by Terri Kraus
Sam, the new bartender, hardly raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seem to be the type that would insist on calling a cab.
Jack stepped out into the cooler air and carefully stepped down to the sidewalk, holding onto the railing around the entrance. He took several deep breaths. He tried not to think about what had just taken place over the last few hours. He knew what he should have done, and he knew, all too well, what he had done. Part of him felt sick, part of him felt well and complete for the first time in months. He liked that feeling of completeness, of being the master of his environment.
Carefully, he began walking and stumbled off the curb, his body not ready for the four-inch drop. He caught himself in midstumble and straightened up; he held his hands outright, like a tightrope walker for a few seconds, until he regained his balance.
He snorted out a laugh, a laugh at his own unsteadiness. He put his palms up and faced them out, like he was quieting a crowd who had gasped at his near fall. Then he held up one finger in the air, like he was readying the crowd for a new trick. He looked both ways, exaggerated the swiveling of his head, and crossed the street, making two course corrections along the way, keeping his arms outstretched to provide balance.
As he made it to the other side of the street, he looked around, blinking, as if he had entered some new and magical world. He shook his finger several times near his head, then pointed, as if he had suddenly discovered a passage to his home. He set off, walking stiff-legged, slowly, toward his goal.
Mike Reidmiller sat alone on the screened front porch of his home, alone in the darkness, with just one outdoor candle burning. Only the occasional sound of a car punctuated the silence, passing along on his street, just northeast of the elementary school and only eight blocks from where Leslie lived.
After coming back from helping Leslie unload her new furniture, Mike had busied himself around the house—cleaning, doing two loads of laundry, emptying the dishwasher, sorting mail, getting Trevor to bed on time for a change, and not letting him stay up to watch another jittery electronic cartoon from Japan.
When the wind was right, from the south, he could catch a snippet of the buzzers that rang with red lights in the downtown area. Even the buzzers were now silent for the evening. Mike sat in one of the all-weather wicker chairs he and his wife had purchased when they first bought the tidy white Cape Cod with dark green shutters on Butler’s near northeast side.
All had been well for the first few years, Mike recalled. Maybe not perfect, but well enough. Then Trevor arrived, and everything changed. She had wanted children, but maybe not this child. Within a year, disagreements were common, her mood swings expected, sudden and unexplained departures the norm. Lost days and weekends were all part of their lives.
Mike always said that he could have lived with all of that, with all the anger and recriminations and dark times—but that she could not. When Trevor reached his second birthday, his mother had simply packed everything that she owned, loaded it all into their newest car, and drove away, claiming she would call when she “found herself,” was settled, and was ready to start over.
She’d never called. Mike had tried to find her, and did, but she had refused to return, or even to talk. She’d found herself, he guessed.
He had imagined that she’d never contest the divorce, but she did and made it an expensive, painful process for all concerned. One thing was certain—she did not want custody of the child.
So, tonight, after a pleasant hour spent in pleasant conversation with an attractive woman, Mike felt sort of normal again, as if his bearings and compass were returning to some form of equilibrium. Leslie had laughed at his jokes, even if they had been corny. She had appeared grateful for his help, Trevor got along famously with her daughter, he thought, and she had allowed him to hug her in farewell. Maybe, he also imagined, she even encouraged the hug.
That’s what he thought now, anyway. She was happy to see him. She did call him.
And in the warm darkness of this late autumn night, Mike sat in the dark, holding a warm, half-consumed can of cream soda, and grinned, though no one else could take notice of his happiness.
I’ll call her next week. I’ll ask her out to dinner. Nothing fancy, just a dinner between friends. We’ll take it from there. I’m not in any hurry.
As he considered which restaurant would be most appropriate for casual friends and a casual dinner with no understated intentions, he wondered if Leslie would make a good mother for Trevor.
He needs a good mother, Mike thought, concluding his considerations for this event.
Amelia Westland, age fourteen years, nine months
Butler Orphan Asylum
Butler County, Pennsylvania
April 5, 1877
My delirious joy is soon tempered with melancholy. Julian has declared he shall be taking leave shortly. In six months’ time, upon reaching his sixteenth year, he shall depart for the town of Butler to be indentured to a livery there, as he is skilled with horses. He is a strong young man, and I imagine his services are much in demand.
My days are filled with hope of even a fleeting glance from him, and I count the hours until it is the time for chapel services, where I am able to steal gazes at him for the better part of the hour, hoping they go unnoticed by Mr. Stevens and Headmistress. His return gazes cause stomach flutters, and I am scarce able to recount even a shred of any sermon or Scripture reading. It is as though some manner of spell has been placed upon my sensibilities. I then am compelled to repent, for I fear God’s displeasure, but pray His forgiveness will cover such iniquities as I am prone to commit in regards to Mr. Beck.
Let love be without dissimulation.
Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good.
