Authors: Tammar Stein
“He’s not getting executed,” Mo says sharply. “He’ll go to juvie for a couple of years, where, frankly, he’ll probably be happier than at freaking Warfield. He’ll get out and go to community college, records sealed, and fulfill his ‘wonderful’ potential that you’re so freaking obsessed with.”
He’s wrong, of course. But I don’t have the energy to argue.
A part of me realizes this is the compromise Mo made to keep himself safe. No shooting, but at least one life irreparably ruined. I can’t really muster anger. I’m too drained. So I make peace with Mo. Then I make my way to bed.
I tell myself, over and over again, that Mo meant well.
That this was his way of helping. Maybe that counts as much as anything else. I got him to care, to stop heartbreaking violence. Certainly my vision of Judge Bender sentencing Jason to five consecutive life sentences won’t come to pass. No matter how stiff his punishment, he won’t get that kind of sentence for a foiled plot. In the end, the shooting was stopped. No matter what, I have to remember to take comfort in that. Maybe having Mo love me and help me, even in a way that I didn’t want—maybe that counts for something. A white mark on his soul. Maybe he’ll think twice the next time the devil comes around. I don’t know how to weigh the good and the bad in this case. I don’t know how God will judge us.
You would think, with all this banging around in my head, that I would lose another night’s sleep. You would think I’d worry about Jason spending the night in jail, or wonder where Mo went in such a hurry. But to my surprise, I soon fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I open my eyes again, it’s morning.
The newsroom is in an uproar. As soon as I enter, before I even boot up my computer, Frank’s at my side with a gleam in his eye.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says.
I cringe at his choice of words. “You really shouldn’t say that.”
“I finally figured it out, you know.”
“What?”
“ ‘Sick days’?” He makes air quotes. “ ‘Dr. Messa’?”
“Yeah?”
“You could have told me you were going undercover. We might be a small paper, but we are a newspaper and I would have supported you. No one would have known.”
“You think I did this for a story?” I ask, astonished.
Frank rubs his hands in delight, ignoring me completely.
“I never thought you had it in you. You are a true journalist.” I know this must be high praise in Frank’s book, but to me it sounds a little hollow. “I want your feature on this as soon as possible, two thousand words minimum. We’re going to spank the
Tennessean
! I’ll need your piece on my desk by this afternoon. Get to work,” he says; then, muttering to himself something about a special edition, he hustles off like a busy mallard duck.
With a dejected sigh, I turn to the blank screen and begin telling Jason’s story. It isn’t going to be what anyone wants to read, but it’s the least I can do for him. Over the course of the day, several of my co-workers come over to congratulate me. But when they sense my mood, they cluck their tongues at the sad state of the world and then drift off again. Alex glares at me from across the room. I can’t imagine why he’s pissed off, unless he somehow thinks I’ve upstaged him as “star reporter,” but frankly I can’t spare the emotion to even feel wronged.
I write:
Jason was not a people person. An adolescence of not fitting in had taken its toll on his soul. When I first met him, I thought he was
an obnoxious brat, and he sensed that, the same way he sensed every time that people judged him. So he gave everyone what they expected, and he sank deeper into a morass of despair.
I break the cardinal rule of journalism and use the first person. A reporter is supposed to come across as completely impartial, reporting facts, not opinions, and giving analysis without taking sides. That’s ridiculous, of course: humans are incapable of completely filtering out their own impressions when they analyze facts. This time, for this story, I don’t even try.
But he wasn’t without merit and he wasn’t lacking in gifts. Jason’s talent for sketching, for capturing the essences of expressions, the nuances of posture, is remarkable for an untrained teenager. If this were a Hollywood story, then, after his years of misery, a successful artist would come across Jason’s sketches and whisk him away to New York, where Jason would be accepted into a prestigious art school and be showered with accolades, fame and success. But this isn’t Hollywood, and that’s not how Jason’s story goes.
By the end of the day, I’ve finished the piece. I e-mail it to Frank and then shut down my computer.
