Everybody Called Her a Saint

by Cecil Murphey

  I didn’t want to hear any more of his speculation, so I walked away.

  We stood on the deck but couldn’t leave the ship until they took Jon away. No one told us anything.

  As soon as he was off the ship, Jon stopped and waved to all of us. Despite his handcuffs, his arms waved wildly. To their credit, no one waved back. No one spoke. He said something to the police and looked back at us. He yelled something at us. I was glad we couldn’t hear what he said.

  On the return flight from Ushuaia to Buenos Aires, Burton sat next to me in Twila’s vacant seat. Neither of us said a word until we were airborne.

  “How are you feeling?” He turned to me with those soft, pastoral-looking eyes, and I had to look away.

  “How do you think I feel?” I realized I had an edge to my voice. “I’ve lost the dearest friend in my life.”

  To his credit, he didn’t say, “I know just how you feel,” or some inane remark. Instead, he took both my hands before I could pull them away. He prayed for me and asked God to grant me peace and to soften my sense of loss.

  I cried again, but this time the pain wasn’t as deep. I missed Twila—and I knew I would miss her for a long time—but his prayer brought solace. I don’t know how it’s possible to be at peace and to cry at the same time, but that’s what I did.

  “Thank you.” As soon as I was aware that he still held my hands, I pulled them away. A flicker of pain crossed his face.

  “Julie, I—”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I love you. You have done so much for me. I’m a serious Christian today—maybe not a good one, but I’m learning.”

  “There is definitely a but at the end of that sentence,” he said softly.

  “And you know what it is.” I turned my face away from him. “Please leave my life. I don’t want to see you again until—”

  “You did say until?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  He didn’t change seats but remained next to me for the rest of the flight. Our plane was late pulling into the gate, but I didn’t say a word to him for the three hours we were together.

  On the flight to Atlanta, he changed seats again and sat beside me. I watched movies and he listened to music. We sat as if we were total strangers. Once his leg brushed mine and he apologized.

  The plane landed in Atlanta, and we still hadn’t spoken. I wished he had stayed in his own assigned seat. I couldn’t help but look at him. He needed a haircut, and after all those hours on the plane, his dark facial hair made it look as if he had started to grow a beard.

  He was on the aisle and stood up. He looked at me and said, “May I get your bag from the overhead compartment?”

  I shook my head. “Please, I don’t want to see you or hear from you until.”

  He nodded and went forward with the crowd. I waited until the aisle was empty before I got up and retrieved my bag. A couple of minutes later, I spotted him in a line at customs, but he was quite a distance ahead of me. By the time I had my luggage and got to the taxi stand, he was gone. I shared a cab with Betty Freeman.

  Betty gurgled over the wonderful trip, and I smiled whenever she paused. I didn’t hear anything she said. My mind flitted between my grief for Twila and my love for Burton.

  Dear God, if You don’t mind listening to me, please help Burton. He really needs You.

  My cell rang on Friday morning, which was the third day after our return from Antarctica.

  “It is Until Day,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “You said I couldn’t call until. Remember?”

  I started to cry softly. I couldn’t help it. Two or three times he tried to explain, but my sobbing increased.

  “I can’t talk—” Fresh tears stopped me from saying anything else. I hung up.

  Afterward I wondered if Burton understood my tears.

  Forty-Three

  Saturday morning the doorbell rang just before seven o’clock. I knew who it was just by the three short rings.

  I had barely gotten in from my morning run and was perspiring, but I opened the door.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You just got in.” Before I could answer, he said, “I parked across the street and waited for you to come back.” He held a bag from Starbucks. “Vanilla latte and a chocolate bagel for you,” he said. “Black with a spoon of milk and a raisin bagel for me.”

  I had spotted his car across the street but pretended I hadn’t.

  “You’ll have to sit at the breakfast table while I shower.”

