A Bend in the Road (26 page)

But. . .

Despite his better
judgment, he sighed and pushed away from the car. He said nothing at all, nor
did he look back as he left, knowing that if he did, he would change his mind.

A minute later,
almost as if he’d never been there at all, Charlie was gone.

• • •

In time, the
highway patrolman finished the report and left. Bennie, too, drove off.

Miles, though,
stayed at the scene for almost an hour, his mind a tangled mess of
contradictory thoughts. Oblivious to the cold, he sat in the car with the
window open, absently running his hands over the steering wheel, over and
over.  When he realized what he had to
do, he closed the window and turned the key, heading onto the road again. The
car barely had time to get warm before he pulled off to the side again and got
back out. The temperature had warmed slightly and the snow was beginning to
melt. Drops fell from the branches of trees with steadyplink s, like the
ticking of a clock.

He couldn’t
help but notice the overgrown bushes along the side of the road.  Though he’d passed them a thousand times,
until this morning, they’d meant nothing to him.

Now, as he
stared at them, they were all he could think about. They blocked his view of
the lawn, and one look was enough to tell him they were thick enough to have
kept Missy from seeing the dog.

Too thick to
charge through?

He paced the
row of bushes, slowing when he reached the area where they assumed that Missy
had been hit. Bending down for a closer look, he froze when he saw it. A gap
between the bushes, like a hole. No prints were evident, but black leaves were
matted on the ground and branches had been torn away on either side.  Obviously a passageway for something.

A black dog?

In the
distance, he listened for the sound of barking. He scanned the yards, looking
there as well.

There was
nothing.

Too cold to be
out today?

He’d never
checked for a dog. No one had.

He looked up the
road, wondering. He pushed his hands into his pockets. They were stiff from the
cold, difficult to bend, and as they warmed, they began to sting. He didn’t
care.

Not knowing
what else to do, he drove to the cemetery, hoping to clear his mind.  He saw them even before he’d reached the
grave. Fresh flowers, propped against the headstone.

His mind flashed
to Charlie and something he once had said.

Like someone was
trying to apologize.

Miles turned and
walked away.

• • •

Hours passed.
Dark now. Outside the window, the winter sky was black and ominous.

Sarah turned
from the window and paced her apartment again. Brian was home from the
hospital. The cut wasn’t serious, three stitches only, and there were no broken
bones. It had taken less than an hour.

Despite the
fact that she’d practically begged him, Brian hadn’t wanted to stay with her.
He’d needed to be alone. He was back at home, wearing a hat and sweatshirt,
hiding the injuries from his parents.

“Don’t tell
them what happened, Sarah. I’m not ready for that yet. I want to be the one who
tells them. I’ll do it when Miles comes by.” Miles would come to arrest Brian.
She was sure of that.

She wondered
what was taking so long.

For the past
eight hours, she’d veered from anger to worry, from frustration to bitterness
and back again, one right after the other. There were too many different
emotions for her to begin to sort through.

In her mind,
she rehearsed the words she should have responded with when Miles lashed out at
her so unfairly.So you think you’re the only one who got hurt here? she would
have said.That no one else in the world can understand it? Did you stop to
think how hard it was for me to bring Brian by this morning? To turn my own
brother in? And your response—oh, that was the kicker, wasn’t it? I betrayed
you? I used you?

In frustration,
she picked up the remote and turned on the television, scanned the channels.
Turned it off.

Take it easy, she
told herself, trying to calm down. He’d just found out who’d killed his wife.
Nothing harder than that, especially coming out of the blue the way it had.
Especially coming from me.

And Brian.

Can’t forget to
thank him for ruining everyone’s life.

She shook her
head. That wasn’t fair, either. He was just a kid back then. It was an
accident. She knew he’d do anything to change what happened back then.  Back and forth it went. She circled the
living room again, ending up at the window. Still no sign of him. She went to
the phone and picked up the receiver, checking to make sure it had a dial tone.
It did. Brian had promised to call her as soon as Miles came over.

