Authors: Howard Owen
He didn't turn on the headlights. He didn't need them, after all these years. He could negotiate the old trail blindfolded.
Half a mile back, still a few hundred yards short of the pond, he cut the ignition and coasted a few more feet before coming to a stop in the sand and pine straw. It was a one-way road. What came in had to come back out, as he told more than one teenage couple returning from unwisely using his land for amorous purposes.
He closed the door softly. Outside, he could see his breath in the damp swamp air. He hadn't walked 100 feet when he was able to make out the red truck up ahead, and then he saw movement off to the side.
What might have made the difference was that Pooh's hearing was not first-rate. His father figured it was the result of sitting too close to too many head-banging redneck rock bands for too many years.
When William saw what his son was doing and knew immediately what he intended to do, he allowed his mind only a very few seconds to consider the general horror. Then, he did what he had always done, whether he was strong-arming a weaker high school kid or working his way through the porous net of local law enforcement: He came up with a plan.
He could have shot them both. He had the little pistol he always carried. He could've done it with that. Throw the weapon in the millpond and let the cops figure it out.
He could have just confronted his son, told him to stop, and then tried to make things right somehow.
He can admit to himself that he considered a third alternative: Help Pooh dispose of the body and get rid of the evidence. He was sure Pooh had not even begun to consider what came after he had raped and murdered a woman to whom he was known to bear much animosity. Thinking ahead was not Pooh's strong suit.
In less than a minute, William knew none of those would work, because he didn't think they could get away with it, and because he just didn't want to. Lately, on those watchful nights outside, he sometimes had the feeling that he was not alone, just a little shiver now and then, a rabbit scurrying across your tombstone. He would have beaten anyone who suggested he was growing afraid of the dark in his old age, but he was starting to feel as if Something was watching him, keeping score.
And he knew Georgia. She had never meant him any ill will that he knew of. He had done terrible things to people, all his life, but he always could convince himself that he had been wronged, that he was the aggrieved party.
She had been snooping around, asking questions about Jenny McLaurin's death, and that had irritated him, but he supposed he would have done the same thing, if it had been him.
It had occurred to him, more than once, that she might be right in her suspicions. Standing there in the darkness, watching his son brutalize a woman old enough to be his mother, William Blackwell knew he had slipped. He had done the thing he tried to never doâignore trouble and hope it would just go away.
He knew, standing there, that his son probably had done the thing Georgia suspected him of doing.
And he knew what came next.
If he had allowed himself the luxury of contemplation, he might not have been able to do it.
“I was going to use my own pistol,” he whispers to Georgia, who is wide awake and turned as much as she can to face him. She has the feeling he is whispering not to keep others from hearing but because he can barely get the words out.
“But then, I kept coming closer and closer, 'til I was right there, right behind him, and he had that .38 hanging out of his pants pocket, easy to slip out.
“He heard the click, because I saw him start to turn his head, but I'm pretty sure he didn't know it was me.”
He stops and sits there, staring into the empty darkness across the room.
Georgia puts her right hand on top of his left one.
“I heard footsteps,” she says, “going back across the woods. And then I thought I heard a car start, off in the distance.”
She shifts, trying to get comfortable. She is wide awake and wishes she had called for the pain medication already.
“And the 911 call,” she says. “I wondered why they got there the same time as Kenny did. I thought I must have called them before I passed out. I can't remember everything.
“But it was you.”
He pulls his chair closer to the bed.
“You know this never happened,” he says, a glimpse of the school bully in his face. “I never told you this.”
Georgia nods and swallows.
“But I just wanted you to know. Some things, you just have to do something about, you know? No matter what.”
His voice catches, and he pauses. He adds that he hopes she won't be put off from living in her old hometown. If this didn't do it, Georgia thinks, nothing will. She says she doesn't know what she is going to do, but that her son is probably going to stay and work the farm.
