Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You (30 page)

“Welcome to the human race.” His tone was mild and gentle.

“Yeah.”

“It's more than Luisa, isn't it?”

“It's enough,” I said.

The trees fell silent. I could hear birds calling and answering, the shuffle of living things around us. I felt silly, suddenly, for bringing my gun. This man was not going to hurt me. I remembered the hesitation I'd felt the night I'd buried my police gear, the fear that made me hold one gun back, just in case. In case of what, I wondered now. That life was behind me, and I was going to have to find a way out of it. Into what, I had no idea. But it involved more than burying equipment and relics from a past life, that much I was beginning to grasp.

“That old man across the street from you,” Henry said, “anyone ever told you about him?”

I opened my eyes, thrown by his question, still lost in my own thoughts. He was tracing a stick through the leaves. “Penny Face?” I shook my head, as much to shake away the memory of the glint of recognition in his watery blue eyes when I'd come back from the hospital.

He looked over at me briefly and smiled. “Good name for him. Lewis Jones. Do you like stories?”

I felt a rush of déjà vu and eyed him warily. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“The point of the story.”

He cocked his head slightly and expelled a short, soft breath. “Doesn't it exhaust you?”

“What?”

“Being so guarded all the time?”

Irritation and something deeper swept through me again, and then it was gone. “What is it you want from me, Henry?”

“I want you to understand.”

“What?”

“We aren't alone.”

The earnest look on his face made me laugh. “Jesus.”

“What's so funny?”

“You. Sounding like a sci-fi movie: we are not alone. We're all alone, Henry. Luisa back there fighting for her life, Marisela and Jose frantic with worry and probably guilt, Doña Eva and her stupid stoicism, Isael seeing his sister like that, even Penny Face howling at whatever, and you with the need to feel better about yourself by taking care of others. Each one of us. Alone with our demons. And there's not a damn thing anyone else can do to help us.”

“You're very wrong, Sarah.”

I wanted to be angry, but there wasn't a patronizing tone to even one of his words. “Are you always so certain of everything?”

“Only the few things I know for sure.”

I was tired, worn down; it seemed worthless to argue with him. I flicked my hand toward him and said, “So tell me Penny Face's story,” and then stared at the leaves on the ground as he talked.

“He had three boys. Young, not a one over ten. He was gone a lot, some kind of sales job. His wife was one of Doña Eva's sisters. She wasn't real healthy, mentally fragile, a skittish girl from what I've been told. He came home one weekend and the boys were dead. She'd shot each of them in the head while they slept.”

I winced, thought of Penny Face's eyes again, his absent self. They would never go away, those images; they'd always be with him. I'd run from them too, if I were him. “What happened to her?”

“State mental institution. She died not long after. That was nearly fifty years ago, and Lewis still blames himself, thinks he should have seen it coming, gotten her some help, gotten the boys away from her.”

“Ah.” I wondered again who Penny Face was really cursing with those wails—himself, his wife, fate? “That proves my point. No one can take his pain away. He's lost inside it. Alone.”

“You're wrong. You've seen it. All of us out there with him. Why else could we quiet him?”

“But he still does it,” I pointed out. “He sits like a statue when he isn't wailing. You haven't cured him.”

“Cure is relative. It's a choice, isn't it, to fall into that hole or stay above it? There is some choice.” He gave a half-laugh and folded his arms against his chest, his shoulder brushing mine. “And who's to say that his howling isn't a climb toward sanity? I'm sometimes tempted to join him myself.”

There was an invitation in that last sentence, but I let the silence stretch out between us, my mind chattering, arguing. The sun had disappeared, and now the golden leaves appeared almost translucent in the dusk. “Luisa—” I stopped, briefly seeing her again in the ravine, feeling her draped across my body, sticky finger poking at my face. I took a deep breath. “Luisa mentioned something about a woman and baby dying.”

His smile was tender and bitter at the same time; the upper lip curled halfway, but soft. The lines of his body softened too, and I realized he'd been waiting for this, that this was really the reason he'd brought me out here. It wasn't about me at all. Or Penny Face. It was about him. Everyone wants to tell their own story, eventually.