Instead, after years of junior high and high school misery, when the people who should have supported and protected him, out of misguided love, delivered him to his antagonists, Jason began to fantasize about revenge. About turning the tables on those who ignored him, mocked him, belittled him. Egged on by false friends, he sketched out how it would go: the gory shooting, the groveling preppies, the vindication of being important and mattering, if only in this horrible, terrifying way. He even procured the weapons to bring about the catastrophe he had sketched.
I leave the office before Frank has a chance to comment. Most of the coverage on Jason will skewer him. This is the one piece of kindness I can offer to him. I think of Jason’s lovely eyes and the unshed tears and I know that I am probably the last person for a long time to care about either. This clearly isn’t the scoop Frank was hoping for. He can either publish it or not. I’m not making any changes.
If he had gone through with his plan, then he would be a monster and deserving of all our hate, our anger, our vengeance. The difference between that monster and a fellow human deserving of our sympathy comes down to a
choice. Jason didn’t go through with it. And not because the police broke down his apartment door and handcuffed him as he lay pressed into the carpet. He had changed his mind before there were any repercussions. He wasn’t going to bring the guns to school; he wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
Jason was not an easy person to like: he lacked charm. He alienated much more easily than he beguiled. But he is being punished for a choice he did not make. How can we, a society founded on the principle of freedom, ignore free will? How can we punish evil thoughts and dark fantasies?
If we believe that each of us has a choice to do good or evil, then how can we punish someone who faced the devil’s temptation but, after struggle and contemplation, rejected the choice, siding instead with his humanity? This is the essence of humanity: our ability to struggle with ourselves, to consider right and wrong and make a choice.
I cannot undo what either Jason or Mo has done. All three of us had motivations that were less than pure. All three of us are flawed, selfish and lost. Yet Jason is the one who will shoulder the brunt of the fallout. This article is my attempt, however small and insignificant, to lessen the blow.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, the old
saying goes. And yet I find that intent does count for something. I have to believe that or everything we do here on earth is pointless.
I remember how I felt when Tabitha was hurt. Personally devastated, I could barely think straight, blinded by panic and guilt.
It’s different this time.
Perhaps Raphael has taught me a bit about what all good doctors know. I tried to save someone and I didn’t succeed. Yeah, it hurts. It’s awful knowing the truth, knowing how Jason has been manipulated. But at the end of the day, it’s me I have to answer to, me I have to live with. God watches over us and shows us the way, while the devil trips us and hopes that we fall. We can keep each other company. We can lend a helping hand. But we have to do the walking ourselves. I walked with Jason as far as I could.
But Mo is still walking nearby and the hike isn’t over yet. Not yet.
I head over to Emmett’s shop, where some locals are hanging out. I don’t know their names, but I recognize the tattoos. I hear them mention Jason and realize that for all Frank’s desire to scoop the
Tennessean
, the news is already out. Emmett looks up when the bell tinkles. He straightens from his slouch against the counter when he sees me, looking surprised but pleased. It’s the first time that I realize how much I count on him to be there for me.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
Mutely I nod and walk toward him. He puts his arms
around me and the others fall silent, but I don’t care that they’re watching.
“You were right all along,” Emmett says. With my ear pressed to his chest, his words rumble, vibrating against my skull. “But, Miriam, you can’t save people who don’t want to be saved.”
He can’t mean my brother, because he doesn’t know. But it applies to Mo as much as it does to Jason, doesn’t it?
“He changed his mind, you know,” I say. “I talked to him and he wasn’t going to do it.” Which also applies to both of them.
“He said that?” Emmett asks.
I shake my head. “That’s the problem. I can’t testify in court that he said that, because the police barged in right as he was about to talk. But I know what he was going to say. It was obvious from the look on his face.”
That’s something Frank will demand to know. He’d be happy, since it’s just another kind of scoop. But that devilish timing … the police interrupted Jason before he could say a word, and saying it now that he’s been arrested won’t help him. No one will believe it’s genuine.
