Saving Jack. Chapters 12 and 13

12

Starla sat in the middle of the queen-sized bed in her room at the Tidal Beach Inn, photographs and newspaper clippings scattered all around her. The room felt damp and smelled just like everything else in Maine: briny and stale. Warm air had been blowing steadily out of the furnace for over an hour, but she was still cold. She spoke softly into her cell phone with a tenderness not afforded most people in her life . . . 

“I know how hard this has been on you, honey. But it hasn’t been a bed of roses for me, either. Your mother just needed some time away, some time just for me, that’s all . . . No, I’m not with your daddy . . . It doesn’t matter where I am. The only thing that matters is that I’m not there, and I won’t be gone long. Haven’t you ever needed some ‘me time’? . . . I’m not sure when, just yet . . . Stop worrying about me and get on with your own life. That’s all I’m trying to do . . . ”

She got up from the bed after the call, walked into the small bathroom, and found the mirror. She pulled her hair back from her face and stared long and hard at the woman in the glass. Forty-seven didn’t look good. But back in the day, she had been something else. Her body had never curved like a supermodel’s, but there had been a fierceness to her beauty, an unrefined allure that had served her well. Her taut, athletic frame accented by the wildness in her eyes had been quite the package. Now, there were only hints of beauty, faint whispers of allure. It was just as well. It no longer mattered to her; she no longer needed allure. Three husbands in one lifetime were enough to disabuse a person of romantic inclinations.

Starla walked back over to the bed and glanced down at the pictures. She reached for a graduation photo, her two boys on either side of their sister, the sunlight gleaming off their royal-blue gowns. She traced her finger over Robert’s smiling face. Then she picked up another of Robert, this face sullen and vacant. My beautiful boy, she sighed heavily. God rest your soul. She walked the photograph across the room and taped it to the large mirror over the chest of drawers.

                                                                        * * *

Liz burst into tears at the sight of her father—the very thing Jack had feared. Even though she had sounded excited and bubbly on the phone, he’d expected this. Liz was an open book, incapable of pretense. So when she saw him, she had melted into a pool of tears, apologizing but unable to hold them back.

“It’s ok, Lizzy girl . . . everything is ok.” He guided her to the sofa and held her long enough for her to regain her composure.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s not how I planned this little reunion.”

“Is that what this is? A reunion?” Jack hadn’t intended for his words to come out so irritably, but it was too late now.

“Well, I guess it is a reunion,” Liz retorted, picking up on her father’s surprising tone. “I haven’t seen you since Christmas, you never call, it takes you forever to return my calls, and now you’re up here by yourself for the first time in your life . . . in April! So, yeah—I suppose this is a reunion!” 

Jack was surprised at the anger in her voice and suddenly anxious to de-escalate. “Listen, I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m glad you’re here, Liz. I really am. I was just surprised to get your call . . . and now, here you are.” 

“What have you been doing up here, Dad? Why are you at Loon Magic in April by yourself? This isn’t like you. Talk to me . . . ”

These were the types of conversations that Jack Rigsby hated more than anything in the world. Evelyn had always pleaded with him to open up about everything, as if fitting any problem with words would set it to flight. All you had to do was talk about your feelings and things would magically get better. Unhappiness breeds in silence, she would say. And now her daughter had taken up the mantle, demanding a discussion.

“Honestly, honey . . . if I knew the answer to that question, I would tell you. I don’t know why I’m up here, to tell the truth. I suppose I felt that it would comfort me somehow. It hasn’t, really, but it hasn’t been terrible either.”

Liz sat in silence, unable to respond, not sure what direction she wanted the conversation to turn.

“The weather’s been nuts,” he continued. “Snowed the day I got here, then today it was damn near seventy!”

No. She hadn’t flown all this way to talk about the weather. No.

“Dad, did you know that Robert Deloplane was a triplet? He had an identical twin brother and a sister.”

Jack was startled by the question. Where was this going? “Yes, I did know that. Why do you ask?”

“How long have you known, Dad? How did you find out?” Liz seemed angry again, perturbed somehow that Jack had kept this information from her.

“A few weeks after . . . I went up to Lynchburg and met with the detective. I can’t remember his name . . . but he told me.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us??”

Jack felt the rising tide of his own anger, suddenly annoyed by the line of questioning and his daughter’s tone. “Why would I tell you? What difference does it make whether your mother’s killer was an only child or a freaking quintuplet? Your mother is dead, and so is the man who killed her. Why are you dredging all of this up again?”

“We all saw his picture in the paper, Dad. You ever think about the possibility of one of us running into his twin one day and being terrified?”

“Liz, that’s ridiculous. No, I never once thought of that possibility. You know why? Because it’s a ludicrous idea, for one thing; and for another, I had far more devastating matters on my mind at the time than the surviving Deloplane kids. I was more concerned with my own chances of surviving. Honestly, I haven’t given that family a second thought in months. What I don’t understand is . . . why have you?”

                                                                                           

                                                                         13

Starla slept fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness, hearing every gust of wind that blew against the bathroom window from the harbor. Each wakening breeze called her back from a dreamless sleep into the house of mirrors her life had become since September. 

That black night had begun with a visit from the Deputy Sheriff . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Deloplane, but your boy was killed in a shootout with several officers earlier this evening . . . She hadn’t heard much of anything else. She had fallen apart, sinking to the floor and sobbing like a child. Later, after some reflection, her response seemed inappropriate—too much—too extreme even for the grief of losing a child. It was Robert, after all, and she had always known it would come to this. She should have been able to hold it together. She should have shown better control of herself, exhibited more class, more grace under pressure. Isn’t that what respectable people did? Starla wanted so much to be a better person, but it always felt like a butterfly that she couldn’t quite catch, flitting just beyond her grasp.

