because other people had a political agenda.
These charges, I said, would come and go. I could apply for promotion next year or the year after. The important thing was to keep a sense of proportion.
We had been here before. Molly listened, but she did not understand why I was so desperate to keep a job I did not especially enjoy. Before she had gone independent, buying and selling houses, she had run rooftops for various contractors. Hard and dangerous work, but the air was clean and complaints were straightforward, delivered to your face. At Johnna Masterson’s age, Molly had joined a new crew. This was right after we were married. One fellow on the crew gave her a rough time because she was a woman and because she was beautiful. She answered him straight on. ‘You either stop or I’m going to hurt you.’
He was a perfect fool and just laughed at her. She let it go, thinking he would back off with the comments.
The next day, though, as she was climbing the ladder, he whistled and whooped, ‘Look at that ass, boys. Is that good enough to eat, or what?’
Molly had climbed back down the ladder and walked up to this giant. He got bigger every time she told the story. By the way she came at him he figured he was in for a speech, and he was all set for an amusing, girlish temper tantrum, exactly what he wanted in the first place. Molly’s boot caught him behind the knee, and he went down flat on his back. Then she broke three of his ribs.
That was how Molly McBride filed a complaint.
We decided, foolishly, to keep Lucy out of it.
I don’t know what she imagined in those first weeks.
There was tension in the house. Molly was angry. I was depressed, looking by turns either guilty or distracted. Because she was seventeen, Lucy probably thought it was something she had done.
My colleagues had the story almost at once of course.
I heard the echoes of the jokes I hadn’t quite told.
Monkey. Bodacious. Talent. I saw Randy Winston talking to two women from the Department of History.
They might have been discussing Caesar’s assassination, but I felt reasonably sure by their sudden silence the topic was mine.
I saw Denise Conway with Buddy Elder only a few minutes before my night class was scheduled to begin.
She had to know I would be there, but she looked frightened and surprised when I walked toward them.
Before I could speak, she walked away. Buddy approached me while I was still watching the sway of her hips. I felt my gut tighten, my fists clench.
‘Johnna asked me to tell you she couldn’t make it to class tonight. She had to go to the infirmary.’
I blinked in confusion. ‘Is she all right?’
Buddy Elder met my gaze without ever losing that slight, cynical smile of his. ‘I think she’s got bleeding ulcers, Dave.’
Wednesday night I included Johnna Masterson’s health in my litany of moral failings. Thursday I went online to browse for psychologists. Most of them listed among their specialties depression and work-related stress. I had not slept for a couple of weeks. For the past several days I had been nursing a sharp pain in my chest. I found three good candidates, and decided if I did not feel better Friday I would start making some calls. I was not sure they could really do any good. It seemed to me I was beyond treatment. This was not the usual helplessness of depression, seeing no way out of my troubles. I could not decide what my trouble was. Was I the victim or the one who had victimized others? The true penitent confesses the sin and so begins a journey back to faith and wholeness.
In a medical sense, this was supposed to happen between psychologist and patient. But what exactly should I tell a doctor? I might have made a mistake?
I believe this could be a conspiracy? Perhaps we could cut right to the essentials. I could talk about Tubs: the last honest man.
I had a better idea on the way home. I stopped for a beer. After three the pressure in my chest eased. After another, I could almost laugh. I got in my truck and headed home. I was cured, at least as long as the buzz lasted.
I called Molly along the way, but there was no answer.
A wind had kicked up late in the day. The first chill of winter came as the sun dropped under the horizon.
Molly’s truck was parked close to the house, but Lucy’s Toyota was gone. The horses were in the barn. The dogs were in the kennel for the evening. Like the old drinking days. If I didn’t show up, they got taken care of anyway.
There were no lights on inside the house. The back screen door was swinging free when I got to it. I figured Molly was inside, but I did not understand why the lights were off. I was sorry now for the beers that had tasted so good. Two years of sobriety pissed away. I snapped on the porch and kitchen lights and called out Molly’s name.
I walked into the main hallway. ‘Molly!’ I heard branches crackling against the windowpanes. There was no answer, but I knew she was there.
I found her sitting in the dark in the downstairs living room. She was wearing jeans and work boots as if she had just finished working upstairs. I snapped on the lights, laughing at her. ‘What are you doing sitting in the dark?’
Molly’s face was swollen and red. She had been crying. In her hand she held a. 22 Magnum revolver.
It was pointed vaguely in my direction. I staggered slightly. I tried to put the various elements together, but nothing made sense. Molly never cried. I could not think of a single occasion when I had seen tears.
And the gun. Molly had had the thing for years, had it when I first met her, in fact, but she never got it out anymore. I couldn’t recall seeing it since we had moved to the farm. Had someone come out to the farm that afternoon? Had something happened to -?
‘Where’s Lucy?’ I asked, finally putting it together.
‘Lucy’s all right. She’s out for the evening.’
‘What happened?’
She fired the gun in my direction. She didn’t really aim. The gun was pointing at me, and then it discharged.
I jumped and swore angrily. Fresh tears rolled from her eyes, and I knew the gun had not gone off accidentally. I screamed my next question. What in the hell was the matter?
‘You are.’ She fired the gun a second time.
I swore again. I danced, though it was a bit late to be dodging bullets. I demanded an explanation. I expect it sounded more like pleading.
She reached for some kind of small notebook and threw it across the room. It landed at my feet. ‘Read it!’ she hissed. ‘Go ahead you piece of – pick it up and read it!’
‘No more shots.’
She fired the gun again. I felt the heat of the bullet pass across my face. I stooped down to pick the thing up. It was the kind of notebook Lucy might have used a couple of years ago, if she had kept a diary. I opened it to the first page. Two tiny rings kept the pink sheets of papers together. The handwriting was neat and round. Circles dotted every i. The ink was purple, nearly impossible to make out against the pink background in the poorly illuminated room. I adjusted my position for better light. I held the thing at arm’s length because I did not have my reading glasses. I saw the words, Well, this is it! I’m really in college. Me, Denise Conway! It’s not so bad really. Scary, but all the freshmen feel the same way, I think.
I looked up at Molly. She was studying my face with a bitterness I’d never seen directed toward me. ‘Read it, David.’
I skimmed down the page and saw my name. David came into class today looking very chic and professional. It’s hard to think of him as my professor after everything he’s done to me in the bed of his pickup!
‘Molly,’ I said, ‘where did you get this?’
‘Read it.’
‘Did Buddy Elder give this to you?’