“Veronica. My wife. Marisela's cousin. She was pregnant with our first child.” His fingertips moved restlessly across his legs. “I used to drink pretty heavily back in those days.” Another long pause. “We were on our way back from dinner, out on Route 24. Another car was in the oncoming lane. He was drunk too. She was killed instantly, she and the baby. The other driver and I walked away.”

Henry's story wasn't a new one. I'd seen variations on that story over the years. Usually someone walked away, and often that someone was the person at fault. All the world's tragedies, I thought, big
and small, were too much to grasp, to hold onto. They could dissolve me to boneless weeping if I dwelled on them too long, so I didn't. I didn't even go close. But an individual's tragedy was another matter, especially when it was staring you in the face. It didn't matter how inadequate it sounded or how inadequate I felt, but “I'm sorry,” were the only words I knew to offer.

“I'm sorry,” I said. I put a hand lightly on his knee. “I'm very sorry.”

His hands moved slowly, restlessly, over his legs, like a living creature in motion simply because it was alive. “They couldn't determine who crossed the line first, who was at fault, him or me. We were both legally drunk. So we both went to jail. Four years. That house you live in? It was ours. When I got out of jail a couple of years ago, I moved back in. Doña Eva had left it just as it was.” He took a deep breath. “But she told me I had to go, that I needed to find another place. One of the few times she's been cruel to me. It was hard, seeing them, Marisela and the rest of the family, knowing they must blame me. And then last year Doña Eva invited me to a family dinner. It was awkward at first. Always an edge there, of course. But, if anything, I've been closer to them than before, when Veronica was alive.” He paused again, then said softly, “The hardest part was learning to forgive myself.”

“And have you?” I asked very carefully.

There was that smile again, the one that filled his eyes. We looked at each other in the falling darkness, and I felt a slight tug inside.

“Have you?” His tone was kind and barely audible over the noise of the leaves.

I let the protest die on my lips and thought about Gwen and Doris Whitehead. I saw Jeannette's face again, Vince falling backward into the water, Roger's body on the ground. I felt the muscle memory of Luisa's body across my legs and sent a short, fervent prayer upward:
please spare her
. I thought about Penny Face and his howls and my police gear buried under the red dirt at the base of this mountain, and I knew that my own story was one I would tell only to myself, but over and over, for the rest of my life.

“No,” I said softly.

“There you have it.” He leaned over and kissed me very gently on the cheek.

We sat there for a long time in silence, our hands just touching, listening to the quaking leaves above our heads.

This book has been twelve years in the writing, so there are many people who deserve my thanks.

It started a long time ago in a far-off galaxy called Flint Hill Prep where Colonel Alan Ferguson Warren and Lucy Gard Redfield fed the flame my Mother had ignited and nurtured: the power of stories and the beauty of language. My debt to these three people can never be repaid.

In more recent times, James Gordon Bennett pushed me to “just write”; I'm grateful for his persistence, guidance, and witty charm. David Bradley generously provided extensive analysis on several stories and taught me a great deal about writing in the process. Rodger Kamenetz showed me the importance of word choice and line editing. My thanks also to Tim O'Brien, Marianne Gingher, Rosellen Brown, Margot Livesey, Tom Gavin, and Lois Rosenthal for their feedback and encouragement.

Deep bows of thanks and a pitcher of Library beer to the LSU MFAers of 1988–1991. A tip of the hat and a wink to The Bobs. And cyberhugs to the Online Women Writers' Group who made teaching more joy than work.

Support in the form of coffee, wine, meals, and much more was provided in the early stages of writing this book by Helen and Stanley Miller, Leila Levinson, Jean Rohloff, Erin Johnson, Robin Roberts, Sigrid King, Betsy Williams, Bill and Monica Moen, Ralph LaPrairie, and John McLain. My thanks and love.

The Writers' League of Texas deserves a nod of gratitude for their many kindnesses, especially the amazing Sally Baker. My thanks also to the Sewanee Writers' Conference, particularly Cheri Peters. And I'm indebted to the entire staff of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts for providing a true haven (and a puppy!) while I finished the final revisions on this book.

