Jeff’s eyes dropped to the legal pad in front of him. “God, Ronnie. Yes, okay? If you’ll let me get some work done here, I’ll be ready.”
She had her answer and walked away.
Are you moving out like you said you would? Now, sitting in the fire hall, Ronnie could only hope these weren’t the last words she’d ever say to him.
Ronnie propped her forehead on her hands.
“I know where he is,” Ronnie told the policeman. “He’s in the farm store. In the back office.”
The officer left the room. The boys, done giving their statements, had noticed a TV remote and asked an officer for permission to watch something on the set situated over the bar. They flipped through the basic network channels, changing every time a news show came on. With few choices, they settled on a Live! With Kelly and Michael segment on extreme sports: “How far will we go?” Their grandmothers looked on, as if grateful for the distraction.
While they were occupied, an officer came to Ronnie with new information from the farm. “Our men broke down the office door in the farm store and found Jeff sitting at the desk.”
Right where Ronnie had pictured him.
“He was holding the shotgun with its stock on his thigh, pointing into the air.”
Ronnie sat taller. “And?”
The police had instructed Jeff to lower his weapon. He had.
He’d held the butt to his shoulder, lowered the gun, and trained it on the officer’s forehead.
10:00 a.m.
ronnie
The air stirred as Corporal McNichol strode into the room in a no-nonsense brown suit and black oxfords. She had an energy about her that said she was ready to run a marathon. Finally, someone who could get things done.
“Veronica Farnham?” she said.
Ronnie cringed at the name she’d been saddled with simply because her hormone-crazed mother had hooked up with a man in an alley behind a bar. At least that’s how she envisioned it. Her mother had a more romantic version, always delivered wistfully: “I went to the shore and fell in love at Veronica’s Grotto.” Apparently the man split by summer’s end, but his permanent impact had already taken root in Ronnie’s mother’s womb. Her whole life Ronnie had tried to find ways to bond with her missing father to distance herself from the notion that “Veronica” was simply an unintended souvenir of a vacation gone wrong.
“Everyone calls me Ronnie.”
The corporal extended her hand. “I’m the commander of the Special Emergency Response Team.”
“What’s that?” Janet said. She and Beverly moved toward the woman as if reporting for duty.
“SERT is a team of state police negotiators and tactical officers trained to deal with hostage situations.”
“Well, there’s no hostage.” Janet stood taller and straightened her Hello Kitty sweatshirt. Ronnie explained that Janet was Jeff’s mother.
When Corporal McNichol spoke again, it was with a markedly gentler voice. “I’ve been briefed by the officers on the scene. In a way, ma’am, your son is holding himself hostage. We’d like to get Jeff out of there, safe and sound.” She pulled out a chair for Janet and motioned for the other women to sit. “I have an update.”
“Is the officer okay?” Ronnie couldn’t wait another minute without knowing. “The one who found Jeff?”
“Jeff allowed him to back away and shut the door.”
Ronnie shook her head. “This is such a mess.” All the years Jeff had kept those guns locked in the house, never using them, but refusing to get rid of them—why? In reserve for this?
“It’s not uncommon for a person in this kind of situation to turn his weapon on the police,” Corporal McNichol said. “They have a name for it—”
The corporal clearly intended to say more but stopped short. The women leaned in. Ronnie prompted, “Which is?”
Corporal McNichol glanced over to Janet, then back to Ronnie, and said quietly, “Suicide by police.”
That must be hard for Janet to hear. Ronnie looked at her mother-in-law, but both of the older women seemed absorbed in their own thoughts.
“When Jeff was located, the situation changed from a manhunt to a standoff. That’s why we were called in. At the moment, the situation is stable—”
An angry scream erupted from two tables away. “Stop!”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You are kicking me, over and over!”
“Boys!” Ronnie snapped. The boys, Beverly, and Janet all turned to Ronnie, as if each were surprised that anyone else was sitting in this room. “Please. I need you to be good.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Andrew said.
“Neither did I!”
“I know,” Ronnie said quietly. “I know.”
“Hey, Mom,” Andrew said, pointing to the television over the bar. “Isn’t that our house? Look—there’s the store, and our house, and the swinging tree—”
“And the barn and the tool shed. And the woods,” Will said, joining in. To get a closer look, the boys went over and stood on the brass foot rail and clung to the edge of the bar. Ronnie could barely stand watching them belly up to it.
Ronnie moved to turn off the set as the boys identified Mr. Eshbach’s home up the road, the Schulzes’ across the street, and the woods down below. She was glad to see the boys’ natural enthusiasm restored, but she couldn’t have them watching this. As she reached for the remote, Will said, “But why are the soldiers there?”
“Soldiers? Where?” Ronnie paused and studied the scene before her, transfixed. This was her husband, their neighborhood, their mess. Now, perhaps, their war. How could she turn away?
“Where the leaves are moving.”
“Those are my men,” Corporal McNichol said. “Damn reporters. Does Jeff have access to a TV in your office?”
