by James Newman
I stopped in my tracks. Turned. Glared up at my neighbor.
“No offense, Andy,” he said, from the shadows of his front porch. “I’m just saying… with everything that’s happened…”
“No offense taken, Ben,” I lied.
I left him standing there.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the two men across the street watching my every move as well. One of them mumbled something to the other, and that was followed by a low, mean chuckle.
“Talk to you later, Andy,” Ben Souther said, as I stomped up my front steps. “Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A kind, accommodating, but still inhuman computer voice: “YOU HAVE… THIRTEEN… NEW MESSAGES. LISTEN TO ALL MESSAGES NOW?”
YES.
***
BEEEEEP.
“FIRST MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 10:57 A.M.”
“Andy? Ben. Jesus, I just heard. Jesus. Call me. I need to know you’re okay. Or just come on over. I’ll be home all day.”
BEEEEEP.
“SECOND MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 1:00 P.M.”
“Andy. Joe Tuttle here. Umm… Eileen and I were just wondering what in the world’s going on over there. We heard about what happened and… my God, I don’t know what to say, man. We’ll be stepping out for a late lunch in a few, but we’ll be back around three. Give us a ring.”
BEEEEEP.
“THIRD MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 2:22 P.M.”
“Andy, it’s Mona. Are you all right? Gosh, I… I heard about that little girl, and… my dear Lord, this is too terrible to comprehend. You know where I live if you need to talk to anyone, okay? Okay. Ta-ta for now, Andy.”
BEEEEEP.
“FOURTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 3:10 P.M.:
“Hi, Mr. Holland. This is Staci Gayle-Mathis, with the WKLS Channel 10 Evening News? I regret we missed you this morning. I would like to talk to you about a possible interview, when you have the time. Could you please give me a call at your earliest convenience? 555-8345. Thank you.”
BEEEEEP.
“FIFTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 4:04 P.M.”
“Hello, Mr. Holland. My name is James Melnath. Mr. Holland, I’m writing an article about the Rebecca Lanning murder for tomorrow’s edition of the Harris City Tribune, and if possible I would like to ask you a few questions. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes of your time. If you could call me at 555-4777, that would be great. Again, that’s 555-4777. Ask for Jim. Thanks!”
BEEEEEP.
“SIXTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 5:14 P.M.”
“Mr. Writer Fella. Sal Friedman here. Yeesh, I hate talking to these goddamn machines. You have no idea. But, hey, uh… I heard about what happened. Sweet Mother Mary, it’s hard to believe something like this could happen here. Anyway… give me a ring when you get a chance, will ya? That’s all.”
BEEEEEP.
“SEVENTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:07 P.M.”
“Andy? Ben. Are you there? Sorry to bother you again, but… we need to chat, man. Really. Drop by tomorrow morning. We’ll have a beer.”
BEEEEEP.
“EIGHTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:13 P.M.”
“Did I mention I hate talking to a machine? Christ. You really should turn on the news, Mr. Writer Fella.”
BEEEEEP.
“NINTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:36 P.M.”
“Andrew? What in the world is going on over there? God. I just heard. I can’t believe it. That poor little girl. Is it true you found her—what? Sam, honey, no. Hold on a sec, can’t you see I’m on the phone? Yes, it’s your father. No, it’s just his voice-mail. Andy, I have to go. Sam, turn off the television. I don’t know why he’s on the news. Of course everything’s okay, baby, he’s just—”
BEEEEEP.
“TENTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 7:09 P.M.”
“Andy? Mona again. I was watching the news tonight, and I’m awfully disturbed by some of the things they’re insinuating. It’s almost as if… gosh, I can’t even repeat it, it’s so dreadful. I hope you’re well, dear. Please, please give me a call. Ta-ta.”
BEEEEEP.
“ELEVENTH MESSAGE—TODAY, 7:46 A.M.”
“Andy? Ben. You up yet? Check out this morning’s Tribune.”
BEEEEEP.
“TWELFTH MESSAGE—TODAY, 8:14 A.M.”
“—know where the hell he is, Francine, but I think it’s about damn time we got some answers, don’t you? He can’t expect the rest of us to sit around whil—oh, uhh, hello? Holland? Hello? Um… ah, screw it.”
BEEEEEP.
“THIRTEENTH MESSAGE. TODAY, 8:21 A.M.”
“Mr. Writer Fella? You read the paper yet? This isn’t good at all, my friend. This isn’t good at all…”
BEEEEEEEEEEP.
***
“CONFIRM: ERASE ALL MAIL MESSAGES?”
YES.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I could wait no longer. I had to speak with my daughter. Even if it meant calling Karen, interrupting her wonderful weekend on Lake Jocassee in Jason Burke’s precious love boat.
“Andy!” Karen exclaimed as soon as she picked up. “I tried to call you a hundred times last night, but you never answered your phone. I tried the land-line and your cell. My God… are you okay?”
If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I heard genuine concern in her tone. For me. Something about that made me even more depressed.
