A Bend in the Road (6 page)

On Friday
evening, three days after meeting Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was alone in her
living room, nursing her second glass of wine, feeling about as rotten as a
person could feel. Even though she knew the wine wouldn’t help, she knew that
she’d nonetheless pour herself a third glass just as soon as this one was
finished. She’d never been a big drinker, but it had been that kind of
day.  Right now, she just wanted to
escape.

Strangely, it
hadn’t started off badly. She’d felt pretty good first thing in the morning and
even during breakfast, but after that, the day had nose-dived rapidly. Sometime
during the night before, the hot-water heater in her apartment had stopped
working and she’d had to take a cold shower before heading off to school. When
she got there, three of the four students in the front of the class had colds
and spent the day coughing and sneezing in her direction when they weren’t
acting up. The rest of the class seemed to follow their lead, and she hadn’t
accomplished half of what she’d wanted to. After school, she’d stayed to catch
up on some of her work, but when she was finally ready to head home, one of the
tires on her car was flat. She’d had to call AAA and ended up waiting nearly an
hour until they showed up; and by the time she got back to her apartment, the
streets had been roped off for the Flower Festival that weekend and she’d had
to park three blocks away. Then, to top it all off, no more than ten minutes
after she’d walked in the door, an acquaintance had called from Baltimore, to
let her know that Michael was getting married again in December.  That was when she’d opened the wine.

Now, finally
feeling the effects of the alcohol, Sarah found herself wishing that AAA had
taken a little longer with her tire, so she wouldn’t have been home to answer
the phone when it rang. She wasn’t a close friend of the woman’s—she’d
socialized with Sarah casually, since she’d originally been friends with
Michael’s family—and had no idea why the woman felt the urge to let Sarah know
what was going on. And even though she had passed on the information with the
proper mix of sympathy and disbelief, Sarah couldn’t help suspecting that the
woman would hang up the phone and immediately report back to Michael how Sarah
had responded. Thank God she’d kept her composure.  But that was two glasses of wine ago, and now it wasn’t so easy.
She didn’t want to hear about Michael. They were divorced, separated by law and
choice, and unlike some divorced couples, they hadn’t talked since their last
meeting in the lawyer’s office almost a year earlier. By that point, she’d
considered herself lucky to be rid of him and had simply signed the papers
without a word. The pain and anger had been replaced with a kind of apathy,
rooted in the numbing realization that she’d never really known him at all.
After that, he didn’t call or write, nor did she. She lost contact with his
family and friends, he showed no interest in hers. In many ways, it almost
seemed as if they’d never been married at all. At least, that’s what she told
herself.

And now he was
getting married again.

It shouldn’t
bother her. She shouldn’t care one way or the other.  But she did, and that bothered her, too. If anything, she was more
upset by the fact that his impending marriage upset her than by the upcoming
marriage itself.  She’d known all along
that Michael would marry again; he’d told her as much.

That was the
first time she’d ever really hated someone. 
But real hate, the kind that made the stomach roil, wasn’t possible
without an emotional bond. She wouldn’t have hated Michael nearly as much
unless she’d loved him first. Perhaps naively, she had imagined that they would
be a couple forever. They’d made their vows and promised to love each other
forever, after all, and she’d descended from a long line of families that had
done just that.  Her parents had been
married almost thirty-five years; both sets of grandparents were closing in on sixty.
Even after their problems arose, Sarah believed that she and Michael would
follow in their footsteps. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but when he’d chosen
the views of his family over his promise to her, she’d never felt so
insignificant in her entire life.

But she
wouldn’t be upset now, if she was really over him. . . .  Sarah finished her glass and rose from the
couch, not wanting to believe that, refusing to believe it. She was over him.
If he came crawling back to her right now and begged for forgiveness, she
wouldn’t take him back. There was nothing he could say or do to ever make her
love him again. He could marry whoever the hell he wanted, and it would make no
difference to her.

In the kitchen,
she poured her third glass of wine.

Michael was
getting married again.