  He sat down, and I hurried to my bedroom. I closed the door, and fresh tears came. But this time, I prayed. I prayed out loud. It was the first time in my life that I had ever done that.

  “Thank you, God.” I said the words several times.

  And something else happened—I knew God heard me. I didn’t know where this would end, but I knew God had heard me pray. And I knew I had a true talking-praying relationship with the Lord.

  “So that’s what people mean when they talk about touching heaven,” I said to myself.

  For once, I had no smart remark to make to myself.

  “I think it’s time I talked to my parents,” Burton said. He set down his cup of unfinished coffee and stared at me. Those blue eyes showed such sorrow that my maternal instincts wanted to grab him and soothe him. This wasn’t the time to soothe him.

  “With me? Without me?” I asked.

  “I can’t do it unless you’re there. You know everything anyway.”

  “You’re sure? Really sure that you’re ready?”

  He didn’t answer. The grim set of his jaw was the only response I needed.

  “As soon as you can get dressed, we’ll drive there.”

  “I am dressed,” I said. I wore my only pair of Donna Karan jeans that flattered my amorphous figure better than anything I’d ever owned. They were topped by a simple pale green sweater with Kelly green piping. I had hesitated about earrings and finally wore tiny gold ones. And sandals, of course. With Burton always flat shoes.

  He smiled and embraced me. “You know, the few times I was able to hold you in Antarctica, I missed the fragrance of your perfume.”

  “Why waste it?” I said. “Besides, I didn’t know I’d let you hold me.”

  He smiled. “I knew.”

  “Oh, and how did you know?”

  “Twila told me. She assured me—no, she actually promised me as if she had been able to look into some kind of magic fortune cookie—”

  “That’s because she loved us both,” I said. “I don’t think she saw it. I think she wanted it to happen.”

  He kissed my cheek. “So did God.”

  The Burtons live in Woodstock, which was close to an hour’s drive for us from Clayton County on the south side of Atlanta.

  Burton had finished his coffee and swallowed the last of his bagel. “Whenever,” he said.

  “I’m ready. I’ll finish my latte in the car.”

  By the time we left Riverdale and headed up the east side of I-285, I had drunk the rest of my coffee and decided I was too nervous to finish the bagel. I put it in the bag for garbage.

  Burton handed me his cell. He refuses to talk while he’s driving, and I like that about him. I opened the cell and thumbed down until I found their number. “Hi, this is Julie West—you know, Burton’s friend—”

  That was all I needed to say. His mother, Marianne, was a warm, talkative soul. “So when are you coming to see us?” she asked.

  “Strange you should ask. I’m in Burton’s car right now. We’re on the way. I estimate about thirty-five minutes.”

  “Thank you for coming with him,” she said and asked me questions about the cruise. I promised we’d tell her details after we arrived.

  That satisfied Marianne. Before she hung up, she said, “I’ll have coffee and fresh muffins ready for you.”

  That was Burton’s mom. I had liked her the first time we met. She was slender, maybe five thre
e. I’m sure most people looked at the family and assumed that he had gotten the smile and those blue eyes from her. The elder James Burton had dark, curly hair. He was about an inch taller than I was. On the few occasions I had been with him, I always said, “You’re a man to whom I can look up to.”

  He liked that.

  James Burton was quiet—and he’d have to be with a lively wife like Marianne. But one thing I liked about him: When he did speak, he always had something to say.

  Nearly forty minutes later, we arrived at his parents’ house. I knew Burton had kept the speed down, and I told him, “You drive as if you want to prolong the time until the moment of truth.”

  “Moment of truth? From which TV show did you pick that one up?”

  “I don’t remember, but it has a nice ring to it.”

  If his face hadn’t been so grimly set, I think he would have smiled.

  His father was James Burton Jr., and Burton hadn’t wanted to be called the Third or Trip, so he asked everyone to call him Burton. James and Marianne had called their son Burton from the time he was about three years old.