So where was
Miles, and what was he doing? Calling for reinforcements?

She didn’t know
what to do. Couldn’t leave the house, couldn’t use the phone.

Not while she was
waiting for the call.

• • •

Brian spent the
rest of the day hiding in his room.

In his bed, he
stared at the ceiling, his arms at his sides, legs straight, as though he were
lying in a coffin. He knew he’d fallen asleep at times, because the shifting
light made things look different in his room. Over the hours, the walls turned
from white to faded gray, then to shadows as the sun traveled slowly across the
sky and finally went down. He hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner.  Sometime during the afternoon, his mother
had knocked at his door and come in;

Brian had
closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He knew she thought he was sick, and
he could hear her as she crossed the room. She’d put a hand to his forehead,
feeling for a fever. After a minute, she’d crept out, closing the door behind
her. In hushed tones, Brian had heard her speaking to his father.  “He must not be feeling well,” she’d said.
“He’s really out.” When he wasn’t sleeping, he thought about Miles. He wondered
where Miles was, he wondered when Miles would come. He thought about Jonah,
too, and what he would say when his father told him who had killed his mother.
He wondered about Sarah and wished she hadn’t been any part of this.

He wondered
what prison was like.

In the movies,
prisons were worlds of their own, with their own laws, their own kings and
pawns, and gangs. He imagined the dim fluorescent lights and the cold
permanence of the steel bars, doors clanging shut. In his mind, he heard
toilets flushing, people talking and whispering and yelling and moaning; he
imagined a place that was never silent, even in the middle of the night. He saw
himself staring toward the tops of concrete walls covered with barbed wire and
seeing guards in the towers, holding guns pointed toward the sky. He saw other
prisoners, watching him with interest, taking bets on how long he would
survive.  He had no doubt about this: If
he ended up there, he would be a pawn.

He would not
survive in a place like that.

Later, as the
sounds from the house began to settle down, Brian heard his parents go to bed.
Light spilled under his door, then finally turned black. He fell asleep again,
and later, when he woke suddenly, he saw Miles in the room.  Miles was standing in the corner by the
closet, holding a gun. Brian blinked, squinted, felt the fear constrict his
chest, making it difficult to breathe. He sat up and held his hands in a
defensive posture before he realized he’d been mistaken.

What he’d
thought was Miles was nothing but his jacket on the coat rack, mingling with
the shadows, playing tricks with his mind. 
Miles.

He’d let him
go. After the accident, Miles had let him go, and he hadn’t come back.

Brian rolled
over, curling into a ball.

But he would.

• • •

Sarah heard the
knock a little before midnight and glanced through the window on the way to the
door, knowing who had come. When she opened it, Miles neither smiled nor
frowned, nor did he move. His eyes were red, swollen with fatigue. He stood in
the doorway, looking as if he didn’t want to be here.  “When did you know about Brian?” he asked abruptly.

Sarah’s eyes
never left his. “Yesterday,” she answered. “He told me yesterday.

And I was as
horrified as you were.”

His lips, dry and
cracked, came together. “Okay,” he said. 
With that, he turned to leave, and Sarah reached out to stop him, taking
hold of his arm. “Wait . . . please.”

He turned.

“It was an
accident, Miles,” she said. “A terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have
happened, and it wasn’t fair that it happened to Missy. I know that and I feel
so sorry for you. . . .”

She trailed
off, wondering if she was reaching him. His expression was glazed, unreadable.

“But?” he said.
There was no emotion in the question.

“No buts. I just
want you to keep that in mind. There’s no excuse for him running, but it was an
accident.”

She waited for
his response. When there was none, she let go of his arm. He made no move to
leave.

“What are you
going to do?” she finally asked.

Miles glanced away.
“He killed my wife, Sarah. He broke the law.”

She nodded. “I
know.”