Despite herself, Sarah
felt the tears coming. She didn’t want to cry anymore, but old dreams died
hard. When she put her glass down, trying to compose herself, she set the glass
too close to the sink and it toppled into the basin, shattering instantly. She
reached in to pick up the shards of glass, pricked her finger, and it began to
bleed.

One more thing
on an already terrible day.

She exhaled
sharply and pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, willing herself not
to cry.

• • •

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

With crowds
pressing in around them, the words seemed to fade in and out, as if Sarah were
trying to listen to something from a distance. 
“For the third time, I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

Maureen reached
up and brushed the hair from Sarah’s face. “It’s just that you look a little
pale, like you might be coming down with something.” “I’m a little tired,
that’s all. I was up late working.”

Though she
didn’t like lying to her mother, Sarah had no desire to tell her about the
bottle of wine the night before. Her mother barely understood why people drank
at all, especially women, and if Sarah explained that she’d been alone as well,
her mother would only bite her lip in worry before launching into a series of
questions that Sarah was in no mood to answer. 
It was a glorious Saturday, and the downtown area was thronged with
people. The Flower Festival was in full swing, and Maureen had wanted to spend
the day browsing among the booths and in the antique stores along Middle
Street. Since Larry wanted to watch the football game between North Carolina
and Michigan State, Sarah had offered to keep her company. She’d thought it
might be fun, and it probably would have been, if it hadn’t been for the raging
headache that even aspirin couldn’t ease. As they talked, Sarah inspected an antique
picture frame that had been restored with care, though not enough care to
justify the price.  “On a Friday?” her
mother asked.

“I’d been
putting it off for a while and last night seemed as good as any.” Her mother
leaned closer, pretending to admire the picture frame. “You were in all night?”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“Because I called
you a couple of times and the phone just rang and rang.”

“I unplugged the
phone.”

“Oh. For a while
there, I thought you might be out with someone.”

“Who?”

Maureen shrugged.
“I don’t know . . . someone.”

Sarah eyed her
over the top of her sunglasses. “Mom, let’s not go into that again.”

“I’m not going
into anything,” she answered defensively. Then, lowering her voice as if
conversing with herself, she went on. “I just assumed you’d decided to go out.
You used to do that a lot, you know. . . .”

In addition to
wallowing in a bottomless pit of concern, Sarah’s mother could also play to
perfection the part of a guilt-ridden parent. There were times when Sarah
needed it—a little pity never hurt anyone—but now wasn’t one of them.  Sarah frowned slightly as she set the frame
back down. The proprietor of the booth, an elderly woman who sat in a chair
beneath a large umbrella, raised her eyebrows, clearly enjoying the little
scene. Sarah’s frown deepened. She backed away from the booth as her mom went
on, and after a moment, Maureen trailed after her.

“What’s wrong?”

Her tone made
Sarah stop and face her mother. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just not in the mood to
hear how worried you are about me. It gets old after a while.” Maureen’s mouth
opened slightly and stayed that way. At the sight of her mother’s injured
expression, Sarah regretted her words, but she couldn’t help it. Not today,
anyway.

“Look, I’m
sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Maureen reached
out and took her daughter by the hand. “What’s going on, Sarah?  And tell me the truth, this time—I know you
too well. Something happened, didn’t it?”

She squeezed
Sarah’s hand gently and Sarah looked away. All around them, strangers were going
about their business, lost in their own conversations.  “Michael’s getting married again,” she said
quietly.

After making
sure she had heard correctly, Maureen slowly enveloped her daughter in a firm
embrace. “Oh, Sarah. . . I’m sorry,” she whispered.  There wasn’t anything else to say.

• • •

A few minutes
later, they were seated on a park bench that overlooked the marina, down the
street from where the crowds were still congregated. They’d moved that way unconsciously;
they’d simply walked until they could go no farther, then found a place to sit.

There, they
talked for a long time, or rather Sarah talked. Maureen mainly listened, unable
to mask the concern she felt. Her eyes widened and occasionally filled with
tears; she squeezed Sarah’s hand a dozen times.  “Oh . . . that’s justterrible, ” she said for what seemed like
the hundredth time. “What aterrible day.”