I am blessed to be a part of the St. Edward's University community. My students, past and present, have enriched my life more than they'll ever know. The administration has generously supported my endeavors through a variety of grants, full-time employment, and a sabbatical leave. Many of my colleagues made the juggle of teaching and writing much smoother and definitely more fun, especially Anna Skinner, Mary Rist, Lisa Martinez, Catherine Rainwater, Alan Altimont, Br. John Perron, Bill Quinn, Father Lou Brusatti, and Sandra Pacheco. Bill Kennedy took fabulous photographs. Brett Westbrook provided information on Victim Services. My former student and now colleague, Elizabeth Sibrian, provided the Spanish translations for “Where I Come From.” Eric Trimble, Janet Kazmirski, Pam McGrew, and Anita Sing solved computer, postal, and photocopying challenges with aplomb.
Muchas gracias
one and all.

Portions of this book were written at the homes of Bob and Margy Ayers in Tennessee, Nancy Napier and Tony Olbrich in Idaho, and Barbara Duke in New Mexico—your generosity was huge, the luxury of time and solitude invaluable.

I'm immensely grateful to “Marjorie LaSalle,” a true warrior of the heart, who trusted me to honor her truth while taking her experience off into fictional realms.

For over thirteen years Dinty W. Moore has provided the feedback I trust the most: honest, kind, thoughtful, thorough.
Namaste
, my friend.

My always sister Lynn has been an enthusiastic reader and is one of the great blessings of my life, as are my nephews Chase and Cole. Oodles of kisses to you all.

Those whose gestures, both large and small, often made the difference, whether they realized it or not: Paige Elizabeth Pozzi, Sherry Scott and Michelle Burns, Catherine MacDermott, Sanchi Reta Lawler, Patrick Ricard, Judy Kahn, Jack and Carolyn Hall, Casey
Miller and Pat Jackson, Kathy Brown, Pamela Cromwell, Bonnie Jean Dickson Winsler, Mary Janecek-Friedman, Katrina Dittemore, Lynda Shannon and James Vance, and Ted Rader. Abundant gratitude for your presence in my life.

I am humbled by the love and support I've received from my Alayans: Annie Province, Kimmie Jo-Jo Atkins, Beverly Alexander and Eldon Bryan, Molly and Russ and Tommy Fleming, Joan Raskin, Leebob Edwards, Steve Milan, Jerry-bear Rutledge, Bev Davis, Pete Erickson, Wendy Vermeulen, johnsmith, Tom Kimmel, and Abu Ali Abdur 'Rahman. Your beauty and courage fill my heart.

Special thanks to Anniebelle for finding the Robertson Davies quote and being willing to go the hard way with me, again and again.

Marjorie Braman has been passionate from day one; thank you for saying yes and for your keen eye and fierce commitment to this book. Thank you, Kelly Bare, for your always cheerful support and bottomless supply of answers.

Jandy Nelson, my angel of an agent, you're a peach! Your enthusiasm was boundless, your patience endless, your expertise invaluable, your faith my great good fortune. That we could talk food and books for hours on end was simply icing on the cake. Thanks as well to Dru, Stephanie, Mark, and Lucy.

I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of help from so many of my former colleagues with the Baton Rouge Police Department: former chief Greg Phares and Chief Pat Englade for allowing me access and Lieutenant Mike Gough for facilitating that access; Lieutenant Ricky Cochran for tracking down the original crime scene photos of “Jeannette Durham” that I saw so long ago; Sergeant Roger Tully and Barbara Spears for finding, in a box, in a storeroom, the traffic reports I wrote some eighteen years ago; Sergeant David Worley and Sergeant James Kurts for stories, great debates, and always the coffee; Sergeant Brenda Miceli for her expertise in latent fingerprints; Lieutenant Sam Miceli and Detective John Colter for stories and answers; Captain Mike Coulter for Ed's coat and for patiently reminding me these many years later what I'd forgotten; Sergeant Marian McLin for always being there and still making me laugh at the most inappropriate times; and Sergeant Ike Vavasseur for his friendship, trust, insight into working homicides, letting me ride
along, lending me books, opening doors, and answering my bazillion questions with grace and good humor. Ray Jackson, whatever heavenly universe you inhabit, I have never forgotten the values you instilled and the example you set. To all the men and women I rode with, both at LSU Police and BRPD, thank you for the backup.

Finally, this book would never have been finished, let alone started, without the guardian angels of my heart: Linda Lue Kelly Woodruff, Linda Gayle Manning, and Kenneth Robinson. Thank you for helping me find my voice, my truth, my center.