He shook his head
without responding, then started down the hall. A minute later, outside the
window, she watched as he got into his car and drove off.  She went to the couch again. The phone was
on the end table and she waited, knowing it would ring soon.

Where, Miles
wondered, was he supposed to go? What should he do, now that he knew the truth?
With Otis, the answer had been simple. There was nothing to consider, nothing
to debate. It didn’t matter whether all the facts had fit or that everything
had an easy explanation. He’d learned enough to know that Otis hated Miles
enough to kill Missy; that was enough for Miles. Otis deserved whatever
punishment the law could fashion, except for one thing.  That’s not the way it happened.

The
investigation had unearthed nothing. The file he’d painstakingly assembled over
two years had meant nothing. Sims and Earl and Otis meant nothing. Nothing had
provided the answer, but suddenly and without warning, it had arrived at his
doorstep, dressed in a windbreaker and ready to cry.

This was what
he wanted to know:

Did it matter?

He’d spent two
years of his life thinking that it did. He’d cried at night, he’d stayed up
late, he’d taken up smoking, and he’d struggled, certain that the answer would
change all of that. It had become the mirage on the horizon that was always
just out of reach. And now, at this moment, he held it in his hand.  With a single call, he could be avenged.

He could do that.
But what if, on closer inspection, the answer wasn’t what he had imagined it
would be? What if the killer wasn’t a drunk, wasn’t an enemy; what if it wasn’t
an act of reckless behavior? What if it was a boy with pimples and baggy pants
and dark brown hair, and he was afraid and sorry for what happened and swore it
was an accident that couldn’t have been avoided?  Did it matter then?

How should a
person answer that? Was he supposed to take the memory of his wife and the
misery of the last two years, then simply add his responsibility as a husband
and a father and his duty to the law to come up with a quantifiable answer? Or
did he take that total and subtract a boy’s age and fear and obvious sorrow
along with his love for Sarah, thus bringing the number back to zero?  He didn’t know. What he did know was that
whispering Brian’s name aloud left a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, he
thought, it mattered. He knew with certainty that it would always matter, and
he had to do something about it.  In his
mind, he didn’t have a choice.

• • •

Mrs. Knowlson
had left the lights on and they cast a yellow glow over the walk as Miles
approached the door. He could smell the faint odor of chimney smoke in the air
as he knocked before inserting his key and gently pushing the door open.  Dozing beneath a quilt in her rocking chair,
all white hair and wrinkles, she looked like a gnome. The television was on,
but the volume was low, and Miles crept inside. Her head tilted to the side and
she opened her eyes, merry eyes that never seemed to dim.

“Sorry I’m so
late,” he said, and Mrs. Knowlson nodded.

“He’s sleeping
in the back room,” she said. “He tried to wait up for you.” “I’m glad he
didn’t,” Miles said. “Before I get him, can I help you to your room?”

“No,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. I’m old, but I can still move good.”

“I know. Thanks
for watching him today.”

“Did you get
everything worked out?” she asked.

Though Miles
hadn’t told her what was going on, she’d seen how troubled he’d been when he’d
asked if she would watch Jonah after school. 
“Not really.”

She smiled.
“There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said,
“I know. How was he today?”

“Tired. A little
quiet, too. He didn’t want to go outside, so we baked cookies.” She didn’t say
he was upset, but then, she didn’t have to. Miles knew what she meant.

After thanking
her again, he retreated to the bedroom and scooped Jonah into his arms,
adjusting him so that the boy’s head was on his shoulder. He didn’t stir, and
Miles knew he was exhausted.

Like his father.

Miles wondered if
he would have nightmares again.

He carried him
back to the house, then to bed. He pulled the covers up, turned on a
night-light, and sat on the bed beside him. In the pale glow, he looked so
vulnerable. Miles turned toward the window.

He could see
the moon through the blinds, and he reached up to close them. He could feel the
cold radiating through the glass. He pulled the covers higher and ran his hand
through Jonah’s hair.

“I know who did
it,” he whispered, “but I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Jonah was
breathing steadily, his eyelids still.