“I thought so.”

“Well . . . would
it help if I told you to try to look on the bright side?”

“There is no
bright side, Mom.”

“Sure there is.”

Sarah raised a
skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Well, you can be
certain that they won’t live here after they get married. Your father would
have them tarred and feathered.”

Despite her
mood, Sarah laughed. “Thanks a lot. If I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to
let him know.”

Maureen paused.
“You’re not planning on that, are you? Seeing him, I mean.”

Sarah shook her
head. “No, not unless I can’t help it.”

“Good. After what
he did to you, you shouldn’t.”

Sarah simply
nodded before leaning back against the bench. 
“So, have you heard from Brian lately?” she asked, changing the subject.
“He’s never in when I call.”

Maureen
followed Sarah’s lead without complaint. “I talked to him a couple of days ago,
but you know how it is. Sometimes, the last thing you want to do is talk to
your parents. He doesn’t stay on the phone long.” “Is he making friends?”

“I’m sure he
is.”

Sarah stared
out over the water, thinking about her brother for a moment. Then:

“How’s Daddy?”

“The same. He
had a checkup earlier this week and he seems to be doing fine. And he’s not as
tired as he used to be.”

“Is he still
exercising?”

“Not as much as
he should, but he keeps promising me that he’s going to get serious about it.”

“Tell him that
I said he has to.”

“I will. But
he’s stubborn, you know. It would be better if you told him. If I tell him, he
thinks I’m nagging.”

“Are you?”

“Of course
not,” she said quickly. “I just worry about him.” Out in the marina, a large
sailboat was heading slowly toward the Neuse River, and they both sat in
silence, watching. In a minute, the bridge would swivel open to allow it
passage and traffic on either side would begin to back up. Sarah had learned
that if she was ever running late for an appointment, she could claim that she
“got caught on the bridge.” Everyone in town from doctors to judges would
accept the excuse without question, simply because they had used it
themselves.  “It’s good to hear you
laugh again,” Maureen murmured after a moment.

Sarah glanced
sideways at her.

“Don’t look so
surprised. There was a while there when you didn’t. A long while.” Maureen
touched Sarah’s knee gently. “Don’t let Michael hurt you anymore, okay? You’ve
moved on—remember that.”

Sarah nodded
almost imperceptibly, and Maureen pressed on with the monologue that Sarah had
practically memorized by now.

“And you’ll
keep moving on, too. One day you’ll find someone who’ll love you as you are—”
“Mom . . .” Sarah interrupted, stretching out the word and shaking her
head.  Their conversations these days
seemed always to come back to this.  For
once, her mother caught herself. She reached for Sarah’s hand again, and even
though Sarah pulled it away at first, she persisted until Sarah relented.  “I can’t help it if I want you to be happy,”
she said. “Can you understand that?”

Sarah forced a
smile, hoping it would satisfy her mother.

“Yeah, Mom, I
understand.”

On Monday,
Jonah began the process of settling into the routine that would come to
dominate much of his life over the next few months. When the bell rang,
officially ending the school day, Jonah walked out with his friends but left
his backpack in the classroom. Sarah, like all the other teachers, went outside
to make sure kids got in the proper cars and onto the right buses. Once
everyone was on the buses and the cars were pulling out, Sarah wandered over to
where Jonah was standing. He stared wistfully at his departing friends.  “I bet you wish you didn’t have to stay, huh?”

Jonah nodded.

“It won’t be so
bad. I brought some cookies from home to make it a little easier.”

He thought
about that. “What kind of cookies?” he asked skeptically.  “Oreos. When I was going to school, my mom
always used to let me have a couple when I got home. She said it was my reward
for doing such a good job.” “Mrs. Knowlson likes to give me apple slices.”

“Would you rather
have those tomorrow?”

“No way,” he said
seriously. “Oreos are way better.”

She motioned in
the direction of the school. “C’mon. You ready to get started?”

“I guess so,” he
mumbled. Sarah reached out, offering her hand.

Jonah looked up
at her. “Wait—do you have any milk?”