  Burton hadn’t said more than three or four sentences on the drive. I knew he was lost in his own tortured soul.

  We pulled up to the main entrance of a gated community with a guardhouse and two security guards staffing it. Even though both of us had been there before and Burton recognized one of the guards, we still had to show them our IDs. One guard scrutinized our drivers’ licenses while the other guard phoned the Burtons’ house.

  He handed us back our licenses. “You take a left at the top—”

  “I know where it is,” Burton said.

  “—of the hill. That’s Twelve Oaks. Go two streets and take the next left on Tara Trace. It’s the second house, number 107.” He held out a clipboard for Burton to sign. After the signature, he saluted us. “Sorry, Burton, but I got reprimanded a month ago for being friendly.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We understand.”

  The house on Tara Trace was not only large but also two stories high, and I think it must have had six bedrooms. (I never asked.) It looked like something out of Gone with the Wind. But then, that was the idea. It had four immense white columns in front, and the building was made of weathered red brick. As we pulled up, I saw the open garage and a Mercedes parked next to a sleek-looking sports car.

  We walked up the eight steps to the immense front porch that went halfway around the house. The front door was made of thick dark cherrywood and flanked on each side by narrow leaded windows.

  We had barely gotten to the door before it flew open, and Marianne Burton rushed forward and hugged both of us. She wore a simple pale pink pantsuit that probably cost more than everything I wore. She wore one thin, scalloped gold necklace with matching earrings. I liked the simplicity of her clothes. I had no doubt that everything she wore was expensive, but her clothes were what I call subtly elegant.

  James Burton Jr. stood at the door and waited his turn so he could embrace us both.

  “You’re the finest woman he’s ever brought here,” he whispered and chuckled. “Come to think of it, you’re the only one.” He wore a blue blazer, white trousers, and a silk shirt with an ascot tied at the neck. On most men it would have looked pretentious; on James Burton Jr., it looked natural.

  James brought us immediately into the living room, which was a cluster of huge English Chippendale wing chairs and Irish Chippendale side tables in front of the fireplace. I don’t know much about furniture, but I know my Chippendales.

  After we sat down, Marianne brought coffee and hot bran muffins on a tray. She and her husband had tea, but they served us coffee.

  “So you went to Antarctica?” Marianne said. “I’m sure it was lovely—I mean, what you saw of it.”

  I knew she and James had been there a decade earlier, so I added, “I don’t imagine anything has changed.”

  “Not there.”

  Burton sat quietly. He gave one- or two-word answers if asked, but otherwise he sipped his coffee slowly. He left his muffin untouched.

  For perhaps twenty minutes, Marianne and I talked about everything that had happened in Antarctica. They had gone from Australia and seen the larger, emperor penguins but admitted they hadn’t seen nearly as much wildlife as we had.

  After a few minutes, the conversation lagged. To her credit, Marianne stayed cheerful. She asked about Twila, expressed sympathy, and then asked about Jon Friesen. CNN had said he was being sent back to Atlanta for trial. “We also read about it in the papers. Terrible, terrible.”

  “Yes, it was,” Burton said.

  That time he spoke three words. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to say more.

  Marianne cleared away the coffee and muffin crumbs and came back to the table. “Okay, Son, what is it? Something’s bothering you very, very much.” She smiled and said, “I don’t have to be a mother to detect the sad face.”

  Burton looked at her and then at his father. The love those eyes showed toward him touched me. I wished I had grown up in a family with that kind of warmth.

  “I have something to tell you,” he said. “Something that’s not easy for me to talk about—but I have to say it.”

  Ordinarily I would have immediately made some smart remark to relieve the tension, but this time Burton didn’t need any distraction.

  “Let’s sit in the den,” James said. “It’s more intimate.” We followed him into the room. The furniture was every bit as expensive to me, but it had a warmth about it. Two walls were lined with bookcases, a third wall was mostly window, and the fourth wall housed another fireplace. It wasn’t cold enough for a fire, but it felt cheery sitting in a semicircle.

