White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2)

by Jeff Van Valer

  “Calm down, Dad. Before you piss yourself.”

  The line brought bittersweet laughter to them both.

  Over about a day and a half, to more authorities in different uniforms than he’d ever seen together, Ted provided statements about The Saloon, Ironman and Trashcan Face, his flight from the truck stop, and his ordeal at White Birch Camp. An FBI agent wearing a black suit and old tie reminded Ted the statements would be compared to those of several witnesses, namely Jason, the kid with the shot-up Trans Am; the Williams family from Sparta; Karen’s niece, Bradie McCoy; and Karen Dinwiddie herself. The reminder carried a thinly veiled message: So watch out, son. If any of your witnesses tells a different story, we’ll be after you damned soon. To that, Ted answered: Glad there are plenty of them.

  He rested when he could. Physical therapy for the knee and wound care for the gunshot kept him busy and prolonged his tenure in the hospital to over two days. He expected to be discharged in the morning.

  Later that afternoon, when Ted fell asleep and Roy and Suzanne Gables had snuck out for dinner, Ted startled awake to another visitor.

  What do you know? It’s Walrus Face.

  Frank Bruska swallowed hard, his mustache bulging out. Ted had seen the expression a hundred times. It was the same as always, but it looked different somehow. The puffed-out mustache came across, not as a display of arrogance, but as a sign of some temporary discomfort, perhaps a marker of social anxiety. Or of a humility Ted had never recognized.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you, Ted.”

  “Frank. Is Judge Thayer still breathing down your ass for probable cause?”

  Then another rarity. Frank’s face lit up with a tooth-bearing grin and a chuckle. “Nope. Not after all this. Now, not even he thinks you did it.”

  Ted watched the detective wordlessly.

  “You’ll like this, Ted. I talked to local law enforcement here. That blue truck at the camp? They found a bolt-action .308 rifle in it. They’ll run the ballistics, of course, but I bet it’s the weapon.”

  Ted hid a grimace as he thought of the red rivulets on the tan seat.

  “I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, but if it is the rifle,” Frank said, “you’ve solved the case. Personally, after all this, I’d—”

  “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Frank. Maybe for a lot of things.”

  The walrus face returned as Frank seemed to consider the statement. “No, Ted. You don’t. But I’ll take a couple beers and an afternoon. I suspect we’d both have a lot of things to say.”

  “Imagine so.”