“I can get some
from the cafeteria, if you want.”

With that, Jonah
took her hand and smiled up at her for a moment before they headed back inside.

• • •

While Sarah and
Jonah were holding hands, heading toward the classroom, Miles Ryan was ducking
behind his car and reaching for his gun, even before the echo from the last
shot had died. And he intended to stay there until he figured out what was
going on.

There was
nothing like gunfire to get the old ticker pumping—the instinct for
self-preservation always surprised Miles with both its intensity and its
rapidity. The adrenaline seemed to enter his system as if he were hooked to a
giant, invisible IV. He could feel his heart hammering, and his palms were
slick with sweat.

If he needed
to, he could put out a call saying he was in trouble, and in less than a few
minutes the place would be surrounded by every law enforcement officer in the
county. But for the time being, he held off. For one thing, he didn’t think the
gunfire was directed at him. That he’d heard it wasn’t in question, but it had
sounded muffled, as if it had originated from somewhere deep in the house.

Had he been
standing outside someone’s home, he would have made the call, figuring that
some sort of domestic issue had gotten out of hand. But he was at the Gregory
place, a teetering wood structure blanketed in kudzu on the outskirts of New
Bern. It had decayed over the years and was completely abandoned, as it had
been since Miles was a kid. Most of the time, no one bothered with the place.
The floors were so old and rotten that they could give way any second, and rain
poured in through the gaping holes in the roof. The structure also tilted slightly,
as if a strong gust of wind would topple it someday. Though New Bern didn’t
have a big problem with vagrants, even the ones who were around knew enough to
avoid the place for the danger it presented. 
But now, in broad daylight no less, he heard the gunfire start up
again—not a large-caliber gun, most likely a twenty-two—and he suspected there
was a simple explanation, one that didn’t pose much of a threat to him.  Still, he wasn’t stupid enough to take any
chances. Opening his door, he slid forward on the seat and flicked a switch on
the radio, so that his voice would be amplified, loud enough for the people
inside the house to hear him.  “This is
the sheriff,” he said calmly, slowly. “If you boys are about finished, I’d like
y’all to come out so I can talk to you. And I’d appreciate it if you set your
guns off to the side.”

With that, the
gunfire stopped completely. After a few minutes, Miles saw a head poke out from
one of the front windows. The boy was no older than twelve.  “You ain’t gonna shoot us, are you?” he
called out, obviously frightened.  “No,
I’m not gonna shoot. Just set your guns by the door and come on down so I can
talk to you.”

For a minute
Miles heard nothing, as if the kids inside were wondering whether or not to
make a run for it. They weren’t bad kids, Miles knew, just a little too rural
for today’s world. He was sure they’d rather run than have Miles bring them
home to meet with their parents.

“Now come on
out,” Miles said into the microphone. “I just want to talk.” Finally, after
another minute, two boys—the second a few years younger than the first—peeked
out from either side of the opening where the front door used to be. Moving
with exaggerated slowness, they set their guns off to the side and, hands
thrust high in the air, stepped out. Miles suppressed a grin. Shaky and pale,
they looked as if they believed they were going to be a source of target
practice any second. Once they’d descended the broken steps, he stood from
behind the car and holstered his gun. When they saw him, they stutter-stepped
for a moment, then slowly continued forward. Both were dressed in faded blue
jeans and torn-up sneakers, their faces and arms dirty. Country kids. As they
inched forward, they kept their arms thrust above their heads, elbows locked.  They’d obviously seen too many movies.

When they got
close, Miles could see that both of them were practically crying.  Miles leaned against his car and crossed his
arms. “You boys doin’ some hunting?”

The younger
one—ten, Miles guessed—looked to the older one, who met his gaze.

They were clearly
brothers.

“Yes, sir,” they
said in unison.

“What’s in the
house there?”

Again they looked
at each other.

“Sparrows,” they
finally said, and Miles nodded.

“You can put your
hands down.”

Again they exchanged
glances. Then they lowered their arms.

“You sure you
weren’t going after any owls?”