“Do you want to
know?”

In the darkness
of the room, Jonah didn’t answer.

• • •

After a while,
Miles left the room and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.  He hung his jacket in the closet. On the
floor was the box where he kept the home videos, and after a moment, he reached
for it. He brought the box to the living room, set it on the coffee table, and
opened it.

He selected one
at random and popped it into the VCR, then settled back into the couch.

The screen was
black at first, then out of focus, then everything came clear.  Kids were seated around the table in the
kitchen, wiggling furiously, little arms and legs waving like flags on a windy
day. Other parents either stood close by or wandered in and out of the picture.
He recognized the voice on the tape as his own.

It was Jonah’s
birthday party, and the camera zoomed in on him. He was two years old. Sitting
in a booster seat, he was holding a spoon and thumping the table, grinning with
every bang.

Missy came into
the picture then, carrying a tray of cupcakes. One of them had two lit candles,
and she set it in front of Jonah. She was singing “Happy Birthday,” and the
parents joined in. Within moments, hands and faces were smeared with chocolate.

The camera zoomed
in on Missy, and Miles heard himself call her name on the tape. She turned and
smiled; her eyes were playful, full of life. She was a wife and mother, in love
with the life she lived. The camera faded to black and a new scene emerged in
its place, one where Jonah was opening his gifts.  After that, the tape jumped a month forward, to Valentine’s Day.
A romantic table had been set, and Miles remembered it well. He’d set out the
fine china, and the flickering glow of candlelight made the wineglasses sparkle.
He’d cooked dinner for her: sole stuffed with crab and shrimp and topped with a
lemon cream sauce, wild rice on the side, spinach salad. Missy was in the back
room getting dressed; he’d asked her to stay there until everything was ready.  He’d caught her on tape as she entered the
dining room and saw the table. That night, unlike at the birthday party, she
looked nothing like a mother and wife; that evening, she looked as if she were
in Paris or New York and were ready for opening night at the theater. She was
wearing a black cocktail dress and small hooped earrings; she wore her hair in
a bun, and a few curled strands framed her face.

“It’s beautiful,”
she’d breathed. “Thank you, honey.”

“So are you,”
Miles had answered.

Miles remembered
that she’d asked him to turn off the camera so they could sit at the table; he
also remembered that after dinner, they had gone to the bedroom and made love,
lost in the blankets for hours. Thinking back to that night, he barely heard
the small voice behind him.

“Is that Mommy?”

Miles used the
remote to stop the tape just as he turned and saw Jonah at the end of the
hallway. He felt guilty and knew he looked it, but he tried to hide it with a
smile.

“What’s up,
champ?” he asked. “Having trouble sleeping?”

Jonah nodded. “I heard
some noises. They woke me up.”

“I’m sorry. That
was probably just me.”

“Was that Mommy?”
he asked again. He was gazing at Miles, his eyes fixed and steady. “On the
television?”

Miles heard the
sadness in his voice, as though he’d accidentally broken a favorite toy. Miles
tapped the couch, not knowing exactly what to say. “C’mere,” he said. “Sit with
me.”

After
hesitating briefly, Jonah shuffled to the couch. Miles slipped his arm around
him. Jonah looked up at him, waiting, and scratched the side of his face.  “Yeah, that was your mom,” Miles finally
said.

“Why’s she on
television?”

“It’s a tape. You
know the kind we used to make with the videocamera sometimes?

When you were
little?”

“Oh,” he said. He
pointed to the box. “Are all of those tapes?”

Miles nodded.

“Is Mommy on
those, too?”

“Some of them.”

“Can I watch ’em
with you?”

Miles pulled
Jonah a little closer. “It’s late, Jonah—I was almost done, anyway.

Maybe some other
time.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Jonah seemed
satisfied with that, at least for the moment, and Miles reached behind him to
turn the lamp off. He leaned back on the couch, and Jonah curled against him.
With the lights off, Jonah’s eyelids began to droop. Miles could feel his
breathing begin to slow. He yawned. “Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you watch
those tapes because you’re sad again?”