In the background, on her end of the line, I could hear my ex-wife’s new fiancé saying something about “catching a whopper.” Beneath that: Fleetwood Mac singing “Little Lies” on a tinny radio… the lonely call of a loon… the slosh-slap rhythm of the lake against the hull of the S.S. HOMEWRECKER…
. . . and a child’s sweet, sweet laughter.
An invisible fist gripped my heart. Squeezed.
Karen said, “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. To be the one who found her…”
“It was awful, Karen,” I said. “I’ll never forget the sight of that little girl… lying there… as long as I live.”
“How in the world did you find her?”
Briefly, I filled her in on the details of my ill-fated walk with Norman.
“Jesus, Andy. I don’t know what to say. Are you… I hope you’re okay?”
“I will be,” I said. “It’s that poor child’s family I’m worried about.”
Neither of us said anything for one long, awkward minute or so. I knew we were thinking the same thing, though: What if it had been our daughter? What if some sick fuck had hurt Samantha? How would we ever begin to cope with such a thing?
Finally, Karen said, “I’m sorry, Andy. I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
“No, I mean it. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
She sighed. Sounded as if she were about to say something else, but then her next words died on her lips. I imagined my ex-wife twirling a lock of her wavy brown hair around one finger, like she always did when she was feeling stressed. I wondered if she was wearing her bright blue bikini with the little black turtles on it, the one that had always been my favorite and hers too ’cause she said the way I stared at her when she wore that bikini was the same way I had stared at her when we first started dating.
Instantly I forced such thoughts from my mind, for down that road lay… well, things I didn’t care to think about.
Like whether or not it was his favorite bikini, too.
As if on cue, I heard the captain of the S.S. INFIDELITY whisper in the background, “Babe? Who is it? Is everything okay?”
“It’s Andy,” she told him.
“Oh.”
I bit my tongue. Almost hard enough to draw blood.
“Karen?” I said.
“Hmm?”
“You know I don’t watch TV,” I said. “Hardly ever. But tell me the truth…”
“Okay.”
“Do I even want to know what they said on the news last night?”
Her silence was enough to answer my question.
“How bad was it?” I groaned.
“It was bad, Andy. Pretty bad.”
“Shit.”
“I wish I could tell you otherwise. But that poor child wasn’t even the focus of the story. Not really. It was… you. And what you do for a living.”
“Shit,” I said again.
“ ‘Local author of the macabre discovers real-life horror practically in his own back yard,’ ” Karen recited. “Or some such nonsense.”
“God damn it.”
“I know. I was furious.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And the other thing?” I already knew the answer from my conversation with Ben Souther, but I asked it anyway. “The thing on my record?”
“They mentioned that too. Once or twice.”
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Ran one hand through my sweat-soaked hair.
Meanwhile, from the sounds of it, Samantha was having the time of her eleven-year-old life aboard the S.S. TAKE-MY-WIFE-PLEASE. In the background I could hear the long, ratcheting click-whirrrrr of a fishing line being cast into Lake Jocassee, a distant splash…
And more ecstatic giggles.
My daughter’s laughter was the greatest sound in the world. It warmed my soul like beautiful music. Lifted my spirits like a drug. Yet, at the same time, it filled me with the most heartrending regret I had ever known. Sam might as well have been a million miles away, on another planet. And she sounded so happy there. Had she ever been that happy with me, I wondered? Had either of them? I tried to remember the last time my ex-wife or my daughter had sounded so carefree—so full of bliss—when we were together. Had I neglected my family by focusing first and foremost on my career, by fretting endlessly over this deadline or that contractual obligation? Writing is such a solitary job, after all. What if I had pushed them both away—first Karen, and now my little girl?
No. Please, God, I prayed, don’t let that be true.
Choking back a sob, I said, “Can I… may I talk to Sam now, please?”
“Of course you can,” Karen replied. “Hold on a second.”
I sniffled softly as I waited to hear my daughter’s voice. Dried my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt.
“Sam, honey?” Karen said. “It’s your father.”
“Yay!” I heard Sam exclaim. “Dad!”
The metallic clatter of a fishing pole, dropped and forgotten. Hurried footsteps across fancy hardwood deck.
“How is he holding up?” I heard Jason Burke ask Karen, as if he might suddenly cease to exist if she didn’t tell him my business right this second. And I could tell by their hushed conversation that she wasted no time obliging the prick.
But I did not care at all about that once my daughter came on the line. At the sound of her voice, I smiled wider than I would have ever thought possible.
“Hi, Dad!” Samantha said, coming through loud and clear. She always thought she had to yell to be heard on her mother’s cell phone.
“Hey, baby!” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine. Jason was just showing me how to cast a line. He says I’m a born fisherwoman!”
“Neat,” I said.
“Yeah! And you know what else he told me?”
“What’s that?”
“He said the Lord Jesus taught that we should be fishers of men.”
“Fishers of men,” I said. “Really.”
“Yep. It says that in the Book of Matt.”
