Slowly, I carry my bluff to the front door, open it, and walk out without looking back.
He is gone when I get home from Mustang’s that night. I couldn’t see where he had packed anything, no real signs that he’d left for good. In fact, there were only two things that I knew for sure were missing. One was his pick-up truck and the other was that picture of him and Grandma on their wedding day. That picture of the person he always wanted to be. And had been, I suppose—a hundred and one years ago.
Disappearing right after his wife had died, everyone could only speculate that the grief had been too much for him.
“Poor old Hollis,” friends said, “he couldn’t stand the thought of being without her.”
“Poor Dad.” Paula said. “It hurt him so much to see mom in pain that he couldn’t even visit her in the hospital.”
“Poor Grandpa, he’ll be back in time. When he’s ready he’ll come back to us.”
But I knew. I knew that the place he had gone was not a place you come back from. Ever.
Poor old Hollis Gaines.
The day after Grandpa left, I found another grave letter at Ethan’s grave. Between what was written on the lines of those pages and what I read between them, I finally found out the truth of what had happened to Katie Cooper …
Katie had come looking for me that afternoon, wanting to make sure I was okay after what had happened at the basketball court with Edie and Son. But Grandma had taken me, Gavin, and Heather shopping in Glidden. Grandpa was home alone watching television and drinking whiskey from his flask when Katie came to the front door looking for me.
“He went to town with his grandmother,” he said, hiding the flask behind his back.
“Oh,” she said. “Ok. Um, Mr. Gaines, did he seem okay?”
“Yeah, sure, far as I could tell he seemed fine. Why, what’s wrong? You want to come in and wait? They won’t be gone too long.”
He shut the door behind her and took another swig of whiskey, then again tucked it away in his back pocket.
“Have a seat, sweetheart. I’ll turn something on the television for you.”
He watched her as she walked across the room to the couch, running her hands behind her as she sat to press down a skirt she wasn’t wearing. His eyes burned and he swallowed the cotton out of his mouth. Licked his lips. He felt old Jack Daniels walking around inside him. Warming his belly, stirring him, inviting in those unnatural thoughts that his sober mind constantly struggled against.
He wasn’t struggling now. It felt good not to struggle.
Then, falling back in the chair across from her, he said, “Well, well, you are sure turning into a fine young lady, Miss Katie.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gaines.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed. Miss Katie, the fine young lady. Come on, stand up and let me get a good look at you.”
When she politely refused, something inside him began to rise up. The rebirth of something that had always been alive, but didn’t always live—because of the struggle.
But he wasn’t struggling now.
He pulled the flask out of his pocket and drank until it was gone. He tossed it to the side and said, “Okay, then. I guess I’m just going to have to come over there.”
He moved next to her on the couch and cupped her face, holding her head up like an offering. Then he lifted her from the couch and made her stand in front of him.
“Yes, indeed. Miss Katie, the fine young lady.”
Looking down his nose and smiling, he said, “Such a pretty little girl. Step back for a second, let me see the whole picture.”
“You sure are growing up fast, aren’t you, Katie?” His heart raced as he took her hands in his.
Frightened now, Katie just shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, come on,” he slurred. “You must know what a big girl you’re becoming, don’t you?”
“I guess,” she said with a shrug. “I should probably get going, Mr. Gaines. Could you tell Tucker I was here?”
“And so pretty, too. Pretty all over.”
“Pretty here,” he said touching her face.
“Pretty on the outside and pretty on the inside,” he said, pressing his hand against her chest and holding it there.
“In fact, you are so pretty, Katie, that I could just eat you up.”
The last few words were growled out as he lurched at Katie, grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms completely around her.
“I need to get going, Mr. Gaines. My mom’s expecting me,” she said in a meek voice that made him think of Little Red Riding Hood.
Then, cheek to cheek, he said to her, “What’s the matter, Katie? Don’t be afraid. Do I look like the Big Bad Wolf to you, Katie?”
Strangely, when she began to cry, it calmed him completely and he said, “Ssshh. Don’t struggle, Katie. Trust me, it feels good not to struggle.”
At some point in the insidiousness that followed, Katie cried a little too loud and he put his hands over her face to quiet her. He did not notice when she had stopped making any kind of noise at all.
“How did this happen?” he had wondered. This was not what he wanted. This was not who he was.
Panicked, he wrapped her lifeless body in bed sheets he had pulled from the hall closet. He went to the kitchen and pulled down a bottle of Scotch. He took a long drink and it calmed him. Grandma was going to be back from Glidden soon, so he had to act fast.
He carried Katie’s body to the garage and laid it on the floor. Then he backed his truck into his garage, put Katie’s lifeless body in the truck bed and threw a crumpled tarp over the top of her, weighing down the edges with bricks. He dumped the body in the high weeds along the side of the train tracks leading out of Willow Grove.
Later on, as the entire town searched the streets of Willow Grove for Katie, Grandpa pulled Keller aside and planted his lie about seeing Slim Jim and Katie. He was actually surprised at how easily he was able to persuade his old bud Alvin to make that phone call to the sheriff’s office.
