The Unforgiven
Page 9
“Did you find your priest?”
“Yes. Just before he passed away.”
“I’m sorry. Was he able to give you the information you wanted?”
“Yes, I think he did.”
“Will it help?”
He considered this. “Too soon to tell. But, you know, I’m hopeful. For the first time in a very long time, I really feel hopeful.”
“I’m glad.” Her voice sounded like she was glad.
“I’ve still got a long way to go. Lucia was right. It’s going to take some time and some work, but I think maybe I can change.”
“Your mother’s always said that you could do anything you put your mind to.”
“Yes, and I always get what I want.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “Strange, I never saw it that way…” and his voice trailed off.
There was a pause, as if each forgot whose turn it was to speak.
He picked it up again. “You know, I think this trial separation is a good idea.” She murmured a noncommittal reply. “I feel that I have a lot of work to do with Lucia, and I don’t think it’s going to be pretty. It’s probably better that you don’t have to be here to witness it.”
There was another pause, as if she were waiting for the inevitable words that it was over, that she was…free.
“But I was wondering if, maybe during this trial separation, we could also have a trial romance.”
She laughed. “A what?” It was a laugh of relief. He was glad to hear it.
“You know, like a date. Purely platonic, you understand—unless you insist that we go to bed together. I mean, I’m willing to negotiate a bit here.” She was still laughing. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get it right this time.”
“Peter, you’ve always been a charmer. The courtship was the best part of our years together.”
“Well, maybe this time, the second time around, I can give you more than just charm. There really is more to me than just surface charm, you know—along with good looks and a keen intelligence and of course a great body.”
“And don’t forget modesty,” she added.
“Well, yes, it goes without saying.”
She was laughing again, much like she did when they first were dating. He’d forgotten that, forgotten her girlish laugh and how he had missed it. It had been a long time. Years. And he began to understand the spiritual toll their relationship had taken on her. He had been drawn to her vivacity originally, but it had been a rare flower that wilted and could not survive the sterile environment of their marriage.
“There really is more to me.”
She said softly, “I’ve never doubted that.”
“And I’ll be working with Lucia. You can be my homework.”
“Hm, it’s definitely tempting.”
“Well, I think we should get together for dinner to discuss this. I can practice my newfound openness on you. Do you want to know when I had my first wet dream?”
She was laughing again. “Thanks. Some things you can keep to yourself.”
“So how about dinner tomorrow night?”
“That would be nice. I would like that.” And then she said, “Something’s happened. You’re different.”
He went quiet. “Yes, something happened. And I would like to tell you about it—everything—tomorrow night.”
“I would like to hear it.”
“Good. Then I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“I’ll be ready. It will be good to get to know you again—for the first time.”
He clicked off the cell phone and went back to his desk. A strange, new contentment filled him. He looked down at the attempts of a letter and knew that what he wanted to say could never be said to Bill Dawson, so he scrunched up the sheets of paper into a ball and carried it and the camp photo to the fireplace. He first tossed in the wad of papers, the heat on his face reminding him of lying out on sun-warm boulders after a brisk swim, and then, after a moment, he tossed in the photo. It burst into flame. The edges blackened and curled, the blackness rolling up over the photo and erasing the past. He had a final, fleeting glimpse of his younger self—two horns protruding from his head—and behind him, a playful, black-haired Puck with his grin, at once impish and innocent. He smiled as he saw the two boys one last time, and they were gone.
He knelt there a moment longer, then abruptly turned away from the fire and returned to his desk. He knew the letter he wanted to write. He took out a clean sheet of stationery, uncapped his fountain pen, and began—one of those letters that must be written, even as one knows it will never be sent:
Dear Billy,
It’s been thirty years since that summer on Big Bear Lake.
You were my last best friend. And now I understand why.
I would like to tell you about it…
As he wrote by the light and warmth of the fire, he knew there was a long way ahead of him still, but not as long as the way he had come. It felt as if he had been wandering lost for many years, and now had found the road leading back home.
Postscript
In preparation for the sale of the Big Bear Lake property and other assets owned by the Seattle archdiocese, Megan Braddock’s review of the archived records uncovered that in 1935, at the newly constructed camp for orphans and abandoned children, one of the older youths had sexually violated a younger boy. The offender was sequestered in an unoccupied cabin, away from the rest of the camp, until church authorities could be notified. Suffering great remorse and humiliation, the boy hung himself from one of the ceiling beams. Neither the rape nor the suicide was ever reported to the local authorities.
About the Author
Alan E. Rose is the author of two previous novels: The Legacy of Emily Hargraves (2007), a paranormal mystery, and Tales of Tokyo (2010), a modern quest novel set in contemporary Japan.
He coordinates WordFest, the monthly gathering of writers and readers in SW Washington State, hosts the KLTV program, Book Chat, and is the book reviewer for The Columbia River Reader, a regional magazine dedicated to the arts and culture of SW Washington.
He can be reached at www.alan-rose.com.
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