Just about the time that she had managed to pull herself together, the news published information about the Rigsby woman. Starla read the newspapers, saw the photographs of the beautiful family, and became momentarily obsessed with her son’s victim: the classy and refined Evelyn Rigsby. She was gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous that didn’t come from a beauty parlor. This was a smooth beauty which required no striving. 

At first, Starla didn’t even notice him, so dazzled was she by Evelyn. But early in the morning of the third day, right before she was to leave to make the funeral arrangements, she glanced down at the family picture on the cover of the Lynchburg News and Advance and noticed the square jaw, the dark eyes, the handsome smile. The memory rushed over her like a tidal wave. It was him . . . the man from The Hedges.

                                                                          * * *

Nobody would ever have believed her if she had confessed that Starla Deloplane, destroyer and pillager of three husbands before the age of 40, had only once in her entire life been unfaithful. She could hardly believe it herself. Whenever she felt tempted, she couldn’t get the bright shining faces of her kids out of her head. But with Dee Ray, it was different. In a few short years of marriage, she had grown to despise him, resenting his lack of ambition, his stilted manner, his lack of interest in her body, and his steadfast devotion to beer and Corvettes. She hadn’t planned it. She worked the 5 to midnight shift that night, and some sort of rich-guy convention was booked, which usually meant better-than-average tips. She was hoping to make enough to afford an initial consultation with a divorce lawyer.

She had seen him standing just outside a circle of loud men in the back corner. He was taller than the rest, with a shy, disinterested smile. He didn’t want to be here but was trying to be polite. What can I get you, love? she had asked. He had turned his head toward her and smiled. She had noticed his eyes fall to her breasts, quick and discreet, then back up to her face. He bit his lip, embarrassed. A beer. Whatever you have on draft is fine.

It was an uneventful encounter. Just a few words and a couple of long looks. He only ordered the one beer. They said nothing else to each other. The big crowd kept her busy, but she looked at him as often as she could. She thought him smolderingly handsome but out of her league . . . although once, right before his table got up to head to the ballroom, she had caught him staring at her. He quickly glanced away, then back with another smile. And that was it. He was gone. She had spent the rest of her shift going through the motions, lost in thought about what it would be like to belong to such a man.

Then she had taken a call from her nosy neighbor. Dee Ray had wrecked his car by slamming into three mailboxes down the street after driving home drunk. The cops had cuffed him and taken him to jail. She would probably need to go get him in the morning. Normally, this sort of news would have sent her into a blue rage. But for some reason, she simply walked outside, sat down in a rocking chair on the long wide porch, and lit a cigarette. Her mind went blank as heat lightning lit up the sky on the other side of the mountain. 

“Mind if I bum a cigarette?”

She had recognized the voice before opening her eyes.

                                                                          * * *

Starla left the Tidal Beach Inn and walked along the picturesque road that ran parallel to the bay through the center of Camden. The sun shone and the skies were clear, but it was colder than any place should be in April. The breeze was fresh with the smell of the ocean. Starla quickened her pace. 

She arrived at the entrance of the Midcoast Café and heard the jingle of the bell as she opened the door. This was the place where she had watched Jack having an animated conversation earlier from the park bench down the hill from the library. The two men had sat at the very back of the place beside a giant window overlooking the harbor—exactly where she sat now with her cup of coffee. 

She thought about the call she had placed to her lawyer, the most reviled member of the legal community not just in Richmond but the entire state. He was just starting out when she’d first hired him: unknown, untested, and cheap. But that was three divorces ago. Now Maxwell Johnson was a legend, notorious for his unorthodox style, his penchant for publicity, and his ubiquitous billboards all around the capital city: If You’re in the Fight of Your Life, Send in the Big Dog. The old-money, blue-blooded lawyers were horrified, shunning him at every opportunity. Max laughed all the way to the bank.

“Max? It’s Starla. Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but what would I need to do to be certain that Dee Ray Deloplane is the father of my children?”

The thought had settled in like a heavy blanket of fog, shrouding the rest of the world from view. In the days leading up to Robert’s funeral, she had thought of little else. Was it even possible? Her pregnancy alone had prolonged their marriage after Dee Ray’s drunk driving incident. It had bought him five more years. But now as she reflected on that night at The Hedges, she remembered that it corresponded with Dee Ray’s arrest. When Starla finally made it to the jail the next day, Dee Ray was all tears and apologies, vowing to be a better man, a better husband. He was going to make it up to her. She listened to him plead for over an hour and was astonished at the depth of his contrition, Dee Ray not being known for his depth of feeling. She was moved. They had made love for the first time in months as soon as they returned to the house, not even making it out of the den.

“Well, if you can get a DNA sample from him, I’ve got a guy who can look at it and tell you in a couple of days . . .”

When Dee Ray had fortuitously shown up at the funeral home, Starla determined to get the sample secretly. The last thing in the world she wanted was a big scene leading to a confession of infidelity. She picked up a cup he had sipped from at the visitation, set it aside, and shipped it to Max the next day. As she waited for the results, she allowed her mind to imagine the possibilities. The more she thought, the more she realized how little good could come from finding the answer. How unspeakably shameful would it be to unleash the knowledge that Jack Rigsby’s wife was murdered by his own son? The days leading up to Max’s expected call became unbearable. Everyone assumed she was in the throes of grief. She floated around the house in almost complete silence, listless, looking as fragile as a flower. She found herself staring at her two surviving kids as if seeing them for the first time. Their features offered no clues; they had resembled her from the beginning. What would this knowledge do to them?