  For at least a full minute, no one said anything. I heard the ticking of the grandfather clock from the room we had just left.

  “Do you remember Dan Rosenberry?” Burton asked.

  “How could we ever forget him?” Marianne said. She turned to me. “Burton and Dan were inseparable friends. I mean, like twins—”

  I knew that, but I smiled and asked, “That close?”

  “Oh yes, they did everything together. Burton never had a sibling, so we welcomed Dan.”

  “I think he slept here more than he slept at home,” James said.

  Marianne leaned forward. “Just to fill you in, Julie, Dan had a terrible childhood. His dad was an alcoholic, and I think his mother drank a little—”

  “She drank about as much as he did,” Burton said in a soft but unemotional voice.

  “The boys were about the same size,” Marianne said. “They shared each other’s clothes constantly—”

  “Primarily, Dan shared Burton’s,” his father said. “Most of Dan’s clothes weren’t very good.” He smiled and said, “I don’t mean that to sound snobbish. His clothes were faded, small holes in his sweaters, sometimes his shirts lacked buttons, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I had forgotten. We loved the boy. We truly did. In fact, by the time they were in fourth grade when we bought new clothes for Burton, we frequently bought clothes for Dan. But his mother just couldn’t seem to keep them in good condition. Despite all of that, he was a sweet kid.”

  “His parents,” James said, “were rather strange. Both parents worked—that is, both worked some of the time—”

  “They had a special ability to get fired,” Burton said. I was surprised at the lack of emotion in his voice. “She couldn’t get to work sober, and he argued with everyone.”

  “But Dan was special. Yes, he was very, very special,” Marianne said. “He was also bright—in fact, he was probably a little smarter than our Burton.”

  “That’s true,” Burton said, “but most of all, I loved him, you know. He was—” His voice broke, and he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  “That’s what made the loss so bad for you.” Marianne patted his hand. “The accident was such a terrible, terrible blow for you. I wasn’t sure you’d ever recover. An
d all those months you spent in the hospital—”

  “That’s what I want to talk about,” Burton said. “I need to tell you about the accident.”

  Forty-Four

  “Are you sure you want to?” the elder Burton asked. “We’ll listen, of course, but we know how much you loved him, and it hurts us to see you in pain.”

  “You don’t have to tell us anything,” Marianne said. The tone of her voice sounded odd, and I couldn’t figure out what she meant. “Sometimes it’s best to leave the past behind and to move on.”

  “Yes, Son,” James said, “it’s all right not to go into the accident.”

  “I have to tell you. I have to explain—explain things no one else knows—I mean, except Julie. There’s something—something I did. Something wrong—really wrong—and I’ve carried it all these years. I need to tell you, most of all.”

  James walked over, pulled Burton to his feet, and hugged him. That didn’t seem characteristic of him, so it was obvious James sensed that this was a terrible confession Burton had to make. “I hope you know we love you, Son. No matter what you have to tell us.”

  Burton held James’s shoulders, and I thought Burton’s heart had broken. I suppose it had. Many people have come to my office over the years and cried, and some of them reminded me of wounded animals, wailing in despair. I had never heard such convulsive crying from a man before.

  As I watched, and despite my resolve, tears cascaded down my face. I was so proud of Burton. At last he was going to tell the truth. I thought of a verse in the Bible—although I had no idea where it was—that said the truth would set people free.

  Marianne clasped my hand. Her grip was so tight I finally had to pull it away to get the circulation going again.

  I don’t know how long Burton cried on his dad’s shoulder. It was probably only four or five minutes. I didn’t think about time; I thought about Burton’s pain, something he had carried for almost twenty years.

  Burton sat on the sofa next to me and took my hand. “I have to tell you this. It’s hard on me, and I know it will be harder on you, but I owe you the truth.”