“No.”

Miles ran his
hand through Jonah’s hair methodically, slowly.

“Why did Mom have
to die?”

Miles closed his
eyes. “I don’t know.”

Jonah’s chest
went up and down. Up and down. Deep breaths. “I wish she was still here.”

“So do I.”

“She’s never
coming back.” A statement, not a question.

“No.”

Jonah said no
more before he fell asleep. Miles held him in his arms. Jonah felt small, like
a baby, and Miles could smell the faint odor of shampoo in his hair.  He kissed the top of his head, then rested
his cheek against him.

“I love you,
Jonah.”

No answer.

It was a struggle
to get up from the couch without waking Jonah, but for the second time that
night, he carried his son to his room and put him in bed. On his way out, he
closed the door partway behind him.

Why did Mom have
to die?

I don’t know.

Miles went back
to the living room and put the tape back into the box, wishing Jonah hadn’t
seen it, wishing he hadn’t talked about Missy. 
She’s never coming back.

No.

He carried the
box back to the bedroom closet, wishing with a terrible ache that he could
change that, too.

• • •

On the back
porch, in the darkened chill of night, Miles took a long drag on the cigarette,
his third of the night, and stared at the blackened water.  He’d been standing outside since he’d put
the videos away, trying to put the conversation with Jonah behind him. He was
exhausted and angry, and he didn’t want to think about Jonah or what he should
tell him. He didn’t want to think about Sarah or Brian or Charlie or Otis or a
black dog darting between the bushes. He didn’t want to think about blankets or
flowers or a bend in the road that had started it all.

He wanted to be
numb. To forget everything. To go back in time before all this began.

He wanted his
life back.

Off to the
side, fed by the lights from inside the house, he saw his own shadow following
him, like the thoughts he couldn’t leave behind.  Brian, he assumed, would go free, even if Miles brought him in.  He’d get probation, maybe have his license
revoked, but he wouldn’t end up behind bars. He’d been a minor when it
happened; there were mitigating circumstances, the judge would acknowledge his
sorrow and take pity.  And Missy was
never coming back.

Time passed. He
lit another cigarette and smoked it down. Dark clouds spanned the sky above; he
could hear the rain as it soaked the earth. Over the water, the moon made an
appearance, peeking through the clouds. Soft light spilled into the yard. He
stepped off the porch and onto the flat slate he’d sunk into the ground as a
pathway. The path led to the tin-roofed shed where he kept his tools, his lawn
mower, weed killer, a can of gasoline. During the marriage, it had been his
place, and Missy seldom ventured there.

She had,
though, on the last day he saw her. . . .

Small puddles
had collected on the slate, and he felt the water splash around his feet. The
pathway curved along the house, past a willow tree he’d planted for Missy.
She’d always wanted one in her yard, thinking they looked both sad and
romantic. He passed a tire swing, then a wagon that Jonah had left
outside.  A few steps later, he reached
the shed.

It was
padlocked, and Miles reached above the door and found the key. The lock opened
with a click. He opened the door and was greeted with a musty smell.  There was a flashlight on the shelf, and he
reached for it. He turned it on and looked around. A spiderweb that started in
the corner stretched toward a small window.

Years ago, when
his father had left, he’d given Miles a few things to keep. He’d packed them
away in a large metal box; Miles hadn’t been given the key. The lock, though,
was small, and now Miles reached for the hammer that hung on the wall. He swung
the hammer and the lock popped open. He lifted the lid.  A couple of albums, a leather-covered
journal, a shoebox full of arrowheads that his father had found near Tuscarora.
Miles looked past them to the bottom and found what he was looking for. His
father had kept the box, and the gun was neatly tucked inside. It was the only
gun that Charlie hadn’t known about. 
Miles knew he was going to need it, and that night he oiled the gun,
making sure it was ready to go.