When the call finally came, Starla stopped Max in mid sentence. “Stop, Max! Don’t tell me. I’ve decided that I would rather not know. Thanks for going to the trouble and all, and I’m sure I’ll get your ridiculously outrageous bill, but, no . . . I don’t want to know.”

For a while she was able to expel it all from her mind. She settled back into something approximating a routine after people finally stopped bringing over casserole dishes full of comfort food. Christmas had been somber and pointless, but she had soldiered through. Then she got a birthday card in the mail at the end of March . . . from Dee Ray. It was the first time he had sent her anything through the mail that didn’t include a check since the divorce. It was sweet. It made her smile. For reasons that escaped all logic, she had placed the card on the kitchen table and impulsively called Maxwell Johnson. A week later, she found herself in Camden, Maine.

Now she sat alone, staring out at Penobscot Bay, trying to figure out what to do. After finishing her coffee, she decided to go shopping for some new clothes.

                                                                          * * *        

The heated exchange between Jack and Liz ended as quickly as it started, neither of them wishing to escalate the matter. Having words with his daughter was dead-last on Jack’s list of priorities, and Liz was exhausted after a day of travel. They hugged it out and left it for another day. 

When the morning came, they took the kayaks out on the still water. It had gotten colder, but the sun was bright, and by the time it rose over the back of the house, the surface of the water was sparkling yellow. They meandered around the lake for over an hour like they had done a thousand times before, drawing strength from the quiet. Their spirits lifted, the decision was made back at the house to head into town for pancakes.

“Have you seen Bobby?” she asked casually as they made the sharp right turn that swept down toward Megunticook Lake and into Camden.

“Are you kidding? He was in the driveway when I pulled up!”

“Of course he was!” Liz laughed out loud, the first unguarded moment since she had arrived. Her eyes brightened and her smile was radiant, reminding Jack so much of Evelyn’s.

“I suppose the State of the Cottage meeting went well?”

“Swimmingly!”

Soon the lake was visible through the pines. Megunticook wrapped itself majestically around a series of small islands, then flowed away in all directions toward the mountains towering in the distance. It was much larger than Quantabacook but infinitely more expensive, home to a couple dozen properties, inside of which Loon Magic could have fit with room to spare. Although the lake was stunning from every vantage point, Evelyn had thought it too big and not nearly as romantic. 

Liz was silent for a while as she took it all in, then broke the silence with an almost whispered question. “ . . . Did you tell Bobby about Mom?”

“I hadn’t intended to. I really didn’t want to get into it. But you know Bobby, right? Pretty soon we were playing twenty questions . . . so I just told him what happened.”

They passed the beautiful cemetery just outside of town, with its iron fence, towering headstones, and carefully manicured graves. 

“You know, Liz, I always give Bobby a lot of grief, but his response to the news about your Mother surprised me. It crushed him. As infuriating as he can be sometimes, I think there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“I’ve always like him. He’s sweet. Oh, and speaking of sweet . . . Kevin has a girlfriend.”

“What?! Are you kidding me? Since when?”

“Several months, apparently. He told me last week . . . Angela Wright!” Liz announced conspiratorially.

“Wow . . . ” Jack was experiencing his first taste of happiness since September. “How about that?! Tell me about her.”

“There isn’t much to tell. You know how secretive Kevin can be about this sort of thing. What I can tell you is that he seems so happy. There is a calmness in his voice that I haven’t heard in a long time. He told me that it’s the first time he’s felt like he’s going to be alright since . . . well . . . ”

Jack blinked back surprising tears. “Of course he’s going to be alright. So will you.”

Liz noticed the emotion in her father’s voice. “I’ll be alright as soon as you’re alright, Dad.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Lizzy girl. Let’s eat.”

They walked through the doors of the Café and were greeted again by Emmett, who made a huge fuss over the appearance of Liz, who had been eating pancakes in his establishment for nearly two decades. He came around from behind the cash register and gave her a hug in his filthy looking apron. 

Jack noticed that the place was nearly filled. “You got a table for two somewhere in this dive?”

“For this beautiful child, of course I do! But unfortunately, your father will have to eat out back by the dumpster.”

Liz laughed and kissed Emmett on the cheek. He then barked out some indecipherable commands to his waitresses, and within minutes they were seated in a back corner, where, rumor had it, some famous writer wrote a Pulitzer Prize winning novel back in the day. Jack could never remember the guy’s name or the book. Evelyn would have known both.

The breakfast was delicious, and the conversation was light and mostly nostalgic. Old stories of summers on the lake were traded. Then Liz brought up the postscript Jack had added to his recent email, and the mood shattered.

“Dad, that was the first detail you’ve ever shared about that night and what happened. I cried all night after reading it. I felt so bad for you . . . how lonely it must be to carry all of those memories inside of your head . . . by yourself.”

“It’s been no picnic . . .” was all he could think to say to her. Jack had struggled mightily to shove the memories of that night into the furthest corner of his mind in an attempt to isolate them. He was afraid that if he allowed that night out of its corner, he would never be able to wrangle it back. He had made a mistake already, driving to Lynchburg to meet with the detective. The kids had been right. Nothing good could have come from such knowledge; all that did come out of it were fresher images of evil and death. That visit had delayed his recovery, ripping the scab off the wound. He wasn’t about to risk that happening again. 

He fiddled with his hash browns. A cheerful waitress topped off his coffee. When she backed away from the table . . . cigarette lady was standing behind her.