“No, sir,” the
older boy said quickly. “Just sparrows. There’s a whole bunch of ’em in there.”

Miles nodded
again. “Sparrows, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pointed in the
direction of the rifles. “Those twenty-twos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a little
much for sparrows, isn’t it?”

Their looks were
guilty this time. Miles eyed them sternly. 
“Now look . . . if you were owl hunting, I’m not gonna be too happy. I
like owls. They eat the rats and the mice and even snakes, and I’d rather have
an owl around than any of those creatures, especially in my yard. But I’m
pretty sure from all that shooting you were doing that you didn’t get him yet,
now, did you?”

After a long
moment, the young one shook his head.

“Then let’s not
try again, okay?” he said in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “It isn’t
safe to be shooting out here, not with the highway so close. It’s also against
the law. And that place isn’t for kids. It’s just about to fall down and you
could get hurt in there. Now, you don’t want me to talk to your parents, do
you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you won’t
go after that owl again, will you? If I let you go, I mean?”

“No, sir.”

Miles stared at
them wordlessly, making sure he believed them, then nodded in the direction of
the nearest homes. “You live out that way?” “Yes, sir.”

“Did you walk or
ride your bikes?”

“We walked.”

“Then I’ll tell
you what—I’ll get your rifles and you two get in the backseat.  I’ll give you a ride back home and drop you
off down the street. And I’ll let it go this time, but if I ever catch you out
here again, I’m gonna tell your parents that I caught you before and warned you
and that I’m gonna have to bring you both in, okay?”

Though their
eyes widened at the threat, they both nodded gratefully.  After dropping them off, Miles made his way
back to the school, looking forward to seeing Jonah. No doubt the boy would
want to hear all about what just happened, though Miles first wanted to find
out how things had gone that day.  And
despite himself, he couldn’t suppress a pleasant thrill at the thought of
seeing Sarah Andrews again.

• • •

“Daddy!” Jonah
screamed, running toward Miles. Miles lowered himself into position to catch
his son just as he jumped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sarah had
followed him out in a more sedate fashion. Jonah pulled back to look at him.

“Did you arrest
anyone today?”

Miles grinned
and shook his head. “Not so far, but I’m not finished yet. How’d it go in
school today?”

“Good. Miss
Andrews gave me some cookies.”

“She did?” he
asked, trying to watch her approach without being too obvious.

“Oreos. The good
ones—Double Stuf.”

“Oh, well, you
can’t ask for more than that,” he said. “But how’d the tutoring go?”

Jonah furrowed his
brow. “The what?”

“Miss Andrews
helping you with your schoolwork.”

“It was fun—we
played games.”

“Games?”

“I’ll explain
later,” Sarah said, stepping up, “but we got off to a good start.” At the sound
of her voice, Miles turned to face her and again felt pleasant surprise. She
was wearing a long skirt and a blouse again, nothing fancy, but when she
smiled, Miles felt the same strange fluttering he’d experienced when he’d first
met her. It struck him that he hadn’t fully appreciated how pretty she was the last
time. Yes, he’d recognized the fact that she was attractive, and the same
features immediately jumped out at him—the corn-silk hair, the delicately boned
face, eyes the color of turquoise—but today she looked softer somehow, her
expression warm and almost familiar.

Miles lowered
Jonah to the ground.

“Jonah, would
you go wait by the car while I talk to Miss Andrews for a couple minutes?”

“Okay,” he said
easily. Then, surprising Miles, Jonah stepped over and hugged Sarah—who
returned the squeeze with a hug of her own—before he scrambled off.  Once Jonah was gone, Miles looked at her
curiously. “You two seemed to have hit it off.”

“We had a good
time today.”

“Sounds like
it. If I’d known you were eating cookies and playing games, I wouldn’t have
been so worried about him.”

“Hey . . .
whatever works,” she said. “But before you worry too much, I want you to know
the game involved reading. Flash cards.”

“I figured
there was more to the story. How’d he do?” “Good. He has a long way to go, but
good.” She paused. “He’s a great kid—he really is. I know I’ve said that
before, but I don’t want you to forget that because of what’s going on here.
And it’s obvious that he worships you.” “Thank you,” he said simply, meaning
it.

