Chapter Ten
R icky’s phone buzzed just as he was grabbing his jacket to head out to meet the Caitens. A message popped up.
It was Silas asking him if he could drop around to the rectory after the community dinner. Ricky sent a brief thumbs up. Thirty seconds later, a text arrived from the community dinner coordinator, requesting a hot dish. He sent another thumbs up.
The drive to the retirement village was only ten minutes. Ricky knew it was going to be a tough conversation. And the burning question, the why-weren’t-you-there question, was one that he still couldn’t answer.
You knew that Chrissie was fragile. And you knew that she had fallen into a black hole and that she would never have the strength to climb out by herself.
Ricky had talked all this through with the therapist provided to emergency response personnel. They had discussed boundaries, survivor guilt, personal responsibility, trauma...every possible nuance in the sorry tale of a girl who died and the boy who wasn’t there.
Hadn’t helped a whole lot, Ricky had to admit. Not at first. Especially when he had headed straight back to Temple Mountain, their hometown. To the bittersweet memories of early love.
But the final words of the therapist, a veteran of Afghanistan who had turned his hand to working with damaged and traumatized paramedics, firefighters, and cops, had eventually seeped into Ricky’s wounded heart.
I can work with you for weeks, months, or years, Ricky. Help you get your head straight so you can do your job again and sleep at night. But the truth is that you didn’t walk away from that girl, you ran. And that’s because you knew how it was going to end. Badly. And although none of what happened to Chrissie was your fault because you aren’t God, you gotta own that guilt, that wound. Name it for what it is and then learn to live with it. And there’s a shitload more guilt coming your way, son, because you aren’t perfect, and life can be a cracker barrel full of pain. Because that’s what it is to be human.
Ricky’s mind was churning as he parked and headed up the path. He walked straight into the clutches of Bonnie Browning.
“Well, hello!” The curvy brunette was a little breathless, as though she’d sped out to reception as soon as she’d spotted the council utility truck.
“So sweet of you to come.” She steered him into her office and closed the door. “I’ve been beside myself.” She dabbed carefully at her fully made-up eyes with a tissue.
“I wanted to sue, but Daddy talked me out of it, even though we have a clear case of slander. That newspaper has gone straight downhill since Jodi Ruskin took over, and my father said he is very tempted to call the owners direct.”
“Libel, not slander,” murmured Ricky.
“Whatever,” said Bonnie breezily. “I’m so glad you agree Ricky. And I’m touched that you came all the way out here to see if I was okay. You could have just called, really.”
The steel band which had been around Ricky’s chest since reading the online story at the crack of dawn, tightened another notch.
“I was surprised to see the story,” he said truthfully. “My concerns were more about confidentiality than...er...factuality.”
Bonnie’s cupid lips formed an ‘O’ of surprise, and he hastily added, “Of course, that line about you was uncalled for. Pure speculation.”
She pouted. “I really had to go into bat for you Ricky. Daddy is pretty annoyed. He does have the elections coming up, so it is super important that the proper authorities have control over what information is released to the press. I don’t know what they do in New York, but here in Temple Mountain you can’t ride rough-shod over people’s reputations.”
Ricky dredged up a rueful smile. “I know you’ll understand, Bonnie, but I do need to ask about the...er...speculation. Have you been talking to the twins?”
Her eyes widened, and he could almost see the cogs moving in her brain. She looked slightly affronted.
“Of course I’ve spoken to them. Everyone around here knows those boys. They were with the Andersons last year—they take in a lot of foster kids out on their property just south of town. Daddy reckons the Andersons are survivalists. Or is it preppers? Anyways, I caught those boys teasing a cat one day when I was walking through the park. So I put a stop to it straight away. I can’t bear animal cruelty.”
She batted her considerable eyelashes. Ricky forced a bland smile. His stomach was beginning to cramp. If the boys were hurting animals, then they might already be on the road to being full-blown arsonists.
Bonnie posed, one finger on her dimpled chin. “Hmmm...and was there another time? Maybe. I did try to be friendly, since I know those boys have been through such a lot.” She leaned forward, and Ricky focused his gaze on her face to avoid peering into a generous slice of bosom.
He caught a waft of scent. Bonnie’s large and expressive eyes grew conspiratorial.