My Wonderful Virtual Birthday

My first ever virtual birthday was a fabulous success due primarily to the creative ministrations of my amazing wife. A short list of the day’s activities follows:

- Birthday or no birthday, a trip to the office had to be made. I had one appointment and some paperwork to complete. Doug came in around 9:30, made several insensitive remarks about my advancing age, then gave me a box of golf balls to assuage his guilt.

- Came home around 10:30 and spent the following hour or so cutting grass and putzing around in the yard, one of my favorite pastimes especially on such a gorgeous day.

- Pam fixed me a delicious lunch after which she presented me with my first present:

Not one, but two swivel/rocking/gliding deck chairs for our deck...and the best part is—assembly required. A present and a project. Brilliant!

- Then I start getting texts and calls from friends throughout the afternoon. Most of them include tasteless remarks describing the state of my physical decrepitude. Many of them come in the form of Dad Jokes far below the quality that I have become accustomed to but, what would you expect from a bunch of amateurs?

- Pam makes me a cappuccino brownie birthday cake. The 1 is a concession to the times, since the blowing out of 62 candles may have triggered an asthmatic episode.

- Then we sent a video to the kids reassuring them all that we are in full compliance to all of the latest CDC recommendations:

- After a fabulous dinner of what has become our Coronavirus Friday tradition...Wong’s Tacos...my wife disappeared upstairs to prepare my next present. No no...this is a family blog...but when she was ready, I was instructed to sit down in my recliner in the upstairs den. When I opened my eyes my new 52inch screen was full of the opening screen shot to a 30 minute video that she had spent most of the day constructing. It featured practically everyone I know and love. Everyone had recorded a message for me for my birthday. There were songs, poems, tributes and even a super funny tour of all available senior living facilities in the area by my former friend, Chip Hewette! Pam had sent out an email to all of these people asking them to submit a video for inclusion and this was the result. Suffice it to say that I have the best family and finest group of friends anyone could possibly ask for.

Thank you all. From the bottom of my heart...thank you.

The Long Wait

A lot on my mind this morning. For one thing, I don’t think that this, my 62nd birthday, will be forgotten anytime soon...2020 being the year of The Long Wait. On the other hand, considering the state of decline into which my memory has fallen, perhaps it will all be forgotten by Christmas! It will be strange without family on my birthday. I miss my sisters. I miss my brother. I miss my kids. Sure, I see their faces on the computer screens, but what I really want to do is embrace them, hug their necks. But I live in Virginia. It may be a while.

I miss the noise and clamor of my office. The new normal there is two or three at a time, for short stints. We’ve taken to group texting, but my particular style of trash-talking banter doesn't translate well in that medium. 

I miss my church. I miss the people, the crowd on Sunday mornings, the sound and smell of it. I miss the message. I watch it on Livestream but it feels different, muted somehow. David and Pete look immobilized and awkward, strangely tethered to some invisible thing.

I miss the thing that I have never spent one second thinking about until the past four weeks...my liberty. I miss the freedom of movement, the possibility for whimsy, the spur of the moment decision to run over to Yen Ching for dinner. The new restrictions feel oppressive to me, because as an American, any restrictions on my freedom of movement and association would feel oppressive. As a nation we don’t do restrictions well in general, and these lockdown quarantines specifically. But, we are all going to have to learn how to quickly. Lives are depending on it.

But, there’s one thing I don’t miss...the bland anonymity of my neighborhood. Something marvelous is happening here, and not just here, I think. Suddenly, the group of streets where my house sits doesn’t feel the same way as it did before. It has been transformed into a community. Don’t misunderstand. It’s not like it was a horrible place to live before...not at all. I think that in America we have become insular. We each live in our bunkered homes. There is so much to distract us inside...entertainment, communication tools, etc..sometimes we don’t venture outside as much as we did when I was younger. Now, all of that has changed. All of us have bored of the four walls, the screens have lost some of their magnetism. We are now turning our attentions outward. A couple of examples:

We are blessed with wonderful neighbors next door, a young couple with three adorable kids all under the age of 10. Our bedroom window looks across the way to the oldest child’s bedroom window. Pam decided to post notes in our window to send the kids messages. Yesterday it was a question: Tomorrow is Mr. Doug’s birthday. How old do you think he is? Their answers were priceless:

Pam replied, of course, by awarding Kennedy a “star” for being the closest guess, forever the teacher:

Then, we get an email from someone in the neighborhood suggesting the idea of a scavenger hunt. Since everyone is out walking and riding bikes like never before, why don’t we all put a stuffed animal in one of our windows for the kids to find. 80% of the homes in Wythe Trace have complied. Here’s Pam’s display:

When the histories of the Coronavirus are written, much will be made of the politics of it, the economics, the deaths, the disruptions to society great and small. But, hopefully there will be something else. Maybe they will write about how it drew us closer to our neighbors. Perhaps someone will write about how we became more outward, less insular, more caring about the people across the street. I can already feel the difference when I turn off of Pump road onto Hazel Tree Drive. Its the strongest it has ever been...I’m home.

Saving Jack. Chapters 10 and 11

10

DeeRay Deloplane had spent the better part of the last twenty years repairing his life from a series of unforced errors that had almost killed him. Primarily, his rehabilitation had involved putting as much distance between his present and his troublesome past as possible. Since his rebirth had involved abandoning a wife and three kids, some might suggest that his reinvention stood upon a shaky moral foundation, but DeeRay had long ago made peace with his past and had learned to live with very few regrets. He owned a reasonably profitable auto mechanic business that he ran out of a former 7-Eleven store on the outskirts of Worcester, Massachusetts—the furthest his bus fare would take him two decades earlier. 