“You’re
welcome.” When she smiled again, Miles turned away, hoping she didn’t realize
what he’d been thinking earlier and at the same time hoping she did.  “Hey, thanks for the fan, by the way,” she
went on after a pause, referring to the industrial-size fan he’d dropped off at
her classroom earlier that morning.  “No
problem,” he murmured, torn between wanting to stay and talk to her and wanting
to escape the sudden wave of nervousness that seemed to come from nowhere.

For a moment
neither of them said anything. The awkward silence stretched out until Miles
finally shuffled his feet and muttered, “Well . . . I guess I’d better get
Jonah home.”

“Okay.”

“We’ve got some
stuff to do.”

“Okay,” she said
again.

“Is there
anything else that I should know?”

“Not that I can
think of.”

“Okay, then.” He
paused, pushing his hands into his pocket. “I guess I’d better get Jonah home.”

She nodded
seriously. “You said that already.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah tucked a
strand of loose hair behind her ear. For a reason she couldn’t quite explain,
she found his good-bye adorable, almost charming. He was different from the men
she had known in Baltimore, the ones who shopped at Brooks Brothers and never
seemed to find themselves at a loss for words. In the months following her
divorce, they’d begun to seem almost interchangeable, like cardboard cutouts of
the perfect man.

“Well, okay,
then,” Miles said, oblivious to everything except his need to depart. “Thanks
again.” And with that, he backed away in the direction of his car, calling for
Jonah as he went.

His last image was
of Sarah standing out in the school yard, waving at the retreating car with a
faintly bemused smile on her face.

• • •

In the coming
weeks, Miles began to look forward to seeing Sarah after school with an
unchecked enthusiasm he hadn’t experienced since adolescence. He thought of her
frequently and sometimes in the strangest of situations—standing in a grocery
store while selecting a packet of pork chops, stopped at a traffic light,
mowing the lawn. Once or twice, he thought of her as he was taking a shower in
the morning, and he found himself wondering about her morning routines.
Ridiculous things. Did she eat cereal or toast and jelly? Did she drink coffee
or was she more of an herbal tea fan? After a shower, did she wrap her head in
a towel as she put her makeup on or did she style it right away?  Sometimes he would try to imagine her in the
classroom, standing in front of the students with a piece of chalk in her hand;
other times he wondered how she spent her time after school. Though they
exchanged small talk every time they met, it wasn’t enough to satisfy his
growing curiosity. He didn’t know much about her past at all, and though there
were moments when he wanted to ask, he held himself back from doing so for the
simple reason that he had no idea how to go about it. “Mainly I had Jonah work
on spelling today and he did great,” she might say, and what was Miles supposed
to say next?That’s good. And speaking of spelling, tell me—do you wrap your
head in a towel after you shower?  Other
men knew how to do these things, but damned if he could figure it out.  Once, in a moment of courage supplied by a
couple of beers, he’d come close to calling her on the phone. He’d had no
reason to call, and though he hadn’t known what he would say, he’d hoped that
something would strike him, a bolt from the sky that would imbue him with wit
and charisma. He’d imagined her laughing at the things he was saying, being
positively overwhelmed by his charm. He’d gone so far as to look up her name in
the phone book and dial the first three numbers before his nerves got the
better of him and he’d hung up.  What if
she wasn’t home? He couldn’t dazzle her if she wasn’t even there to answer the
phone, and he certainly wasn’t going to have his ramblings recorded on her
answering machine for posterity. He supposed he could hang up if the answering
machine picked up, but that was a little too adolescent, now, wasn’t it? And
what would happen, God forbid, if shewas home but was on a date with someone
else? It was, he realized, a distinct possibility. He’d heard a few things
around the department from some of the other single men who’d finally caught on
to the fact that she wasn’t married, and if they knew, then others certainly
knew it as well. Word was getting out, and soon, single men would start
descending on her, usingtheir wit and charisma, if they already hadn’t.  Good Lord, he was running out of time.