“It was coming back into town that I saw them, Alvin. Saw Katie and that drifter right at the railroad tracks together. Must have been about 4:30.”
Affecting a tone of harried confusion, he continued, “Mary Lynn would kill me if she knew I’d left little Heather alone in the house like that—even if she was napping. And what kind of witness would that make for anyway? A grandfather who’s left his baby granddaughter alone so he can go get schnockered—and then driving drunk on top of it? I’d hate to think Slim Jim would get away with this just because I screwed up, Alvin.”
“So, what do we do, Hollis? What do we do if the anonymous tip isn’t enough?”
At this Grandpa grabbed Alvin by the shoulders and gave him the most earnest look he could muster. “Alvin, if that time comes, I need you to tell folks that it was you who saw that hobo with that Cooper girl by the railroad tracks. It was him who killed her, Alvin. You know that. A complicated story and he may walk. Not to mention the trouble it could bring on me. I may be a drunk, Alvin, but I’m no liar. And I know what I saw. Hell, we all know it was Slim Jim killed that girl, right?”
“Right, right.”
Old Man Keller paused for a long moment and with a determined and distant look he said, “Sheriff Buck, I’m calling to say that I think I know who killed that Cooper girl.”
The grave letter contains no real apology. No accountability. Grandpa was confessing to someone else’s guilt.
… it wasn’t me, Tucker. It was that demon I told you about, the monster I hid from everyone. And I know how to make it so he can never hurt me or anyone else ever again. Your grandpa is gonna kill the demon …
When I finish reading, I fold up the letter and slip it back inside the envelope. It represents the death of so much that I briefly consider digging a tiny grave and burying the letter itself. But I had buried too much in my life, so instead, I walk the graveyard with that letter safely in my hands, taking in the sight of the many-colored envelopes ado
rning the graves. Reading the names on each headstone as I pass, searching for one name in particular.
Buck.
Hearts Left Behind
We go to Church on Father’s Day.
I sit dead center in the middle of the pew with a straight and clear path to the altar laid out in front of me. I can still see Ethan’s tiny white coffin at the end of it.
Behind the altar on the east wall of the church, the stained glass image of an open-armed Jesus confronts me. He is larger than He has ever been and His eyes meet mine.
“Tucker, would you mind holding Griffin while I dig out a towel?” my cousin Allison asks.
Griffin, who had been born three weeks after Ethan, has spit up and Allison is looking for something to clean her lapel with.
“Sure.”
His chest expands and air whistles from his nose. I close my eyes and hold him tight to my chest, listening to the lovely sound of his blessed breathing. Tears began to trickle down my face, leaving my mouth salty. I open my eyes to again see the arms of Jesus still opened before me and I hold that baby boy tighter, cannot imagine letting go.
When Allison sees me crying, she realizes what’s going through me.
“Oh, Tucker. How stupid of me. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“No, it’s not. That was really insensitive. I’m so sorry.”
I sit back down and wait for the faithful to file out. When all have left, I look up once more at Stained-Glass Jesus and I thank Him for the gift he’d just given me. The gift of a breathing baby in my arms.
After church, Tammy takes Tory back to the house to finish packing up our things. We are leaving Willow Grove and with Grandma and Grandpa both gone now, I am not sure when I will return to this place again.
I take one last walk up to the playground, but Swinging Girl isn’t there. Her swing isn’t only empty, it’s broken. The chain has snapped on one side and the seat hangs helplessly from the other. I sit down in the swing next to it and try to make sense of the past few weeks.
I suppose that I found what I was supposed to find in Willow Grove, even if it hadn’t been what I was looking for. Maybe we always find what we’re meant to find.
I think about the odd marvel of the Grave Letters and wonder whether the townspeople of Willow Grove will continue writing them. I hope so. It feels like something beautiful that should continue. And other than helping start those letters, I don’t think I’ve done much good here. I just hope that I’ve done some right. Right by James Johnson. Right by the Coopers. Right by me and my family. Most importantly, I hope I have done right by Katie and Ethan. I want them to be proud of me.
I kick at the gravel beneath me and look again at the empty swing dangling to my left.
Just another broken part.
Maybe Old Man Keller was right. Maybe we are all just a bunch of broken parts. Broken souls walking on the grass that he mows until we became one of the broken bodies that lie beneath it.
I get up from the swing and leave the park without looking back. I was ready to leave Willow Grove. I was ready to go home.
I keep seeing you out of the corner of my eye,
But I can never seem to get you in focus.
I keep loving you in the corner of my heart
But that love just never seems to be enough.
I keep thinking of you in the corner of my mind
But I can’t seem to find a memory there.
And I keep holding these arms open for you
But you won’t come and warm them.
I can’t live without you, son.
But I will.