Ronnie shook her head no, never tearing her eyes from the screen. She sensed her mother and Janet drifting toward her, past the nearby table where Mr. Eshbach sat. She wondered if they too were trying to catch a glimpse of Jeff through the farm store office window. Ronnie wanted to rip the lens from the cameraman’s hand and zoom in.
“We have breaking news about the footage you are seeing,” said the news anchor. Ronnie felt relieved to hear the earnest voice of Rob White, who had so far impressed her with his balanced news coverage. “An armed, despondent man has holed up in the office of his family’s business and engaged with officers dispatched from two local barracks, state police, and Special Emergency Response Troops, in what a spokesman is now calling a suicide standoff…”
Do not identify him, Rob White. Please leave us our privacy.
A circle appeared around their farm store. “It is confirmed that the individual in question is Jeffrey Farnham, age fifty. He’s the son of deceased Schuylkill Valley Sports Hall of Famer Jerry Farnham, who turned around a losing Potts Forge High School basketball team to win a number of state championships over a thirty-five-year career. Jerry Farnham also developed and administered a countywide summer playground program still in existence today. The younger Farnham has locked himself inside the store on the property, New Hope Farms, which sells organic vegetables in Bartlesville, Pennsylvania. He is armed with a shotgun. The family is safe and under police protection at an undisclosed location. Neighbors who were away when the barricades went up have not been allowed to return to their homes.”
It was not lost on Ronnie that White, who still straddled the divide between substitute anchor and weatherman, had been assigned to the story. In the larger scheme of things, Jeff was not important. Even though right now he commanded the community’s attention and Ronnie’s entire world, it would seem from this report that the most significant thing about Jeff was his relationship to his father.
“Earlier this morning, when Farnham’s whereabouts were unknown, officials locked down nearby Hitchman Elementary as a s
afety measure and canceled recess for the day.”
“There’s our school!” Will said, pointing at the screen.
“Parents with cell phones will receive texts concerning how this will affect afternoon bus service, and of course we will break into regularly scheduled programming with updates as events unfold. Again, a despondent Jeffrey Farnham has…”
Behind Ronnie, her mother-in-law said, “They’ve got it wrong.”
Ronnie too was already arguing with the report. Jeff would never—could never—walk all the way to the elementary school. That was over three hilly miles away. His bad knee would stop him. And he was drunk. He’d more likely curl up somewhere and take a nap.
Janet said, “He’s not fifty. He’ll be forty-eight next week. I ordered his cake.”
Two dozen SERT troops, Will’s “soldiers,” looking like dull green ants on the aerial view, swarmed onto the farm. Another shot zoomed in on the horrific details: sidearms strapped to their thighs. Pockets swollen with ammunition. Camouflage uniforms whose jackets were 3-D leafy and said POLICE across the back. Pants tucked into laced-up boots. All the men wore bulletproof vests, helmets, and goggles. Out in front of the store, troops crouched behind black body shields. Others took cover behind Ronnie’s house and outbuildings and trained the telescopic sights of their rifles on the doors and windows of the store office.
Ronnie turned her sons away from the screen.
Will strained to turn back. “What’s going on there? What are they doing to Dad?”
Behind them, Rob White announced the return to regular programming. The disbelief Ronnie felt was reflected on the faces of her mother and mother-in-law. Bile rose within Ronnie’s throat against the background of Rachael Ray’s perky, raspy voice: “So is it possible to cook a delicious meal with items from a dollar store? We’ll see! On today’s show, two chefs go spatula to spatula—”
Someone on Jeff’s side had to take charge.
Ronnie went to the bar, hit the remote, and returned to Corporal McNichol. “You’ve got to put an end to this,” she said. “It’s too much. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“We aren’t here to engage with him. We’re here to encourage him to stand down.”
“That would not be my guess if I were looking out that office window.”
Corporal McNichol laid her hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “We have a lot of experience with situations like this—more than any of us have ever wanted to have. These conflicts can end peacefully. Our negotiators are compassionate people who will do all they can to appeal to your husband. But we have procedures we have to follow.”
“Like what? What are you doing?” Beverly said.
“For one, we’ve issued a mental health warrant for Jeffrey.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” Janet said.
Corporal McNichol turned to the boys. “We adults have to discuss a few things here. Why don’t you two go play?”
Andrew looked around the hall. “Where?”
“With what?” Will added. “We don’t even have a ball.”
“Come on, Will, use your imagination,” Ronnie said, hoping her son had more creative energy to tap than she did at present.
Andrew circled to Corporal McNichol’s side. “Can we have a piece of paper?”
“Sure.” Corporal McNichol flipped to a fresh sheet and ripped it off the pad.
“Three would be even better,” Will added.
The corporal smiled and obliged. Andrew wadded the papers together and told his brother to go long. Soon they were tossing the makeshift ball back and forth, making the happy sounds of the recess their classmates had been denied during the school lockdown.
“Boys,” Mr. Eshbach said, pulling himself to his feet. Ronnie wondered if he knew their names—he even referred to his deceased spouse as “the wife.” The boys paused as he waddled over, no doubt expecting a reprimand. He patted his ribs. “I believe I could use some exercise too.” Andrew lobbed the ball in his direction. The old man caught it with a deft snatch and a smile and encouraged the boys to relocate the game to the other end of the room.