He had fled his wife, Starla, in the dead of night after a particularly ferocious fight that had left each of them exhausted and bleeding profusely. The fight had been about money—most fights with Starla were—primarily the fact that DeeRay wasn’t making enough of it fast enough to please her. With three young mouths to feed and her insistence on being a stay-at-home mom, she often made a fair point during their frequent money fights, especially considering DeeRay’s fondness for beer and vintage Corvettes, neither of which he could afford. It had always been DeeRay’s contention that he and Starla might have been okay if they’d only had one kid. They might have been able to survive with twins, even . . . but triplets had been a bridge too far for two people who were basically kids themselves. 

If DeeRay had been a more religious man—or religious at all—maybe he would have shouldered a more respectable level of guilt for abandoning three kids under five years old. But admittedly, he hardly gave them a second thought. Truth be told, they only entered his mind while writing his compulsory support checks to Starla. Just like death and taxes, Starla Deloplane, who had a nose for money like a coon dog for escaped convicts, eventually tracked him down with the help of a relentless Richmond lawyer. After six months of threats and counterthreats, the lawyer extracted a series of monthly checks from DeeRay, written on Deloplane Auto-Repair’s extra-wide, fancy-looking checks in the dainty handwriting of his bookkeeper and wife number two, Priscilla. She never complained about money, since her Daddy had boatloads of it and showered his only daughter with all of her heart’s desires. DeeRay would sometimes stare at his father-in-law across the table during Sunday dinners and ponder that since leaving Virginia, he had become the luckiest man in the world. Unburdened of three unruly children and an argumentative, money-grubbing wife, he had managed to meet and marry a woman who not only woke up horny every morning of her life but also had a filthy-rich old man willing to loan his new son-in-law money to buy an old 7-Eleven and turn it into a garage.

Eventually the monthly support checks ended, and the Deloplanes of Massachusetts were in the money. Starla’s communications with DeeRay had dwindled to the rare phone call to inform him of Robert’s latest run-in with the law. Of the three, Robert was always the one getting in the most serious trouble, and it had been this way since the day all three of them were born. DeeRay’s communications with his kids had dwindled to the even more rare phone call . . . usually every other Christmas and the occasional birthday. The last time he had laid eyes on any of them had been the day of their high school graduation, an event which the triplets were grudgingly allowed to participate in only with assurances from all parties that each Deloplane would complete the summer school classes still required to earn their diplomas. 

To assuage the rare rumblings of guilt, DeeRay would occasionally fold fifty-dollar bills into envelopes from the garage and send one to each kid with a perfunctory note: 

Don’t spend it all in one place,

Dad Deloplane 

But DeeRay Deloplane had always known that eventually he would pay the price for abandoning his children. Although it would have appeared to most observers that he had gotten away with it—his gutless flight from responsibility—every passing year brought with it a strange and disturbing feeling that his comeuppance was closer at hand. Along with this gnawing fear, there was a longing, a haunting thought that his choices had robbed him of something. After the triplets, there would be no more children. For a woman so enamored with sexual intercourse, Priscilla had let it be known early and often that she had no interest in motherhood—which was fine, except when the holidays rolled around, or their birthdays. That’s when the longings would come, heavier each year.

Then he had gotten the call back in September from Starla, informing him that his son had died a murderer. The details horrified DeeRay, and immediately the guilt became unbearable. Priscilla, who possessed all the empathy of a Teamster foreman, scolded her husband for blaming himself and threatened to leave him if he traveled to Virginia for the small funeral service Starla had arranged for her unmourned son at the local Baptist church the family seldom attended. DeeRay made the drive anyway, standing off by himself at the graveside, afraid of how his remaining two children would react upon seeing their father for the first time in seven years. The small crowd paying their respects all looked like thugs to DeeRay with their shaggy hair, tattoos, and ripped jeans—dressed more for fighting than mourning, DeeRay thought. These were the sort of friends a boy without a proper dad falls in with, DeeRay thought. The tears that flowed weren’t for his son; they were an admission of the hash he had made of his life. He was reaping what he had sown, skipping out on his family like a whimpering coward.

Starla had been cold to him when he showed up at the funeral home the previous day. She had recognized him standing beside his Corvette in the parking lot, too afraid to come inside. As she approached him, she noticed that he looked much better than she would have thought after so much time. His hands were rough and red from a mechanic’s abuse, but the rest of him hadn’t aged as much as she had. This was one more reason to resent him.

“I suppose I should thank you for coming,” was all she deemed appropriate to say, though a hundred other biting remarks would have spilled out of her on any other occasion. DeeRay could hardly look at her, his guilt and remorse oozing out of every pore. 

Finally he managed, “How are you holding up? You need anything? How are Rich and Bertie dealing with everything?”

“Do I need anything? You mean like money? No, I’m good, DeeRay. I had insurance on him, so we’re all good.” Starla’s eyes filled with tears.

After the last rose was tossed onto the casket, DeeRay’s kids turned to leave the graveside, noticing their father for the first time. To his profound horror, they both ran to him and held him tight, tears flowing, the air filled with cries of Oh, daddy . . . daddy . . . , a greeting that DeeRay knew he didn’t deserve. He wept at the spectacle of such a ghastly reunion—every Deloplane crying and hugging each other as if they’d been separated by the ravages of war or biblical famine or some other cosmic pestilence instead of his own petty selfishness. When Starla joined in on the ill-timed group hug, DeeRay fought a new urge to make a break for the Corvette and leave them all in the lurch a second time. 