“A farmer?” William Blackwell seems amused by this. “Well, you never know how things are going to turn out, do you, Georgia?”
There is nothing else either of them can think to say.
Georgia turns to lie on her back and closes her eyes for a few seconds, less stunned by all this than she would have been if she had been less distracted by the pain.
When she opens her eyes, William Blackwell is gone. Only a small impression in the bedside chair is left to prove it wasn't all another drug-addled dream.
She has been medicated and is sleeping like the dead when a hand on her wrist awakens her.
“What?” she says, irritated that the nurses won't ever leave her alone, except when she needs them.
But she sees that it is Justin.
“Mom? I'm sorry to wake you up. But I just wanted you to know. Leeza is here.”
“What? Why?” She's still coming out of her sleep.
“She's gone into labor,” Justin says. “She woke me up at 1, and we've been here since before 2. The doctor says today's the day.”
“That's great, honey,” Georgia says, trying to smile and to wake up. “That's really nice. I'm sorry I can't be there to help, to be with you.”
“Don't worry about that. Kenny's here, too. I guess I ruined his night, too. He said he'd come see you later, that you'd probably rather sleep, but I wanted you to know.”
He gets up to leave, then turns at the door.
“Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
“Couldn't be merrier,” Georgia says. Justin is already headed down the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
December 25
Georgia has had her share of quiet Christmases in recent years.
Having lived half the last dozen holiday seasons as an unmarried woman and lapsed churchgoer with almost no family, she has often spent the day itself in the homes of friends and colleagues, like a charity case. Usually, the hosts have been people with whom she did have a real bond, but most of the others there would be the host's family, while she was the sad refugee from the English department. When Justin was younger, she would bring him, and he felt just as lost as she did. One year, they spent the day with two Jewish couples and a man who claimed to be a Zoroastrian and tried to hit on her.
She would always be sure to bring two bottles of wine and at least token gifts for any children who might be around, and usually she would get one or two presents from the more thoughtful adults. But Georgia has come to dread the season. For her, it is a temptation to wallow in loss, a hard slap to remind her that her interesting and stimulating life somehow has led her to the doors of strangers on Christmas day.
Today, though, is not turning out to be one of the quiet ones.
She thought it might be. The hospital would be short-staffed. Kenny would want to spend the day with his mother's family, surely. She could expect Justin and Leeza to be otherwise occupied, to say the least.
She had prepared herself to be a little depressed, lying here neglected by one and all while her broken parts mend. She was determined not to show it.
What has happened, though, has left her no time for the blues, or introspection of any kind.
For one thing, Kenny has been by her side most of the past seven hours, since just after dawn, leaving every so often to check on Leeza's progress and report back. When she woke, he was there, in the same chair where William Blackwell had told his story a few hours earlier. She wondered how long he had been staring at her, and she yearned for some makeup, or at least a paper bag to put over her head. The last time she looked, her eyes still had greenish-yellow circles around them, giving her the appearance of a large, festive raccoon.
Then, at 10, Forsythia Crumpler walks in, carrying a fruit basket for which there is no room until they take some of the older flowers out. Alberta Horne and Minnie McCauley are with her, and they all have small gifts for her to openâa bottle of perfume, a scarf, and a fruitcake.
And then there are Justin and Leeza. Kenny has brought their gifts to Georgia's room, along with Justin's apology and promise to be there as soon as the baby comes.
Kenny leaves at 12:30. The visitation arrangement allows him to keep Tommy from 1
PM
on, after the boy has opened his gifts from his mother and her family in the morning. But Kenny tells her that Tommy has agreed to open his gifts from his father at the hospital. He's visited Georgia twice already and seems more fascinated than repelled by her appearance.
“Wow,” he said the first time. “Did you get in a fight?”
“You should see the other guy.”
The boy laughed for the first time in her presence.
Two other groups of church members come by in the early afternoon, and Georgia has begun to suspect something other than spontaneity.