“You still did the right thing,” Emmett says firmly.
“I had it under control until the police showed up and ruined everything.”
“Weren’t you the one who called the police?”
“No. Mo did. Even though I told him I’d be able to convince Jason, he did it anyway,” I say bitterly.
Emmett doesn’t say anything, which I appreciate since I
can tell that he agrees with Mo: having the police arrest Jason was a guarantee that he wouldn’t hurt anyone but himself.
A part of me wonders what will happen now that I’ve failed again. A part of me is grieving for Jason. He’s already been tried and judged, and in the town’s eyes he’s guilty.
Tabitha and Jason, both in the let-down-by-Miriam club. Membership is rather exclusive. I wonder if I’ve kept Mo off the list. Maybe I have. By a hair. On a technicality.
“Come on,” Emmett says, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go for a ride.” It’s his answer to all of life’s curveballs. But it sounds mighty fine right now. I suck in a deep breath, hold it for a second, then blow it out, pushing away the worry and guilt.
“To the French café?” I ask, a ray of sunshine breaking through my gloom.
“
Bien sûr,
” he says with a surprisingly good French accent.
“And the scenic overlook?”
He smiles at my hopeful tone.
“We’ll get some food to go and picnic up there. The forecasters are saying this is going to be a beautiful day.”
My problems, my worries, will still be here. But going with Emmett for a drive and a picnic is like pushing the pause button.
“And you’re okay to leave the shop?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“It’s—” he begins.
“—quiet today,” I finish for him, laughing. “But what about your friends?”
The group, all shaved heads and glinting metal piercings, are milling around at the back, giving us space.
“They’re leaving now. Right, guys?” He raises his voice a bit, as if they haven’t been eavesdropping all along.
“Sure,” they call. “No worries.” They make their way out. One pats me on the back as he passes, a fatherly sort of gesture that’s odd coming from one in a studded dog collar and leather pants.
“Thanks, Emmett,” I say. I squeeze his hands. “You’ve been an amazing friend.”
“Ouch,” he says, smiling ruefully. “Friend, huh?”
“Well …” Am I flirting?? What is that tone in my voice? “What would you call it?”
He flashes a wicked smile that makes me feel warm. “I’d call it,” he says, “something a bit …”
I wait almost breathlessly, knowing he’s toying with me.
“What?” I ask when the pause has stretched beyond my tolerance. “What would you call it?”
He laughs, the sound happy and rich. Then he leans down and kisses me full on the lips.
I close my eyes at the feel of his lips on mine, but when there’s nothing else, I open my eyes again to see him smiling mischievously. The friends whistle out catcalls from the door, shouting for us to get a room, obviously making fun of such a short, chaste kiss.
“I call it something more than that,” he says.
“I can live with that,” I say, and slip my hand into his.
We leave the shop and the still-laughing friends
congregating on the steps. The tinkling bell on the door jingles behind us as we leave.
It’s another gift, this moment with Emmett. I pause to feel the sun on my face, to notice the light breeze carrying the smell of jasmine.
Job was right when he said that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But I know that He gives much more than He takes. You just have to pay attention.
Emmett drives and we leave Hamilton behind. We travel on quiet country roads with the windows down and the radio blasting golden oldies, velvet-voiced men singing “Lean on Me” and about love that fills up your senses.
I have doubts still. And questions galore. Yet I find that I have all the answers I need.
N
OVELS MIGHT BE WRITTEN IN SOLITUDE
, but they’re really a team sport. I’ve had the literary equivalent of world-class coaches and trainers, and an Olympic-caliber cheering section, without which I never would have been able to write this, or any other book.
Erin Clarke—my fabulous editor at Knopf, who takes my words and makes them so much better. Sarah Hokanson—it’s okay to judge a book by its cover as long as she designed it. Artie Bennett, Susan Goldfarb, Amy Schroeder—for crossing
t
’s and dotting
i
’s, thank you. Stephen Barbara—my terrific agent, who believes in me and in my angels.