“Mark, sweetheart,” I heard Burke correct her in the background. “The Book of Mark.”
My free hand clenched into a pale fist. A sick little snicker slipped out of me, and I tried to stifle it with a cough, but I knew it didn’t sound at all convincing. Without a doubt, that was the most peculiar thing about this whole mess with my adulterous ex and her new beau—the fact that Jason Burke claimed to be a devout “Christian.” In his spare time, he was a youth minister at the First Methodist Church across town. Every time I thought about that, I felt like laughing so hard I might rupture something inside of me. Because it was downright hilarious. I wondered what his precious doctrines said about infidelity? About fornication? With the exception of my wedding day and my father’s funeral six years ago, I had not stepped foot inside a place of worship for nearly three decades… yet I was quite sure I remembered a Golden Rule, maybe one of the Ten Commandments, which clearly stated, “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife.”
Fishers of men indeed. Because Karen sure as hell swallowed Bible-Man’s bait and came swimming back for more.
“Guess what, Dad?” Samantha yelled in my ear, jerking me out of my reverie. “Jason already caught six fish! Can you believe that?”
“Did he now?” I said.
“Yep. He got four itty-bitty ones, a sorta-kinda medium one, and a real whopper.”
“Wow.”
“We’re gonna cook the whopper tonight and eat it.”
I said, “It sounds like you’re having a blast, Sam. I’m glad.”
“It’s pretty cool, I guess,” she said. “But, Dad…?”
“Yeah?”
“I really wish you were here. It’s not the same without you.”
Tears burned in my eyes. From Samantha’s end of the line, the sound of massive sails flapping and popping in the afternoon breeze taunted me like evil nylon laughter.
“I wish I could be there too, baby,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Maybe we can go fishing sometime, Dad. Just me and you. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“It would be super cool,” I said. “We’ll do that.”
“Really? Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a fish hook in my eye.”
Sam giggled like that was the funniest thing she ever heard. “Owwwch!”
I sniffled again, but laughed with her.
“I heard them talking about you on TV,” she said then, catching me by surprise.
“You did?”
“Yeah. They showed a picture of your house, and even some of your books! Mommy wouldn’t let me watch it, though. She made me go to my room. What’s going on, Dad? Are you okay?”
“Sure I’m okay,” I said. “Nothing’s going on, pumpkin. The news was… um… they were just doing a little piece on my latest book. That’s all. Everything’s fine.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Good.”
Lying to my daughter made me really want to stab a fish hook into my eye. As deep as it would go.
“Well, Dad,” Sam said a few seconds later. “I’m gonna go try to catch some more, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie,” I said. “You have a wonderful time this weekend, and I will see you next Wednesday?”
“I can’t wait,” she replied.
“I love you, Samantha.”
“I love you, too.”
And with a dull click, she was gone.
I couldn’t help it. The second I hung up the phone, I began to cry harder and louder than I had ever cried in my life.
I didn’t stop for at least an hour. Maybe even two.
CHAPTER NINE
At this point in my story, if my name were Benjamin Souther, I would undoubtedly conjure up some perfect quotation for the task at hand.
Perhaps I would recite the words of writer Henry Mencken, who said, “It is hard to believe a man is telling the truth when you know you would lie if you were in his place.”
Hank, old boy, I’m sure my neighbors would agree with you there.
Or how about this, from Winston Churchill: “A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.”
I can vouch for that.
Or maybe I should quote none other than our esteemed sixteenth President, Mr. Abraham Lincoln: “Truth is generally the best vindication against slander.”
Right.
Honest Abe didn’t know shit.
***
In any event, I suppose I should quit stalling.
Here, now, is my truth…
I’m talking about the sk
eleton in my closet. My dark secret that I so foolishly believed I had put behind me almost two decades ago.
I should have known the sins of your past always come back to haunt you.
More often than not, with a vengeance.
***
In November of — I had just turned twenty years old. For the first year-and-a-half after I graduated from high school, I flipped burgers at various fast-food joints with no immediate plans for a more prosperous career in mind. Well, none that required I punch a clock every day. It was only because of my parents’ constant nagging that I decided to further my education at all. They insisted that a few courses at a local community or technical college would teach me some sort of trade I could use in the “real world,” and I had to admit—albeit begrudgingly—that Mom and Dad were right.
Problem was, I never possessed any desire to attend college. I did not think it was necessary, because for as far back as I can remember, there was only one thing I wanted to do with my life. And a fancy degree was not essential to making my dream a reality.
I wanted to be a writer. A best-selling novelist.
Ultimately, parental demands prevailed. According to my father, if I wished to continue “living under his roof,” I would find something “to fall back on.” In case “this writing thing didn’t work out.”
So at some point during those last few weeks of ——, I visited the local community college with my high school transcripts in hand, hoping to find a few classes that might sustain my interest enough to at least keep me from dropping out after only a couple weeks. Journalism. Technical writing, perhaps. Maybe a course on computer programming, which my high school guidance counselor had informed me was the “wave of the future.”