—Romans 12:9
CHAPTER TEN
THE FLASHING LIGHTS, IRRITATING AND incessant, were not to be denied. Jack slapped at the air in front of his face, as if the lights were some sort of swarm of insects to be chased off with a swat of his hand.
The lights did not diminish.
He felt a dull prodding on his side, like having fallen asleep with his hammer still holstered in his tool belt.
“Hey! You! Get up!”
Blinking, Jack stared into the red and black darkness.
“Get up! You can’t sleep in an alley.”
He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and his thoughts. Neither became all that much clearer.
Jack felt hands grab at his shoulders and lift him upright.
“Come on, now, buddy. Take it easy. This way. Over here. Watch your step.”
He felt a hand on the top of his head, pushing him down, and then he fell backward, onto something soft. He heard a door slam shut, then in a moment, another two doors slamming.
“Take him home?”
“No. Too far gone. We’ll take him to the station. On a 42–29.”
“But he wasn’t creating a disturbance.”
“No. But sleeping in an alley? What happens if a car runs him over? Then who gets blamed? He can sleep it off in the holding cell. Maybe it’ll just be a drunk in public charge.”
Jack felt himself slip further down on the seat, then list over to one side. Thankfully, everything went black again.
Leslie woke early that morning and slipped into Ava’s bedroom, well before her daughter’s normal time for waking. The little girl was asleep in the middle of the princess bed, with her arms out of the bedcovers, loose, at her sides. Her dark hair was spread out like a halo around her head.
The bedroom set was indeed perfect—feminine, sweet, and dainty. Ava and Leslie had spent two hours taking all of Ava’s clothes from the cardboard boxes and organizing them, placing them, by category, into the dresser drawers. Leslie had used cleaning and disinfecting sprays on all the interiors, and had added sheets of drawer liner, scented with l
avender, like her mom’s. Ava had been so precise, placing her T-shirts just so, her socks all lined up heel to toe.
Before bed, she had sat at her small dressing table in her soft blue pajamas, on the small white slipper chair. Earlier they had discovered that the top of the tufted hassocklike chair folded open, disclosing a secret hiding place. Ava had been delighted, though she would not decide what items she would place there in secret. She had sat, staring at herself in the mirror, as if discovering her image in a new way, and for the first time.
Now, standing over her sleeping daughter, Leslie wanted to bend down to the bed, hug her little princess, and hold her close, but she did not.
She needs her rest. I would just wake her too early.
Instead, Leslie went into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of leftover coffee, and sat out on the balcony, listening to the town as it slowly came awake.
I wonder where Jack was yesterday. It’s not like him to leave here early. I hope nothing happened to him.
At first, Jack was certain that the pounding he heard and felt must be taking place outside.
Road construction? This early?
Then he realized the pounding was inside his head, and every pulse produced a new wave of pain and nausea. He held his eyes shut, hard and tight, then gingerly reached up with his hands and placed his fingers on his temples. He pressed ever so lightly and was rewarded with more and even heavier pounding. He opened his eyes. He was in a gray room with gray walls. One side of the room was bars.
He knew where he was.
Slowly he pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked at his watch. It was gone. He patted at his side. His cell phone was gone as well.
He knew who had them.
It may have taken him five minutes until his stomach settled and the pounding receded slightly. He pushed himself upright and walked to the bars. He reached out and held on, gingerly. The metal bars, painted with dozens of coats of dark gray paint, were cold and slick to the touch. He looked in both directions. At the end of the wide hall, beside a large gray desk, sitting in a large, tattered gray chair, was a massive policeman.
Jack croaked out a weak, “Sir?”
The mass of policeman did not move.
Jack tried again, as loud as his throat would tolerate. “Sir?”
The massive policeman slowly pivoted in his seat, the chair making unnatural squealing noises as he turned. “You up?”
Jack shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’ll call the arresting officer. He’s still here. You wait there, okay?”
Jack was sure the massive policeman said that every time, amusing himself at the expense of the poor sap stuck in the locked holding cell.
If I have to make bail … I have a thousand dollars in my checking account. That should be enough for anything … unless it’s disorderly conduct … then I’m screwed.
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to think; trying to figure out what he should do—what he could do. He tried to remember what had happened last night, but his memory all but faded to black from the moment he stepped out of the bar. Even before that, details were sketchy.
If I have to make a larger bail … who would I call?
Jack’s stomach again roiled silently.
A bail bondsman? But I bet they won’t take a check from a new account. And they’re so expensive …
I could call Ethan.
Jack winced at the thought.
I can’t call him. I can’t disappoint him like this.
He sat back on the hard cot, which was bolted down and chained to the wall.
I could call Leslie. I could … I don’t know how, but I could. She would understand.
Jack held his head in his hands and tried not to think. He would have prayed, like they taught in the meetings, but he was too far gone, he was sure of that. Praying now would be a waste of time.
As if God would be listening to me now … after all this … again.
A few minutes later, a door clanged open and the massive policeman was followed by a policeman of normal size. He wasn’t smiling, nor was he frowning. His face was a dead neutral.
