by Ann Tatlock
“Good morning, Beka.”
“Hi, Mom.”
Andrea settled John’s empty glass in the sink. “You want something to eat?”
“Not yet.”
Andrea poured herself a cup of coffee she didn’t really want and carried it to the table. “Mind if I join you?”
Rebekah shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
The pipes in the bathroom groaned as John started his shower. Laughter from the porch drifted into the kitchen. Andrea sipped her coffee. “Billy and Phoebe are out there taking pictures.”
Rebekah didn’t look up. “Oh yeah?”
“I appreciate your showing Billy how to use the phone.”
Another lift of the shoulders. “Since you and Dad don’t know how to use a cell, I’m the one that has to do it.”
“I wouldn’t say we don’t know how to use a cell phone.”
“Yeah, maybe. But taking pictures. That happened when Dad was—you know.”
In prison. Yes, a lot had changed in the world while John was in prison.
But Andrea didn’t want to think about that. “Billy really likes the nightlight, you know.”
“Yeah. Weird, huh?”
Andrea pursed her lips, willed herself to be patient. “I’m just saying, I appreciate what you’ve done for him. It means a lot.”
Rebekah finally met Andrea’s gaze. Her face softened. “It’s okay, Mom. Billy—I mean, it’s easy to make him happy, isn’t it?”
Andrea smiled. “It doesn’t take much. We should all be so lucky.”
Rebekah sipped her orange juice, looked out the window.
Andrea tried to sound cheerful as she said, “I’ve been thinking, honey. We need to take a family day, go somewhere, do something fun. Would you like that?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I guess so.”
“Maybe we could take a little trip up to Niagara Falls. We haven’t been there in years.”
Rebekah didn’t respond, didn’t even glance away from the window.
“Beka?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”
Silence. Then, “I don’t know. Nothing.”
“Well, it can’t be nothing. Sometimes it helps to talk.”
The girl shrugged.
Andrea sighed. “Beka, is there anything going on I should know about?”
“No.”
“I mean, like drinking. You haven’t been out drinking again, have you—”
“No.”
“Because you know what alcohol can lead to, right? We’ve both seen what can happen.”
Mother and daughter looked at each other. Then Rebekah said, “I’m not going to kill anyone like Dad did, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, I . . .” Andrea paused, swallowed her anger. “I just want you to be careful, is all. It’s so easy to make bad decisions.”
Rebekah looked back toward the window.
Andrea curled both hands around the mug and studied the coffee inside. It was already growing cold. “Listen, honey, I want you to enjoy the summer a little bit. I don’t know when we can get away for a vacation, but in the meantime why don’t you invite some of your friends over here, just to go swimming or something?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Well, why not? I haven’t seen Lena in ages.”
“She’s working at the theater.”
“She must have some days off.”
Rebekah didn’t respond.
“Or David,” Andrea persisted. “You know, your dad hasn’t even met him yet. Why don’t you invite him to have supper with us sometime?”
“I don’t think so.” The words were a whisper. Rebekah’s eyes moistened.
“Beka?”
No answer.
For a long moment no one said anything.
Finally Andrea said, “What’s the matter, honey?”
To her surprise Rebekah said, “I think he might be interested in someone else.”
Andrea watched as one tear rolled down her daughter’s cheek. “Did he tell you that?”
A shake of the head.
“Have you broken up?”
“Not exactly.” Rebekah lifted a hand, brushed away the tear.
“I’m so sorry, Beka. I know how it hurts.”
Rebekah responded with one small nod of her head.
“It probably doesn’t help for me to tell you that you’re young, that you have plenty of time to find the right one for you.”
“No, it doesn’t help.”
Andrea pushed the coffee mug aside, reached across the table, and laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. “I want so much for you to be happy, Beka. I want to help you not to make the same mistakes I made—”
As though to finish Andrea’s sentence, John appeared in the doorway, freshly shaved, showered, and dressed. Andrea’s hand fell to the table as Rebekah pulled her arm away. Before John could so much as say good morning, Rebekah slipped into her room and shut the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rebekah gazed at the wilting daisies in the plastic cup on the arcade’s display counter. It was a pathetic bouquet, but it filled her with a sense of wonder at how everything in the world could turn around so quickly. Just that morning she’d been sitting at the kitchen table crying, embarrassing herself in front of her mother because she thought David was dumping her for Jessica Faulkner. Now here she was, not eight hours later, high on love again because David had met her at work with a handful of daisies he’d stolen from his neighbor’s garden. His offering and the kiss that came with it left Jessica Faulkner looking like one puny rival while the rest of life suddenly looked bright again.
Maybe, Rebekah thought, just maybe Lena was right after all. Maybe they did have the power to do anything they wanted, as long as they did no harm, as long as what they did was good.
And no question this was good.
She had asked the universe to keep David in love with her, and in spite of all her doubts and fears, the universe seemed to want to help out. Rebekah was grateful to whatever god or goddess or power out there had nudged David into bringing her flowers and letting her know everything was all right between them. Apparently something was watching over her, something that heard her pleas and answered, and it was safe for her to hope for good things.