By the time they all settled in at the house for the covered-dish supper, everyone seemed to have recovered from the awkward graveside outpouring of emotion and transitioned into somber indifference—a much more familiar playing field. Strangers kept interrupting their attempts at conversation, passing along their condolences and confusing DeeRay with Starla’s two more recent husbands—neither of whom, DeeRay noticed, were in attendance. The fact that he was the only former husband of Starla Deloplane to attend her son’s funeral provided DeeRay with the smallest fig leaf of comfort. Truthfully, DeeRay had always been grateful to Starla for running off two other husbands over the years, since it armed him with the reassurance of shared blame.

As he walked to his car to leave, Starla followed him. They both leaned against the Corvette, searching for words that fit the moment. As usual, Starla went first.

“Nice car. You always had a thing for Vettes, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. This one was a mess when I bought it. I spent a year working on it at the shop. I could probably make some money if I sold it, but I don’t want to.”

Uncomfortable silence. A cigarette was lit. More silence.

“I knew he was going to end up killing somebody, DeeRay. It wasn’t just the drugs . . . it was him. He had a dark heart. I used to blame it on you. I thought that if you hadn’t left like you did, maybe he would have turned out different . . . but the truth is, he was just a bad seed.”

“Well, if he was, it was my seed. You can blame me all you want. Actually, it would make me feel better if you did.”

“Why would that make you feel better?”

“Because that’s what I deserve.”

“What’s done is done, DeeRay. We can’t go back and have a do-over.”

Another long silence fell over them as the sun slipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.

“You sure you don’t need anything? I’ve got plenty-enough money to help you out with the funeral if you’d like.”

“Relax, DeeRay. I’m not broke anymore either. You know I’ve got the best divorce lawyer in Richmond on my Christmas card list. I’ve taken practically every nickel from the two after you, thanks to him. It’s been kind of like a cottage industry for me.”

They both laughed together at the same time about the same joke for probably the first time in twenty-five years. 

“So, you heading back to Massachusetts in the morning?”

“Yeah. I need to be getting back. Priscilla swore she would leave me if I came down here, so I better get that patched up.”

Starla put her arms around her first husband, hugging him tenderly for a long moment, saying nothing. Then she murmured, “Thank you for coming, DeeRay . . . I mean it.” 

After he got in the car, he rolled the window down, searching for something more to say. Starla, who could never let silence hang too long, began talking to no one in particular.

“ . . . The thing is, even though I knew Robert would end up killing someone, I always imagined it would be one of his drug buddies, or one of his dealers. Why couldn’t it have been one of them? Why did he have to kill that Rigsby woman? I mean, of all the people in the world, why did it have to be such a fine and  beautiful woman like her? You know, I’ve read up on her and her family. They were from Richmond. She had a couple of grown kids and a rich, successful husband who owns a big business somewhere. They were driving an Escalade. I saw a picture of her on the Internet. Such a lovely woman. The funny thing is, DeeRay . . . my son ended up killing exactly the kind of woman I always wanted to be.”

“It’s a terrible thing, Starla . . . but like a great woman I knew once said, ‘What’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do to fix it.’”

“I suppose so.”

Starla watched him back out of the driveway, then followed his taillights until they disappeared.

                                                                     11

Jack sat on the deck and watched the sun set, still delightfully warm in his thin jacket even after the sun slipped behind the birch trees across the lake. A steak simmered on the grill over a low flame, the aroma settling his nerves. The woman in the ugly coat was swimming around inside his head, teasing his memory. He’d experienced an odd flicker of recognition earlier at the park and again as he waved to her from the library window, but he couldn’t quite place her. Maybe he had never met her before. But she seemed to recognize him, too—he remembered the way she wouldn’t avert her eyes,and that weird moment at the end with the cigarette. It had occupied his thoughts all afternoon and now into the evening as he cut into his steak. 

After dinner, he cleaned up the dishes and settled onto the sofa to read a book he’d picked up in town. Reading a good book, or even a bad one, had always been a mental health exercise for Jack Rigsby. A book was a place you could go to forget about life for a while—an alternate universe to inhabit, less daunting than your own. But tonight it wasn’t working. Stephen King had reliably diverted him in the past, but not tonight. He closed the book and tossed it onto the coffee table alongside the picture album Evelyn had put together of old photographs of the kids. Thirty years’ worth of Maine vacations. Jack hesitated. Maybe tonight wasn’t the best time for a trip down memory lane . . . but who the hell was he kidding? Memory lane was his only real home now. He opened the heavy album and carefully turned the ponderous, plastic-coated pages.

Here was a shot of Evelyn eating a lobster roll; there was a picture of young Jack in a Boston Red Sox hat, fishing off the dock. Then he turned the page and spotted a picture from that horrible year when it rained every day. Kevin was a toddler and Liz just a newborn, yet Evelyn had insisted on making the drive up anyway. A terrible week. A terrible year. Business had been slow. Life at home with a three-year-old and a colicky infant had not been a bed of roses. Truth was, Jack hadn’t been as supportive as he should have. It was the low point of their marriage, a year of selfishness and arguments. 

Jack shut the album and placed it back on the coffee table. He should never have picked it up. How quickly the mind can fog over with regret. What powerful storms can be sent raging across the universe by a mere photograph . . .

He had fought so hard to banish the night from his memory, willing himself to forget . . . and that had mostly worked. Years would go by without it once entering his mind or casting a shadow across his heart. But eventually some random image would leap off a page or jump from a television screen, resurrecting every detail of September 15, 1990, and sending him spiraling into despair. What was it about this confounding month? 