“Daddy said I wasn’t to speak to you about this, but I don’t hold what happened against you. I admire a man who takes his job seriously—and I know my father does too. He’s already said what a bright future he sees for you here in town.”
Ricky swallowed a snort of disbelief. Was the Chief suggesting that his assistant might someday move on from chasing dogs and rooting around in trash cans? Perhaps Ricky would be put in charge of chasing stray moose away from the highway. Maybe a stint overseeing the sorting line at the recycling plant out of town.
“They’ll be looking for a new chief real soon, Ricky.” Bonnie’s voice turned playful. “Naturally the current Fire Chief will have a lot of say over the appointment. And I know I’m looking at the obvious candidate right now.” She stared into his eyes meaningfully.
Ricky was briefly speechless. Not because the prospect of staying in town, of being the guy with the Smokey the Bandit hat and the lunches at the golf club didn’t have some sneaking appeal, but because the image of Leroy saying anything like that was as close to reality as the Chief inviting him around for a beer so Ricky could explain how the fire department needed a complete overhaul.
Before he could formulate any kind of reply that didn’t contain the word bullshit , there was a preemptory rap on the window. An elderly man, bald as a badger and waving hello.
Ricky stared. Tom Caitens? How had the chunky trucker with the cheerful glint in his eye and the full head of salt and pepper curls turned into this old guy?
Ricky waved back, and made to rise from his seat.
No mystery really, he thought with sudden insight. He would get over Chrissie’s death. The sorrow and regret would fade over the years. But for a parent, grief was like a cancer, invading the mind and infiltrating the lifelines of the heart until it was part of the living, breathing tissue.
He cleared his throat. “That’s my appointment, come to find me,” he said with false cheerfulness.
Bonnie’s eyes narrowed, but she flashed him a slow smile.
“Nice talking to you Ricky. I know you don’t believe me.” She paused, and Ricky stopped, hand on the door. “My father and I both want what’s best for this town, and I’m guessing you do too. City folks don’t realize how much small towns suffered during the pandemic. People were cold because they couldn’t afford heat, jobs disappeared, some folks had to go on welfare—and I’m telling you that about broke their hearts. Some couldn’t afford the medical bills. People left town, went to stay with family.”
She nodded towards the window. Ricky looked past Tom Caitens to the community bus disgorging a dozen cheerful residents, their arms full of shopping bags. “Town’s getting back on its feet, finally. Tourists coming back, family visiting, new businesses open.”
Ricky braced himself for what he knew was coming, and yeah, Bonnie had a point.
“Temple Mountain cannot afford bad publicity, Ricky. Talk about arsonists, fires at the retirement center, that feeds into social media and we’re finished.”
He nodded.
Her last words followed him outside.
“We’re on the same side here, remember that.”
***
I t didn’t take long for Ricky to realize that Chrissie’s father was even more anxious than him about the meeting. Tom’s heavy frame was still visible in the broad shoulders and corded arms as he thrust out his hand to shake.
Tom spent the five-minute walk to the independent living section explaining how much they liked the retirement village, and Ricky tried to imagine his own parents washing their hands of all that mowing and cleaning gutters and of course, that temperamental furnace.
He saw the family home sitting empty, stripped of the cheerful clutter of family life. A real estate agent hammering a For Sale sign on the lawn.
Selfish bastard. It’s not about you.
“It’s like being on vacation all the time,” Tom finished with, throwing open the door of an apartment on the top level of the three-story building overlooking the tennis courts.
Molly must have been lurking in the kitchen because she appeared instantly. Her hands were twisted around a tea towel.
She surprised Ricky with a peck on the cheek, which turned into a full-fledged hug. He wrapped his arms around the thin frame, his own eyes filling as he felt her body vibrate with sobs.
Tom patted his wife awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Come on now, doll,” he said gruffly. “Enough of that. I hope you haven’t been crying on that cake you made, cause that would be a damned shame.”
She drew back, dabbed at her eyes with a real ironed handkerchief, and gave a tremulous smile.
“I’m sorry Ricky. I swore I wouldn’t do that, but...well, I did.” She turned to Tom, who was hovering. “Show Ricky around while I switch on the coffee and get things ready.”