She had just reached out and lifted up the sagging head of one of the daisies when a child’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Hey, lady, what can I get for forty-two tickets?”
Rebekah looked over the side of the display case and into the face of a small boy. In one chubby fist he clutched a wad of tickets.
She smiled at him. “Everything on the bottom row is worth five tickets. You can get eight of those, or you can get four things worth ten tickets each. Those are up here.”
The boy gazed wide-eyed at the trinkets, and Rebekah leaned on the glass case to wait. He was a cute little kid, towheaded, freckle-faced. Maybe she’d throw in a few extra tickets for him, give him an even fifty. The boss said she could do that if she wanted. It made them look generous and kept the patrons coming back.
“Hey, kid.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell you what.”
“Yeah?”
“I—” Rebekah was cut off by a can of Coke coming down hard on top of the display case. She sighed. “Oh hi, Gary.”
“Hi, Beka.” The carnival hand smiled, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a greasy index finger. “I thought maybe you could use something to drink.”
“Thanks.” She turned her attention back to the young boy and hoped Gary would go away.
He took a step closer instead. “Hey, what do you think about what happened last night?”
Rebekah sighed again while Gary watched her expectantly, his eyebrows raised high above the rim of his glasses. “What are you talking about?” she said.
“Weren’t you working?”
“I was off yesterday.”
“Man, you missed it.”
“And you didn’t read the paper today?”
Rebekah noticed then that he had a newspaper tucked up under one arm.
“No.” She shook her head.
“So you don’t know about the accident?”
“No. But you’re probably going to tell me about it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, old Benson’s being questioned right now because he was the last one to do a safety check on the Scrambler.”
“Yeah?”
“It could have been me.” He drew a hand along his brow as though wiping away imaginary sweat.
“All right, Gary. I give up. Just tell me what happened.”
“Well, the ride was going but not all that fast because it was just starting up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But still it was fast enough, you know what I mean?”
Rebekah stared blankly at the man. She was rapidly losing patience. “Just spill it, Gary.”
“Well, so the safety bar comes unlatched on one of the cars, you know, and some girl flies out. I could hear the screams all the way on the other side of the park.”
Rebekah waited.
“Yeah, next thing you know there were sirens all over the place. Ambulance came, police came. They’re not running the Scrambler today. Didn’t you notice?”
“What happened to the girl?” Rebekah asked.
“They hauled her off to the hospital.”
“Is she all right?”
Gary shrugged. “Hurt pretty bad, I guess. There’s a write-up in the Conesus paper.” He pulled the paper out from under his arm and laid it flat on the countertop. He tapped at the headline on the front page.
Rebekah followed Gary’s finger to the headline: “Girl Hurt on Amusement Park Ride.” Her father always read the local daily. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? But then, she hadn’t given him a chance, had she? Hadn’t even said a word to him when he came into the kitchen where she sat talking with Mom.
Rebekah pulled the paper closer and started to read. By the time she reached the third paragraph, she was sure she was going to be sick. She lifted her eyes and looked not at Gary but into the face of the little boy who’d been deciding on his prize. He was staring up at her impatiently, pointing at a trinket behind the glass.
“Can I have the—”
She didn’t let him finish. She moved from behind the counter and headed to the open air.
“Hey, Beka,” Gary called, “where you going?”
She paused long enough to say, “Cover for me, will you, Gary? Give the kid whatever he wants.”
“What? This ain’t my job. I don’t know anything about—”
“Just do it.”
She ran to the patch of barren ground behind the arcade and squatted among the crisscross of electrical cables. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to steady herself. It has to be a coincidence, she thought. She dug in the pocket of her shorts for her phone and flipped it open with trembling fingers.
Four rings, then “Yeah, hello?”
“Lena?”
“Beka?”
“Lena, did you hear?”
“Listen, I can hardly hear anything. I’m at work, and there’s a line like you wouldn’t believe for the six-o’clock show. I’m up to my ears in popcorn. Can I call you back?”
“No! I’ve got to talk to you now.”
“Listen, I could get in trouble. I wouldn’t have answered except I saw it was you. I—hey, just a minute, kid. Can’t you see I’m on the phone? Listen, Beka, let me call you—”
“Lena, there’s been an accident. Jessica Faulkner’s in the hospital.”
From the other end of the line came a tangle of voices, calls for popcorn, sodas, licorice whips, and discernible above the rest, a young man telling Lena to hang up and get to work. Lena responded by telling him to stuff it, this was important. To Rebekah, Lena said, “So what happened?”
“She was riding the Scrambler, and she got thrown off. Last night. It happened last night.”
“Wow, no lie!” Lena sounded interested now. “And she’s in the hospital?”
“Yeah. It’s serious. I mean, she’s got some broken bones and a head injury. She’s not even conscious.”
“No lie!” Lena said again. “Well, hey, she’s out of the picture for a while, then.”
Rebekah slumped cross-legged to the ground. She felt weak, hot, dizzy. “Don’t you get it, Lena?”