Author’s Note
If you enjoyed this story, a positive review on Amazon or Goodreads would be greatly appreciated. I also encourage you to visit my blog page or my facebook page.
http://derekrempfer.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/derek.rempferwriter
A Sample of Louise’s Bestselling Contemporary Novel, The Making of Nebraska Brown
The last thing eighteen-year-old Ann Leigh remembers is running from her boyfriend in a thick Nebraska cornfield. This morning she’s staring down a cool Italian sunrise, an entire continent from the life she once knew. The events of the eighteen months in between have inexplicably gone missing from her memory.
All at once she’s living with Tommy, an attractive, young foreigner asking for her continued love. Though he’s vaguely familiar, she recalls a boy named Shane in America who she reluctantly agreed to marry. Juggling a new world while her old one is still M.I.A is difficult enough without the terrifying movie scenes spinning a dizzy loop in her mind: glimpses of a devastating house fire, a romance gone wrong, an unplanned pregnancy, and a fractured family – each claiming to be part of who she once was – a girl and a past somehow discarded.
Ann Leigh must collect the pieces of herself to become whole again, but she doesn’t know who to trust especially when Tommy’s lies become too obvious to ignore. And above all, her heart aches to discover what became of the child she may or may not have given birth to.
The Making of Nebraska Brown tells the story of one girl’s coming apart from the inside and the great lengths she’ll go to reclaim herself and find her way home.
CHAPTER ONE
Last thing I remember, Shane Kirkland had his left hand on my right boob, and I could feel the nub—the missing chunk of his pinky finger that got chewed off in the gristmill. So I ran, mostly because the idea of marrying him and his sad punk of a finger sent a shiver straight through to my bones.
Then I recall the wind under my feet as I left him in the raw evening mist that settled over the cornfields as soon as the sun was done burning a hole through the Nebraska day. And if memory served, I kept my mouth closed because my 12th grade track coach used to say that if you don’t, you could unknowingly swallow an entire bellyful of summer gnats in less than a mile.
I motored past the silo at McClusky’s farm and down the path that lays parallel to the stream. I don’t know why I was running so fast. He would never catch up, wouldn’t even attempt to. He couldn’t, what with his pancake-flat feet and bad ankles that dislocated at high speeds. Shane was as good as any maimed man, twenty-one years old, horny, in love, and gloriously imperfect.
“Ann Leigh!”
His voice certainly could carry. Always said he could holler clear across town. There was some talent to that; I suppose.
“Ann Leigh, come back!”
I kept the pace for a while, only slowing when I neared the water tower. The vision in my mind turns grey and sketchy from there. Had I scaled all the way to the top? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time. Had I reached that skinny lip of a ledge and lost my footing, toppling over? Or had I slipped somewhere along the climb?
I recall the moonlight slicing through the trees, a sharp silver spear on my face while thoughts slashed my brain like a razor—thoughts of becoming Mrs. Shane Kirkland the Second, thoughts of working in his daddy’s restaurant alongside his mother, slinging hash—whatever that meant—and refilling the tampon holder in the ladies room known as the Hen House.
“Ann Leigh, where are you? Where are you?”
I pried my eyelids open. A clean blue sky strung out above me. And then a face, a man’s face. His lips were moving slowly, his words like seasoned gibberish.
“Sta bene signorina?
I squinted against the light, so bright, so unlike a Nebraska morning.
Morning?
“Pardon?” My own voice was tiny and far off.
“Sta bene signorina?” he repeated.
I felt the ground beneath me, a cool, damp mattress of low grass and smooth white pebbles. I sat up on my elbows to look around, over the man’s shoulder. My temples knocked from the inside out.
“Signorina?”
“I–I don’t understand.”
But somehow I did. I knew what he was saying. He was asking me if I was all right—young lady, are you all right. That’s what he’d said. H
ow did I know that? There was no way. I’d transferred out of Spanish 1 in junior year to take Photography where we shot rolls and rolls of film—still life of apples and lampshades.
“Where … where am I?” I asked.
“Campania,” he said.
“Campania?”
“Si. Campania.” He smiled. His teeth were Clorox white against his skin, which was the color of toasted almonds. “Ho pensato che fosse morto. Non ha bisogno di un medico?”
I propped myself up enough to notice where I was. Some strange garden. Someplace I’d never been or even seen. Not Nebraska. Not remotely close to Nebraska. Campania?
“No, I’m not morto, not dead. At least I don’t think so. Don’t you speak any English?”
He lifted one hand in the air and pinched his thumb and pointer together. “Solo un po’.”
“Just a little?”
“Si. Just … a … little. Sei caduta?”
“I don’t know if I fell … I think I passed out.” There I was, again. Understanding his forked tongue. And it wasn’t Spanish he was speaking. It was Italian. “I don’t … I can’t remember. This Campania. This is Italy, no?”
“Italia, si, miss, Italia.”
“But I was just climbing the water tower.”
The man pressed his knees into the soft earth and tilted his head to one side. His shoeblack hair was combed straight back and looked like freshly set tar. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth.
“Il serbatoio idrico a torre,” came flowing out like an easy river on a spring afternoon.
Where the Broken Lie Page 17