  Ted invited Frank to sit, and the two talked like never before.

  ~~~

  In an eyeblink, Ted awoke from a dream. In it, he and Kathryn were enjoying a conversation about nothing. They sipped cocktails over a candlelit table in some fancy restaurant. She’d been in a wonderful mood. The Radifords, murder investigations, and blood on leather seats were nowhere to be found. To his surprise, seeing her then and in that way made him more happy than sad. But he knew. The same dream after he returned home might bring an awful reaction.

  He surveyed his hospital room. The clock’s arms pointed in far different directions than they had the last time Ted thought to check. The anemic January shadows outside leaned far to the east, not vaguely north, like before. Frank was gone.

  Ted’s dinner tray sat on the narrow table that seemed to hover over his bed. He sat up straight, the pit bull at his side now only lapping at the healing wound. He lifted the insulated plate cover. Condensation dripped from its underside as he inspected the bounty. Sliced turkey, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Hospital food. A card on the tray said REG and stood for Regular Diet. In hospital parlance, REG on a food tray meant fat-filled and salty-as-hell. The mere sight of coffee—in an Aladdin cup with a fitted, clear-plastic lid—warmed his insides. The meal looked and smelled delicious.

  He ate greedily.

  Sipping his coffee, he noticed something the dinner tray partially covered. Two yellow pages had been torn from a legal pad and carefully folded.

  ted

  its handwritten label said in ink. The sounds of crisp paper echoed around the room as he unfolded them. The writing was unmistakable. The letters were less pillowy than when she was fourteen. The lower-case Is and Js were dotted with actual dots, not hearts and smiley faces. But the handwriting was definitely Karen’s.

  Before he knew it or could feel ashamed or disloyal, he had the pages up against his nose. No Karen fragrance. Only mashed potatoes and fresh coffee. Other than the inked words, the paper bore deep impressions from what appeared to be furiously intense writing on previous pages.

  As though he had something to hide (thirty years is a long time, he thought), he checked around the room before reading.

  1/27/2000

  Dear Ted:

  You appear to be recovering well. You didn’t tell me you’d been shot. After I had the minor surgery you said I needed, I spoke to the officers for several hours. I’m sure you’ve done the same. They finally thanked me for my patience and let me go. On my way, I stopped by your room and found you asleep. Your friend, detective Bruska, is a charming man. (He had one of my books and asked for an autograph. I told him I should ask for his.)

  I’ve sat down to write you this note. If you wake up while I’m here, I’ll see you. If you don’t, I won’t. We’ll see how it goes. Writing this letter is like the old times, just like a certain summer that ended too quickly—and mysteriously, it turns out.

  On our recent—what would you call it, Ted? Our little VISIT?—I think I got a good idea of who you’ve become. You’re an introspective, troubled, and good man, Ted. It’s clear your secret from 1970 has tortured you. Three decades is enough, though, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time to make it stop.

  Do you know how to do that?

  I do.

  Tell your story, Ted. Write it down. Do the opposite of keeping it secret. Tell everyone you can.

  Write it to benefit the people you love and miss. Do it for your family, your wife, your parents. Do it for Zeke and Neil, the others, and their families. You can even do it for Hoss if you have to. His memory deserves more than a little credit, doesn’t it? And if that’s not enough for you, then think of it as a debt to me.

  You remember that letter I wrote you? The one about what Lloyd tried to do to me in Headquarters—the very day he died? The therapy that letter provided me pays dividends to this day. I can’t imagine what keeping that secret would have done to me. I wrote mine down. Now you should write yours. You’ll see what it does for you. Write about everyone you knew that summer. You’ll be surprised what you remember about all of them. Or all of us; I guess I was part of that summer, too. It’ll help convince you, when you’re done, why a reasonable, twelve-year-old boy might keep that secret.

  Then you’ll realize it’s not you who killed Kathryn. It’s not you who killed Zeke, Neil, and Hoss.

  In my mind, your voice is clear. I hear your apology for our recent visit and for what happened to my uncle. Those aren’t your fault, either. You did what you had to do, then and now. We both did.

  About that letter, the one you almost sent to me but decided instead to burn in your back yard. You owe me that letter. You have for a long time. Since old debts come with considerable interest, here’s what I want. I want more than just what happened across the lake that night. Now, I want the entire summer. Start when you arrived at camp and talked to “the light in the trees.” You remember telling me about that? On that evening you and I sat on the bench together, watching the lake. I wanted that light to be your mom over there, Ted, I really did. Your sentimentality almost made me cry.

  You became the best friend I’d ever had when you entrusted me with that heartbreaking little piece of hope.

  I suggest you start your book there. And don’t stop until you explain why you kept your secret. I want to read it. A lot of people want to know that story. More than you and I could count. You’re the only one suited to
tell it, and you’ll never be whole again if you don’t.

  (I’ve already used half this tablet of paper to scribble down my part of this whole—thing.)

  And by the way. I’ve spoken to my agent and publisher about all this, and they want to read your story. They also want what’s happened over the last couple of weeks. My answer to them was yes, but I’ll need a co-author. What do you think, Ted? Let’s not allow some hotshot journalist to beat us to it.

  It looks like you’re still asleep, so I’m going home.

  This writing project is no request, my friend. You owe me. Expect a phone call soon.

  Best,

  Karen.

  Ted filled with a kind of urgency.

  Now, I want the entire summer. Start when you arrived at camp.

  Ted remembered getting out of his dad’s car in June, 1970. The sting of his mom’s death. Arriving late to camp and trying to convince himself his only problem was that he’d miss out on a top bunk for the summer. Meeting Karen minutes after he stepped out of the car. Meeting Zeke and Hoss. Buck, then Neil.

  Ted could remember—“Word for word,” he mumbled to himself—how he felt about all of them. Could he actually write that story?

  You’ll never be whole again if you don’t.

  In a few minutes, a young man, possibly a hospital volunteer, stopped by to collect Ted’s dinner tray.

  He thought of something Kathryn said. You wear your pain on your sleeve, Ted. Karen had said something else, too, when he readied himself to smash Ironman’s skull with the graffiti board. What else do you want to regret? When it came to wearing his pain on his sleeve and regretting, Ted decided in a flash he never wanted to do either again.

  His mind drifted. No, it levitated. It blew like a gale heading back in time to White Birch. The trapdoor spider was gone.

  The throaty V8 of his dad’s GTO atop the waterfront. The creak of the opening door, the wind in the trees, the smell of pinesap. The one million, ephemeral slivers of sunlight glinting off Loon Lake. The anxiety of arriving at White Birch. The redheaded girl talking to him and carrying the science fiction book. His first glimpse in twilight of that campfire across the lake—the light in the trees.

  “Anything I can get you?” the volunteer asked as Ted thought of canoes, fire, and White Birch Magic.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” Ted said to the young man. “Get me another cup of coffee. Will you, please?”

  “Sure.”

  Three decades is enough… don’t you think?

  It was suddenly okay to remember. To stop trying to forget.

  … You owe me.

  “And maybe… uh… some paper and a pen.”

  the end

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