“Listen, Bek, I really gotta go before the manager catches me. Tony, here, is just about to go ballistic—”
“Lena, don’t you get it? It’s our fault!”
“Shut up, Tony, I’m getting off right now—”
“We did it to her—”
“What are you talking about, Bek? We weren’t even there.”
“You know what I’m talking about! We cast the circle to keep her away from David. But I didn’t mean for . . .” She was crying now, squeezing the phone so hard her hand ached.
“That’s crazy, Beka. We had nothing to do with it. It was some freak accident.”
“We wanted her to stay away—”
“Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay? I really gotta go. Meanwhile, forget it. We had nothing to do with it. We—all right, Tony. I said I’m hanging up. Beka, I’m hanging up now, but I’ll talk to you later.”
The line went dead. Rebekah let the phone slowly fall away from her ear. She didn’t even bother to snap it shut. With the hot sun bearing down on her, she shivered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
John tilted his head back and looked fully at the open sky. How big it was! A wide expanse of blue arching over the lake and finally bending toward earth somewhere off in the distance. Once, not so long ago, he couldn’t remember the immensity of the outdoors, of distance, of space. He hadn’t thought about it much during the years he was confined to small places. Even outside in the prison yard he couldn’t look up without seeing walls and barbed wire and guard towers. He had forgotten what it was to sit in a boat surrounded by water, air, the warmth of the sun.
“We should have done this weeks ago, Billy,” he said.
Billy tugged at his fishing line, then looked up at his dad and smiled. “I told you, Dad. I told you we should go fishing.”
“You were right, son.”
He’d been home just over a month, and the summer was slipping by. Here it was July eighth already. Before he knew it, August would roll in, followed quickly by September. Not long after that, those who lived year-round by the lake would start battening down the hatches in anticipation of another long winter.
John hesitated to admit even to himself why he had put off fishing till now. For all his love of the lake, he didn’t like being too far from shore. Swimming from the dock was one thing, going out in a boat where only a thin layer of wood separated you from the murky water below—well, that was something else altogether. An hour earlier, when they’d packed up the boat, John told Billy not to take them out too far, saying he wanted to steer clear of the other traffic—the larger motorboats, the jet skis, the water-skiers. After all, the lake was a busy place on Sunday afternoons, with vessels zigzagging all over the place. So Billy had pointed the boat due north and hugged the shoreline until he reached a spot where he thought the fish might be biting. Then he’d cut the motor, dropped anchor, and baited the poles with the worms he’d bought at the bait shop earlier that afternoon.
Phoebe reeled in her line now, saw the remnants of a worm dangling on an otherwise empty hook, and said, “Aw, I thought I had one.” She reeled the line in almost up to the bobber and prepared to cast again.
“Careful, Phoeb,” Billy said. “Don’t hook me like you did last summer.”
“I know how to do it,” Phoebe insisted. She drew back, swung the rod, pushed the release button, and watched her bait drop into the water a few feet from the boat. “There. See?”
John smiled. This was better than he’d imagined all those times he’d dreamed about coming home and being with
his kids. In those dreams Billy was still a boy and Phoebe didn’t have a face—not one that was clear to him, anyway. He knew it would be good to be home, but in his dreams he couldn’t feel the pride he now felt for his son, couldn’t feel the love he now felt for his daughter, and he couldn’t feel the overwhelming sense of freedom that came with looking up at an unimpeded view of the sky.
It was all better than he had hoped. Except for one thing. When he’d dreamed about coming home to his family, there’d been no shadow of infidelity darkening the picture, not even one hint of it anywhere in his mind. The way he had pictured it, things were going to be different this time. He was a different person, and he was supposed to live a better life, one that didn’t include his past mistakes.
One month. One month home and he’d already drifted back to the old way of life.
As he thought about it, though, he had to admit one thing was different now. This time around he felt something he hadn’t felt before. Shame. From the minute he woke up in the morning until the minute he fell asleep at night, the shame was there, waxing and waning but ever present. Mostly it was a heavy emotion, pulling the heart all out of shape.
John looked at Phoebe, sitting there in the center seat of the boat, watching the bobber intently while willing a fish to bite. Then at Billy, at the far end, one hand holding his fishing pole, the other on top of the motor as though to protect it. Billy must have sensed his gaze, because he turned and smiled.
“I’m glad you’re here, Dad.”
John nodded. “Me too, Billy.”
He had to nip this thing with Pamela in the bud. So he’d messed up once—okay, that didn’t mean he had to keep messing up. He’d draw the line right here, resolve to do the right thing from now on, for the sake of these kids, if nothing else.
The trick was, he was going to have to be stronger than his own desires.
Phoebe fidgeted, scratched one leg, tugged at the uppermost strap of her life jacket. “You know, Daddy,” Phoebe said, “if you weren’t here, me and Billy couldn’t be out here fishing.”
“Billy and I,” John corrected. “And no, you couldn’t be out here by yourselves.”
“But we’re not scared,” she countered. Her small face looked determined beneath the baseball cap that shielded her eyes from the sun.