Ricky obediently followed Tom into the pleasant, airy living area, furnished in a combination of old family pieces and cheerful contemporary sofas. He was shown the view to the tennis courts, admired the forced bulbs flowering on the patio.
He glanced back inside at the comfortable and homey space. There was something missing. His brain whirred. Photos, of course.
A large studio portrait of Molly and Tom’s 1980s wedding hung on the wall, and there were a couple of framed snaps on the dresser of a young Chrissie taken at the cottage. Her golden hair floated in a corona of curls, and her gapped-tooth smile was wide with joy.
What was that lake called? Worst road Ricky had ever driven on, and his own father had certainly had something to say about the dings in the bottom of his precious Chevy.
Tom appeared at his side. “We didn’t want to become one of those sad couples who have so many photos of their deceased daughter that you can’t breathe for all the grief in the room,” he said quietly.
Ricky swallowed, nodded. They took their places around the dining table, and he took the offered slice of cake with a smile. The coffee was perfect, hot, fresh, and strong.
The next few minutes passed in awkward conversation as everyone ate and drank and discussed the importance of using real butter in cakes and how the view over the mountains was wonderful.
Silence fell, lengthened. Ricky could tell that the older couple were wondering why he had come to see them. An old boyfriend back in town, feeling guilty about the way things turned out, doing his duty by visiting, they probably figured. And they’d be right, mostly.
Except for that small sketch drawn in a ragged, smoke-tainted notebook that properly belonged to Chrissie’s next of kin, her parents. He pushed away a fresh pang of guilt.
Baby Lioba . That was his sole focus.
“When did you last see Chrissie?” Ricky blurted. He closed his eyes. “Sorry, that was rude...”
Molly reached forward and touched his knee with her small hand.
“Just ask us what you want, Ricky.” She glanced at her husband, who was sitting stiffly in his armchair, staring out the window with the detached air of a man watching for incoming weather and wondering how long until he could take off the storm windows.
“We have been to hell and back. That doesn’t make us special, because a lot of folks have loads to bear that are heavier than others.”
Ricky glanced at her, trying not to imagine what could be worse than losing a child.
He should have come earlier. He shouldn’t have come at all .
Molly’s voice was calm. Her fingers covered Tom’s callused palm. His thick, blunt fingers curled around hers.
“But I mean it when I say hell and back, because here we are, still living. We vowed that we would live the best, the kindest and most loving life we could with what time we have left.”
Ricky put his cup down with a thump. The cake was lead in his stomach.
“This is only going to cause you more pain,” he said thickly. He began to rise to his feet, suddenly desperate to be gone from this place of memories and mourning.
“Sit down son,” said Tom briskly. “Spit it out. We’re not breakable, and the truth is that it gives us great pleasure to talk about Chrissie with people who knew her and loved her. She brought us and so many others such a lot of joy.”
Molly’s smile was warm. “Lord yes. We often think about that weekend when Christine brought you down to the cottage at Canandaigua Lake. You remember, when that, what was it now...that newt came into the bedroom? I never heard a man yell so loud.”
Ricky grinned. Oh, yeah, he remembered the strange little orange creature which turned out to be an Eastern Newt but had looked just like a snake at first glance.
Everyone, including all the other folks who had cottages on the Lake, had found the sight of the six foot plus would-be firefighter tearing out onto the deck in his shorts endlessly amusing.
“They are probably still laughing about that.”
Tom collected the coffee pot, and he filled Ricky’s cup without asking.
Ricky felt himself relaxing. Why hadn’t he visited these people before, sought them out as soon as he realised that Chrissie was dead?
Guilt, cowardice? Both, if was honest.
Tom helped himself to more cake, and Ricky did the same. The sweet aroma of fresh baking was familiar, comforting. Ricky took a deep breath. His heart began thudding painfully against his ribs.
“I need to tell you something.”
His carefully prepared speech, the one which skated over the fact that he was the one who had found Chrissie, and which focused on what he had discovered between the pages of her sketchbook—a rambling self-serving discourse which might prepare Tom and Molly for the shock—dissolved into nothing.
“Chrissie had a baby—a girl.” Ricky swallowed. The words fell into a silence that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. His lungs labored with the effort of breathing.
“My child. And Chrissie surrendered the baby for adoption right here in Temple Mountain.”