Blue, Sherita and Annabelle Geddie and two of Blue and Sherita's children arrive around 2. They add more food to the growing bounty. They and one of the groups from Geddie Presbyterian get there at about the same time, two sets of neighbors who might never have shared a hospital visit before. They are cordial and wish each other a merry Christmas.
Everyone wants to know about the baby.
“Gonna be a grandma,” Annabelle says, shaking her head. “You're gonna love spoilin' that grandbaby.”
One of Blue and Sherita's children allows that Annabelle hasn't been spoiling him with anything except a switch.
And then, with the room holding exactly twice its allowed occupancy, Justin seems to appear out of nowhere, looking dazed.
“Well,” he says, “it's a girl. Seven pounds, six ounces. She has all her fingers and toes. Bald as a coot. Leeza's fine.”
He goes to his mother, and the two of them embrace, both of them in tears.
“Love you,” he says, then gives the rest of the room perhaps more information than they even wanted about the birthing of his first child.
“What you gonna name her?” Blue asks his new partner.
Georgia can hardly hear him through the din, exacerbated by a nurse who is telling them that somebody has to leave.
“What?” she calls to her son. “I didn't hear you.”
“We're going to name her Georgia,” he repeats. “Georgia Noel.”
Lying in this hospital bed, her head and upper body a mass of stitches and breaks, with a long stretch of surgery and rehabilitation ahead of her, she wonders if there has ever been a more perfect Christmas.
Kenny and Tommy get there in mid-afternoon. Tommy has brought her a present, one Kenny says he picked out himself. Georgia opens it and sees that it is a Swiss army knife.
“So if somebody tries to hurt you again, you can run 'em off,” he explains.
Georgia gives him a hug. The boy doesn't respond well to hugs, she knows, but he makes allowances on this occasion, another gift.
The crowd drifts in and out of Georgia's room all afternoon and into the evening, some of them coming to congratulate Justin on the baby, some probably at Forsythia's urging, but their sentiments seem genuine. Most of the ones from the church tell her they hope she'll stay in East Geddie “anyhow.” All of them are thrilled about Justin and Leeza and the baby. They all remark on how wonderful it is to have a “little one” in the community, by which Georgia assumes she means the church.
The young couple has started attending Littlejohn McCain's old church on a more or less regular basis. Leeza likes it because she doesn't sense she is being judged. Justin seems pleased to have some link to his family, even if most of the McCains whose names he sees on the bronze plaque outside are almost wholly unknown to him. Georgia supposes that she and Jeff did little to give him any sense of belonging to a family beyond the three of them, and then when Jeff left, it was just Georgia and Justin, a family of two. She wishes now that she could remember all the old stories. She hopes he remembers at least some of the ones from his grandfather.
There is something else, too, driving the well-wishers. It is mentioned only obliquely by a few of the church members.
“We want to thank you,” Murphy Lee Roslin says, looking down at the floor and speaking so low she can hardly hear him, “for what you did and all.”
Others praise her, calling her a “brave woman,” or just saying, “Jenny knows what you did. She knows.” Or, best yet, “Littlejohn McCain would be right proud of you.”
Nothing beyond the bare essentials of the story made the
Port Campbell Post
. The rape was not even mentioned. It was just a story about an abduction that ended with the perpetrator dying from what must have been a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Police were still investigating.
Kenny and Tommy leave at 7, just after one more well-wisher has thanked Georgia “for everything.”
“How does everybody know?” she whispers to Kenny.
“They just do,” he winks at her. “You can't keep anything from these people.”
He tells her, as he's leaving, that he will be back tomorrow, then Monday to take her home.
“And every day after that,” he adds.
At 8 o'clock, when everyone has gone and Georgia has dimmed the lights and is just about to beg for one more dose of pain medication so she can get more than two hours' consecutive sleep, she hears a sound and sees a familiar silhouette in the hallway, short and solid.