                                                                          * * *

   

Mitchell loved sales meetings. He always looked forward to escaping everything for a few days and the opportunity it offered to relax. Jack hated being away, hated meetings, didn’t know how to relax. This meeting took place at an old resort called The Hedges—one of those places well past its heyday and eager to offer a relative bargain to companies hosting sales meetings. It was in the mountains, only three hours from Richmond, so at least they hadn’t needed to fly anywhere. 

Jack had barely settled into his room when Mitchell called, asking him to meet everyone in the resort bar, The Cavern, for drinks. The welcome reception was being held there, and Mitchell wanted to get an early start. 

Jack stood at the entrance and surveyed the scene before him. The dark-paneled wood made the place seem smaller than it was. There were probably fifty men gathered in small, conspiratorial packs of three or four. Jack spotted Mitchell right away, holding forth on some topic to the delight of the familiar faces gathered around. Jack knew them all, had known them ever since he began in the insurance business. They were all good guys, fun to be around . . . but pretty much all full of shit. That was fine. We’re all full of shit, Jack thought as he made his way through the crowd.

Mitchell, as usual, had at least an hour’s headstart on him and was freshly inebriated. Alcohol always turned him into an even funnier version of himself—the quintessential happy drunk.

“Gentlemen, may I present Mr. Jack Rigsby!” Mitchell announced to the entire bar. “My partner, my friend, and first-class buzz kill! Where’s our waitress? Get this man a drink before he finds a deck of cards and starts playing solitaire.”

Jack smiled and acknowledged his friends with his trademark low enthusiasm, then noticed the waitress at his arm.

“What can I get you, Love?”

Her blonde hair was cut short, feathered back from her eyes. She wore a waitress uniform—brown and yellow, the resort’s hideous signature colors—but she wore it well. The tight blouse revealed a slender neck and the kind of cleavage men couldn’t help noticing. Her face was pleasant yet plain, but when she smiled it transformed into something mysterious—full of danger, Jack remembered thinking.

“How about a beer? Whatever you have on draft is fine.”

Jack smiled, more enthusiastically than he had thought appropriate for some reason. She smiled back and melted into the crowd.

It was a long night, that first night at The Hedges. Over a hundred insurance brokers had descended on the place like a plague of locusts. After the reception, dinner was served in the big hall, the decimal level rising throughout the night. By the time dessert was served, Mitchell was thoroughly drunk and verging on annoying. Jack had decided at some point during the night to stop drinking, having been overcome by a simmering anger at nothing in particular. He had left Evelyn that morning after an argument that had been building for days and had spilled forth just minutes before he walked out the door. A long couple months with a whining toddler and crying infant had morphed them into nothing more than aggrieved roommates. Resentments had festered, and the occasion of Jack’s business trip brought all of it suddenly, loudly to the surface. Evelyn had lashed out at him, accusing him of shirking his duties as a father, of being emotionally unavailable and adrift. Jack had lashed back with accusations of his own, pointing out the frequency of her short-tempered outbursts and her own unavailability, sexually and otherwise. He’d slammed the door on his way out. Jack had started to call and attempt an apology several times after arriving at the hotel, but each time he had resisted, discovering in himself a surprising stubbornness. Now it was nearly midnight and too late to call. She has the number, he thought. Let her call.

After listening to one too many of Mitchell’s slurred jokes, Jack had gone for a walk. It was warm outside, and a storm was approaching from the western mountains. Heat lightning streaked across the sky, and soon the wind freshened. The front of the old resort featured a grand covered porch, filled with rocking chairs and wicker sofas. A series of ceiling fans, all connected to the same belt, turned overhead. The porch spread out in both directions from the main entrance where the bell captain’s station stood, twenty feet wide and at least a hundred feet long from end to end. There was an entrance to The Cavern at the south end of the porch, but even that section was quiet on this night. 

Jack watched a woman come out of the bar, light a cigarette, then sit in one of the rocking chairs. As he got closer, he recognized the waitress from earlier in the evening. Her purse rested on her lap as she leaned her head back against the rocker. She was probably done with her shift and headed home. 

“You mind if I bum a cigarette?” Jack heard himself ask.

Jack pondered this moment many times over the years. He didn’t smoke. Well, he only occasionally smoked: usually cigars and usually after a few drinks. What had possessed him to approach this girl, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, to ask for a cigarette? Like so many other momentous events in his life, great calamity had followed the smallest of decisions.

“I recognize you from earlier,” she said as she lit his cigarette. “You were the cute, quiet one who didn’t care what kind of beer I brought him as long as it was on draft.”

He had felt flattered that she remembered him. They sat quietly for a while, watching the sky pulsate with electricity. Jack glanced at her and noticed that her eyes were closed and she was smiling. 

When he finished his cigarette, he asked, “What’s your name?” 

Her eyes opened dreamily, and she turned her face toward him. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Hours later, he lay beside her in his bed, exhausted and numb at what had just happened. Jack had never thought himself capable of infidelity. He was in love with his wife, devoted beyond reason to her happiness, and yet, here he was in the embrace of a complete stranger—a stranger who, naked, didn’t look a day over eighteen. He should have felt shame and revulsion at such a personal failing, but all he felt was a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion—the very definition of a guilty pleasure, he thought. She hadn’t seemed interested at all in his name or who he was or where he came from. For her, this seemed like an escape from something. But what had it been for Jack? What had Evelyn ever done to deserve this? 

After their third time, the sky began to lighten. She freshened herself up, got dressed, and was preparing to slip quietly out of the room when she noticed that Jack was awake. She smiled at him, walked over to the edge of the bed, and gave him a long look. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and placed it in his mouth. Have a nice life, love. 