“Jack Kenyon?”
Jack nodded.
“You have a rough night?”
Jack knew the answer and knew what the policeman was doing. He had heard it all before. He had heard it often.
“Yeah. From what I remember.”
The police shook his head, scolding in a silent way. “We found you in the alley by the old bakery. What were you doing there? In Butler? Your driver’s license says Franklin.”
Jack knew nothing about an old bakery. He knew nothing about the alley. He could only shrug. “I was on my way home. I was walking. I live over on Jefferson Street. By the Chinese place.”
The not-so-massive policeman nodded. “Used to be a bakery. You live there?”
“Upstairs. Apartment Three.”
“You work around here? You have a job?”
“Construction. I’m working on an apartment in the Midlands Building.”
The not-so-massive policeman brightened. “The building with the green screened balconies? What’s that place like inside? It looks so interesting from the street.”
Jack knew the morning could not get too much more surreal. “The apartments are real nice. Roomy. I’m rehabbing one for the woman who owns the building.”
“That right, is it?”
Jack waited. If the not-so massive policeman mentioned misdemeanor, Jack’s morning would slide from really, really bad, to downright horrible in an instant.
“Well, Mr. Kenyon, you were drunk in public last night. Can’t say it was a disturbance, since you were passed out when we found you. You could be charged—”
Jack held his breath.
“—but I don’t think it would be worth it. You’re new here. You haven’t been in trouble in Butler before. If you had, it would be a different story. But I want to impress on you that we don’t take kindly to anyone being drunk and disorderly in town. You drink too much—your business, after all—you take a cab and get inside to sleep it off. You understand? I don’t want to see you in here again, Mr. Kenyon. You got it?”
Jack nodded, grateful. Very, very grateful. “Yes sir. It has been a long time since I had my last drink. Sort of slipped this time. Won’t happen again.”
The not-so massive policeman started to smile, then didn’t, as if he truly understood what Jack was admitting and promising at the same time. “Get to a meeting today. There’s one over at the Knights of Columbus hall on Cunningham. By the old high school. At eight o’clock. You go. I don’t want us to do this again.” He drew in a large breath and held it awhile before exhaling. “See the property clerk when you go out. He has all your belongings.”
Jack wanted to reach out his hand and offer it to the not-so-massive policeman, but he didn’t. “Yes sir,” he said instead. “I’ll do that. At the Knights of Columbus hall, eight o’clock. I’ll go. I promise.”
But as he gathered up his belongings, the promise was already slipping from his thoughts.
I only fell once. I can handle this. I can do this on my own.
The cell phone was ringing as Leslie pulled out into traffic. Ava had just jumped quickly out from the minivan in front of the school and was running toward the kindergarten door. She hardly waved.
But she did wave a little, Leslie told herself.
Never good at doing the two things at once, Leslie pulled back over to the curb to answer the phone. She listened carefully.
“Certainly, Jack. If you don’t feel well this morning, you can come later today. Or even tomorrow. We’re a little ahead of schedule, aren’t we?”
She waited. A vision of Jack tucked into bed, in need of some TLC, flashed into her mind. She pushed the t
hought away quickly. “Good. Then I will see you later.”
Leslie flipped her phone closed, took a deep breath, then looked at herself in the rearview mirror. She wore her best blue blouse, with a dark blue blazer over top, and her most expensive, tailored khaki slacks. The dressing up was for the occasion of her first job interview.
Mrs. Stickle had a sister who lived next door to someone who worked in the Human Resources department at ARMCO, some sort of steel business, who said that one of the directors was looking for an administrative assistant. He didn’t want some “kid right out of school,” and Mrs. Stickle was sure that Leslie would be perfect for the job.
“Not that you’re old, but you’re not kid-young, so that’s perfect,” Mrs. Stickle explained.
ARMCO was “the producer of the finest flat-rolled carbon, stainless, and electrical steel products in the world.” That was according to their Web site. Beyond that, not much of their process or product line made sense to Leslie. But she felt good knowing at least a little something about the company.
As she drove to Lyndora, five minutes south of downtown Butler, she mentally reviewed her qualifications for the job.
She had none.
Not none, exactly. But not all that many.
She had her résumé. She had gone to college—University of Pennsylvania—and had graduated with a degree in art history. Every time she thought of that, she wondered what in the world she was thinking of back then. Teach art history? Work at a museum? Be a researcher? She really didn’t know. Yet this is where the path of her life had led. She could type—not extremely fast, but fast enough, and she was a good writer. She could use a computer well. She knew a little bit about accounting. She thought of herself as an organized person. So she did have some experience.
Who am I kidding? I went to school, got married, and had a baby. What sort of experience is that?
ARMCO was much larger than Leslie imagined. She had to drive through a gate—two old brick towers, each holding a large ornamental ironwork gate, both sides folded back. There was no guard on duty, but there was a guardhouse. She parked in front of the main building and looked at her watch.