“Why don’t we sit back down?” Corporal McNichol said.
“You mentioned a mental health warrant,” Ronnie said.
“Yes. It’s for people like Jeff who need immediate intervention because they are at serious risk of harming themselves or others. The warrant allows us to take Jeff into custody, evaluate him, and get him the help he needs.”
“That sounds good,” Janet said.
“My god, Janet, you sound like this is a new idea,” Ronnie said. “I’ve been trying to get him help for some time now and you keep acting like I’m hysterical. You only believe it once the state police swarm in?”
“Now calm down, Sunshine,” Beverly said. “We’re all on the same team here.”
Ronnie turned to Corporal McNichol. “There’s something you need to know.”
Janet said, “That’s enough, Ronnie. It won’t do any good to air private affairs.”
Ronnie deflected the slice of Janet’s glare. “This isn’t the first time he’s threatened to kill himself.”
ronnie
Six weeks ago, in early September, Ronnie sought out Jeff to talk more about the divorce. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even secured legal representation, and Ronnie, who had already put off this decision way too long, wanted to formalize their separation. But she and the boys were having a typically crazy day. Even the pages of her journal couldn’t center her that day, the lists and notes in the margins outweighing the prose: Finish bulk grain and seed purchase order for store, line up interviews for next article, muck horse stalls. (Why isn’t Jeff doing this anymore? Should we sell horses?) To ensure his sobriety, she invited Jeff along for the ride to the day’s activities, round two: after-school Tae Kwon Do, a quick dinner, and parent-teacher night. He was all too willing to oblige.
Baiting him with the pretense of togetherness threatened the inner balance she’d fought for with years of journaling and weeks of counseling, but effective communication was impossible through alcohol’s haze. If manipulation was required to keep booze out of the equation that night, so be it.
But Jeff was so good at pulling her off the rails. To get through the night, she needed some small symbol of her commitment to self, something to fortify her through the few hours of playacting required. And so, after a moment of hesitation, she slipped off her wedding rings and left them in her jewelry box.
That evening, Ronnie sat with Jeff and Will in a line of folding chairs waiting for Andrew at Tae Kwon Do. As always, Ronnie watched the class. Jeff, apparently, was watching Ronnie.
“Where are your rings?”
For years he had ignored her in every way that counted; Ronnie was surprised he’d even noticed. She hadn’t meant to make a public statement. As kindly as she could, she said, “Let’s talk tonight, Jeff. At home, like we planned.”
After Tae Kwon Do, they got drive-through burgers and ate on the way to parent-teacher night. Ronnie—and Jeff too, she was sure—pretended to listen to the teachers and look at the projects on the wall, slapping smiles over twisting guts and draining hearts. When they finally got home and Jeff declined her invitation to join in on the boys’ bedtime rituals, she skipped reading the boys a book by promising two the next night.
Ronnie rejoined him in the living room. He sat on the love seat; she sat on the couch.
Jeff spoke first.
“I was going to shoot myself tonight.”
She wasn’t sure she heard him right. He wasn’t hysterical. He could have been saying, I was going to watch football, but the Eagles weren’t playing. Ronnie couldn’t focus on the magnitude of what he was saying; she got stuck on the word “shoot.”
It only took another moment to add it up: he’d already come up with a plan, and it involved a gun.
“What do you
mean, ‘I was going to’?”
“I wrote a note at work and put it in my pocket. I thought you’d find it when you did the wash, but it was still there when I put on my pants for work today.” All Ronnie could think was, He thinks I go through his pockets? Even the kids knew to police their own pockets before putting them in the laundry or face the potential loss of their contents. She didn’t have time for such nonsense.
“Come with me,” he said, leaning forward but not standing when Ronnie didn’t move.
She couldn’t. Her spinal fluid had turned into a thick, cold paste. The golden wall color they’d so carefully chosen—“Daybreak”—mocked them as the room took on a darker hue. “Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
Ronnie stalled. “How could you think of doing something like that? What about Andrew and Will?”
“They’ve always been your kids, not mine.”
What? She and Jeff had wanted those boys so badly. After persevering through two miscarriages, they’d been so grateful when their sons arrived. And he’d lavished them with attention, changing diapers and cuddling with them and buying them toys they could play with together. When had all that changed?
“The boys will be fine,” he said, as if already speaking from the far side of the grave.
“Is that how you would have felt if your dad offed himself? Fine?” The air thinned; she panted for oxygen. “My god, Jeff, you gave them life! You’re wrong. They would never get over it.”
He shook his head, as if she were working from the wrong script. “You’ll help them through.”
The more Jeff had counted on Ronnie to keep their lives on track over the past few years, the more competent she’d felt—but she couldn’t imagine anyone powerful enough to help a child past such a horrific act.
“Let me show you something.”
She followed his lead through a living room abuzz with dangerous electricity, out the front door, and halfway down the walk. It was only as they left the yellow glow of the porch light and entered the night’s pitch that the hair on the back of Ronnie’s neck prickled.
The Far End of Happy Page 6
