Fragile

Ricky said. “Maybe you didn’t have anyone to help you be strong, Dad. You were just a kid, younger than I am now.”

Jones looked at the wet ground. Was it so easy for Ricky to forgive him? He didn’t have any words for the son who was already twice the man Jones had ever been.

“Do you remember when I stole that CD from Sound Design?” Ricky asked. “I was like, twelve. It fell out of my jacket when I got into the car, and you knew I didn’t have any money. You made me take it back. Remember? You told me I’d never enjoy a moment of listening to it, knowing that I’d stolen it.”

Jones did remember. He remembered the shock of seeing the CD, the wave of disappointment he felt. But most of all he remembered the fear. He was so afraid that he’d failed his son somehow, that he’d passed along some defect of character that had allowed Ricky to steal something he wanted rather than ask for it or work for it. He didn’t remember the words he’d used with his son, but he knew they’d been hard, even cruel. He remembered the stricken look on Ricky’s face. He’d never forgotten it.

“So I had to go in alone, give the CD back and apologize. I hated you for that then. I thought it was stupid and mean because no one would have ever known better. And, you know what? I would have enjoyed that CD, every last track. But I understand now that you were right. Of course you were. But maybe you didn’t have anyone to help you stand up and own up. If you hadn’t forced me to take back that CD, I wouldn’t have. Not ever. And maybe I would have stolen again, and again, until I got caught. And maybe then I’d have paid a higher price than just a little embarrassment.”

When did his kid get so smart? Jones wondered. He reached out to touch Ricky’s face, felt his smooth cheek. Jones let his hand drop to Ricky’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He wanted to pull his son into his arms and hold him close, kiss his head. Why was it so hard? With something like effort, he took the boy in a tight embrace. He held on for a second, but then he had to pull back, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

“It’s too late for me, Ricky. And I don’t feel like I deserve your kindness right now.”

Ricky stared at his father with wide eyes. “You saved her.”

“Who?”

“Charlene. She said you came on that boat and carried her off. She said she’d never been so happy to see anyone, that when she saw you, she knew she was finally safe. You helped that kid out of the well, even though you’re still hurt.”

“It’s my job. That’s what I do.”

“Yeah, but not everybody could do that job. Mom’s right. She said you care about people, you help people, that’s who you are.”

Jones didn’t know what to say to the kid, so he just stood there, studying his face. Ricky looked so much like Maggie, fine-featured with big, intelligent eyes. Maggie was right about a lot of things, like how he hadn’t really looked at his son in years, could only see the things that angered him. He could see now that Ricky possessed all his mother’s wisdom and kindness, her desire to fix and save.

“How did you find me?” Jones said.

“We followed you to Grandma’s house, then here. We weren’t sure what you were going to do. But we wanted to be with you when you did it. We tried to call you a couple of times. But you didn’t answer.”

Ricky turned and pointed to the SUV that had pulled up behind Jones’s vehicle. Jones hadn’t seen it at first through the driving rain. Maggie stepped out of the car, looked up at the clearing sky.

“Mom didn’t tell me anything,” Ricky said. “I came to her with the things Charlene said. We wanted you to know, thought it would help you come to terms with things. We wanted you to hear it from us.”

As the rain stopped completely, Jones felt a coalescence, a melding of the facets of his life. Everything that he was-a husband and father, a deeply flawed man-and everything that he had been-a high school football star, his mother’s angry son, a frightened boy without the strength to do what was right-merged there before his wife and son. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was not afraid.

30

It was only his second day as a full-time writer and Charlie was already sure he had made a mistake. Wanda had helped him fix up his apartment, clean and organize, so that the second bedroom could become his office. She’d helped him buy a desk and pick out a new computer.

“You’re still young, Charlie. You have some money saved. Stop wasting your time killing rodents and give this a chance. Finish your novel and try to sell it. What have you got to lose? It’s not like you’re on a career fast track.”

“I don’t know, Wanda.”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t. It’s one thing to try and fail. It’s another thing to never try at all. That’s the stuff that eats you alive.”

What was it about that woman? Everything she said sounded like gospel to him. But now that he was alone with the blank page, the glowingly empty screen of his brand-new computer, the silence of his apartment, he felt desperate, inadequate in the extreme. He wasn’t a writer. It was just a fantasy he had about himself. On reading the novel he’d been writing for the better part of ten years, he couldn’t believe how terrible it was. How could he have ever thought he was any good? He called his mother.

“So how’s the writing life?” she asked.

“Miserable.”

She gave an indulgent chuckle. “Oh, my tortured artist.”

“Maybe they’ll give me my job back.”

“Day two and already you’re hanging it up?” She made a tsking sound with her tongue.

“Mom?”

“What is it, honey?”

“What do you remember about her?”

There was a pause on the line, and then he heard her release a breath.

“Lily? It was a long time ago. I guess I remember that she always looked so sad. She was a tiny thing, so delicate, with such a soft voice. But that sadness inside her, it was angry, powerful.”

He had forgotten what she looked like, in a strange way. Her essence was still with him-he could smell the scent of her skin, remember the way she said his name. But in the few pictures he had of her, she didn’t look like he remembered her. In the pictures, she looked like any suburban girl with a cheap haircut and a knit sweater, just a kid. In his mind, she was a luminous beauty who stopped his heart with only a certain kind of look she had.

“Did you ever doubt me? Did you ever think I could have hurt her?”

“Never. Not for a minute. I know my boy. Your love is good and sweet, Charlie. You don’t have an unkind bone in your body.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Is that what you’re writing about?”

He flopped down on his bed and laid his head on top of one of the new pillows Wanda had picked out. It was a silvery gray with thin embroidered stripes, an accent to the navy comforter and matching drapes. She’d made him take all his old books from their boxes and stack them on shelves and in artful piles around the apartment. A writer’s home should be full of books. For inspiration.

“In a way, I am. But all that stuff that happened here, that girl who was abducted, the one I saw on the street? That has kind of captured my imagination, too.”

“Another missing girl. I see a theme.”

He told her about the rest of the story, how Charlene’s mother, and the father of the boy who’d abducted Charlene as well as a Hollows detective, had confessed to events that had led to the accidental death of a girl back in the late eighties. How another man had been convicted of her murder and then committed suicide in prison.

“What led them to confess, so many years later? That poor girl’s parents. How awful to have it resurrected like that.”