The next two days were a blur. The guilt and remorse Jack had expected to feel arrived with a vengeance. He looked for her each night in The Cavern but never saw her again. It was just as well, since he had no idea what he would have said to her anyway. It was just one night of betrayal in a lifetime of devotion. He was going to have to pull himself together. He was going home to Evelyn soon and didn’t want to wear his sin tattooed across his forehead when he walked in the door. Jack had always thought that if he ever committed infidelity, his overwhelming grief and sorrow would compel him to confess everything to Evelyn. He hadn’t thought himself capable of keeping this sort of secret . . . he hadn’t thought himself capable of screwing a 21-year-old waitress either. But the hardest-hitting realization was this: Jack Rigsby had turned out to be a terrible judge of his own character. 

On the long drive home, Jack made a decision. He would do whatever it took to put the incident behind him, including burying it. He would guard this secret with his life, ensuring that Evelyn never learned the truth. Furthermore, Jack Rigsby would never again sleep with another woman. He determined to spend the rest of his life atoning for his moral failure, making it up to Evelyn. She would never know the source of his new, deeper devotion. She would just rest in his love for her. By the time he walked through the door and greeted her with a kiss, he was completely committed to his plan, all in on becoming a new and better man. 

Twenty-six Septembers later, Evelyn had died convinced of her husband’s faithfulness, thankful to have married the most wonderful man in the world, and Jack had never given another woman a second of his time. He considered his handling of the matter one of his finest accomplishments. He had isolated the worst night of his life, stuck a dagger in it, quarantined it within that king-sized bed at The Hedges, and ensured that nobody’s life went up in flames due to one lapse in judgement . . . one regrettable moment of weakness.

But now, as Jack watched the moonlight dancing on the surface of the lake, he wondered if it was possible to truly escape the past. Even though he had managed to hide it from Evelyn and the kids, was it really a secret if even now, a quarter of a century later, his vivid recollections still pulsated with life? Had he really erased that night if it still commanded a corner of his memory? No—he had guarded his secret, but he hadn’t killed it.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated loudly on the kitchen table, startling him loose from the grip of dark thoughts. He walked across the room to pick it up, grateful for a distraction. It was Liz. 

“Hello, Lizzy girl.”

“Hello, Daddy! You’re never going to guess where I am.”

“Where?”

“I just landed at the Portland airport, I’ve picked up my rental, and now I’m headed to the lake! I’ll be there in an hour.”

His daughter’s voice was an electric charge jolting his brain. As he searched for the right words, scrambled for the appropriate response to Liz’s announcement, the identity of the woman in the ugly coat revealed itself to him in a bright flash. She had no name, still, after twenty-six years. She had agreed to be anyone he wished her to be, and he’d preferred anonymity. But now she had found him. By chance or by design . . . she had found him.

How Was My Day, You Ask?

Here’s how my day went...

Woke up from a fitful night’s sleep to find the Asian markets in the toilet and our futures in the tank. Screwed on the bravest face I could muster and headed in to the office for a busy morning of two more of these virtual annual reviews via FaceTime. As you can imagine everyone’s nerves are frayed in the midst of this mess and as a result I thought it wise to forego the hijinks, asshattery and juvenile tomfoolery that I have always been associated with on this day, April 1st. It was with a heavy heart, but honestly, I just wasn’t up for it this year. In between appointments I received a text from an unknown out of area number, specifically—1-202-869-5140. I immediately think...Great, some D.C. wholesaler...

Caller: Hello, Douglas. Please reply to confirm that you are the writer of the blog The Tempest.

Me: Yes.

Caller: I represent a marketing conglomerate in the Washington, D.C. area. We track blogs that are gaining followers and page views at accelerated percentages. My Company is interested in advertising on The Tempest. Is this something you would consider?

Me: No.

At this point I figure something is odd because although he was right about The Tempest; it is gaining followers and page views, nobody in their right mind would ever admit that they work for a “marketing conglomerate”...but nevertheless, I didn’t delete the text. He persisted...

Caller: We are sorry to hear this. Is there anything we can do to make this a more appealing offer for you? Our bloggers tend to earn a minimum of $100 a month

Ok, now I’m annoyed. How cheap does this dude think I am that he can dangle a whopping $100 in front of me to close the deal??

Me: Sure, write me a check for $10,000 and publish my book.

Caller: We could potentially work with a publisher to make that happen if social media promotions for your book included ads for some of our products.

Me: ....Your products??

Caller: Here are just a few of our current priority clients...

Roto-Wipe Personal Cleansing Wheel

Nap Sack: Take a nap anywhere, anytime!

Caller: We also thought that given your age bracket and target audience, these would be a good fit as well...

Poo-Trap for dog owners

Sock Sandals

THONGIES

At this point, I figured this had to be one of my many deranged friends with a twisted sense of humor, granted, a long list, but several candidates leapt to mind...Tom Allen, Dean Horger. But then the big reveal:

Caller: Happy April Fool’s Day from your brilliant and snarky daughter!!

A mixture of surprise and great pride came over me that my oldest child went to all of the trouble to pull this one off. An instant classic. But my day wasn’t over. My wife was up to no good as well, having spent much of the morning rummaging through the attic looking for my stash of 500 ping pong balls which I have employed on multiple occasions to great effect at the office over the years. After a long and brisk walk I went to brew a cup of coffee....

Poor Lucy shot up the stairs faster than a speeding comet when ping pong balls began their noisy cascade from above. Pam got me. I suppose it’s just as well that I was the victim this year. I desperately needed the distraction. 

However, I feel obliged to remind everyone that next year, Coronavirus or no Coronavirus...I will be back and I intend to loose the dogs of prankster hell on my world!!