’s house, then here. We weren’t sure what you were going to do. But we wanted to be with you when you did it. We tried to call you a couple of times. But you didn’t answer.”
Ricky turned and pointed to the SUV that had pulled up behind Jones’s vehicle. Jones hadn’t seen it at first through the driving rain. Maggie stepped out of the car, looked up at the clearing sky.
“Mom didn’t tell me anything,” Ricky said. “I came to her with the things Charlene said. We wanted you to know, thought it would help you come to terms with things. We wanted you to hear it from us.”
As the rain stopped completely, Jones felt a coalescence, a melding of the facets of his life. Everything that he was-a husband and father, a deeply flawed man-and everything that he had been-a high school football star, his mother’s angry son, a frightened boy without the strength to do what was right-merged there before his wife and son. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was not afraid.
30
It was only his second day as a full-time writer and Charlie was already sure he had made a mistake. Wanda had helped him fix up his apartment, clean and organize, so that the second bedroom could become his office. She’d helped him buy a desk and pick out a new computer.
“You’re still young, Charlie. You have some money saved. Stop wasting your time killing rodents and give this a chance. Finish your novel and try to sell it. What have you got to lose? It’s not like you’re on a career fast track.”
“I don’t know, Wanda.”
“You’ll regret it if you don’t. It’s one thing to try and fail. It’s another thing to never try at all. That’s the stuff that eats you alive.”
What was it about that woman? Everything she said sounded like gospel to him. But now that he was alone with the blank page, the glowingly empty screen of his brand-new computer, the silence of his apartment, he felt desperate, inadequate in the extreme. He wasn’t a writer. It was just a fantasy he had about himself. On reading the novel he’d been writing for the better part of ten years, he couldn’t believe how terrible it was. How could he have ever thought he was any good? He called his mother.
“So how’s the writing life?” she asked.
“Miserable.”
She gave an indulgent chuckle. “Oh, my tortured artist.”
“Maybe they’ll give me my job back.”
“Day two and already you’re hanging it up?” She made a tsking sound with her tongue.
“Mom?”
“What is it, honey?”
“What do you remember about her?”
There was a pause on the line, and then he heard her release a breath.
“Lily? It was
a long time ago. I guess I remember that she always looked so sad. She was a tiny thing, so delicate, with such a soft voice. But that sadness inside her, it was angry, powerful.”
He had forgotten what she looked like, in a strange way. Her essence was still with him-he could smell the scent of her skin, remember the way she said his name. But in the few pictures he had of her, she didn’t look like he remembered her. In the pictures, she looked like any suburban girl with a cheap haircut and a knit sweater, just a kid. In his mind, she was a luminous beauty who stopped his heart with only a certain kind of look she had.
“Did you ever doubt me? Did you ever think I could have hurt her?”
“Never. Not for a minute. I know my boy. Your love is good and sweet, Charlie. You don’t have an unkind bone in your body.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Is that what you’re writing about?”
He flopped down on his bed and laid his head on top of one of the new pillows Wanda had picked out. It was a silvery gray with thin embroidered stripes, an accent to the navy comforter and matching drapes. She’d made him take all his old books from their boxes and stack them on shelves and in artful piles around the apartment. A writer’s home should be full of books. For inspiration.
“In a way, I am. But all that stuff that happened here, that girl who was abducted, the one I saw on the street? That has kind of captured my imagination, too.”
“Another missing girl. I see a theme.”
He told her about the rest of the story, how Charlene’s mother, and the father of the boy who’d abducted Charlene as well as a Hollows detective, had confessed to events that had led to the accidental death of a girl back in the late eighties. How another man had been convicted of her murder and then committed suicide in prison.
