Guilt (3 page)

Mr. Dart gave them all a list of unassociated inanimate objects, and asked them to incorporate and relate them into a pencil drawling so that he could gage their imaginative capabilities. Throughout the rest of the class session, Claire concentrated on two things: completing her artwork, and ignoring the ridiculous Freak as he made faces at her from across the table.

While keeping her eyes averted from the Freak, Claire managed to steal several glances in the direction of her normal tablemate. The moment she saw him she knew she was a farm boy. They were generally easy to spot. Living on one of many family owned dairy farms in the area, they were always up before the sun, completing their morning chores. These chores made the boys lean and muscular, which Claire couldn't help but observe in the way that this young man's t-shirt clung to his arms. But more than that was the tired appearance in his eyes, indicating that he'd been awake at least two and a half hours longer than Claire that day. Add to that a sort of unaffected reserve of temper that showed in his passive reaction to the Freak, and Claire knew that he came from farmer stock.

After taking him in, she glimpsed at his artwork. Quite impressed, and even a little jealous, she had to admit to herself that she was sitting next to an artist with a real gift. Being able to observe his work this year might actually make up for the misfortune of being stuck so close to the Freak.

Might as well make the best of a negative situation.

Chapter Three

Things just went from bad to worse in this town. Or maybe it was always like this. I couldn't remember. Perhaps time had simply softened my memory in regards to the condition of the rundown buildings of old Main Street. The storefronts, most of which were empty of businesses, looked dirty and desolate. Some had broken windows. Others had rusty gates pulled across the entryways or sheets of press board nailed over the front display cases.

The green and white striped canopies that once sheltered the town's shoppers as they strolled along the sidewalks were now all but gone. The few still in place looked tattered and faded. Graffiti could be seen in massive degrees throughout the alleyways; and trash, swept up by the frequent rains, clogged the drain grates along the gutter. The one traffic light that the town could boast of drooped low on the wire that held it above the street, pointlessly directing nonexistent drivers.

The most haunting sights of all here were the occasional hollow spaces along the street where three and four story red brick buildings once stood. They were most likely burned to the ground in an unfortunate accident, or by some manner of arson committed by juvenal pranksters with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. The rubble was simply cleared away, and a parking lot paved over the building's groundwork to mark it's grave and blot out a piece of the town's history.

In its heyday Brickerton had been a boomtown. Being a crossroads for the railroads gave the location an opportunity for manufacture and distribution throughout the country. Factories sprang up all over the area and employment was vast. Although the Great Depression stifled economic growth, World War II saw an increase in production that was heavier than ever; and the women in the population took on jobs that were once thought to be beyond their capabilities. The people here were strong and proud.

By the 1970s, however, the use of railroads for goods logistics became more or less outdated, and the trains all but stopped passing through. Train depots fell into disrepair, unused tracks were dug out, and locomotives were sold to museums. As factory after factory shut down or moved overseas, people began to commute to the next major city, finding the wearisome fifty-five mile trek necessary in order to feed their families.

Brickerton's population dwindled steadily every year until all that were left were mostly the old and the ignorant. People who were afraid of the outside world held out, and the few business owners that still pulled in revenue hung on.

Now, it felt like one of those ghost towns that you read about in an old western novel. It was hard to see this, the reality that was my childhood, now appear so dilapidated – even if I had disdained it myself for all this time. It made me feel suddenly old, like the place was a reflection of me. I knew my body was still young, but my mind felt aged by what I saw.

I parked in a lot that used to be a general store. The numerous supermarkets that opened in the last twenty years or so (some of the few businesses that actually did prosper), slowly strangled the profit out of the smaller store. It had already closed up by the time I left for college, but now there was no sign that it had ever existed. The more I took in, the more depressed I felt.

Kain was right about the diner, though. It was still there. Flo's had been on the corner of Main and Liberty Street for longer than I'd been alive. Even longer than my parents had been alive, to be more accurate. It had long been designated as the haunt for the old folks of the town; but, when those old folks were once the young folks, I'm sure that the diner was the greatest hang out around.

As I neared the door to Flo's my stomach began to turn. I feared that someone would recognize me. Should anyone take the notion of asking about my life, I had no desire to reminisce about my youth here, and loathed the thought of relaying my history as it has been since then.

Kain didn't appear to be here yet, and I didn't care to wait for him in the cold, so, despite my reservations about meeting up with unsought acquaintances, I went inside to escape the chilly air. The heat of the diner felt almost painful on my skin. My nerves burned as they thawed too rapidly from the numbness that had been created in them by the freezing wind outside. For a moment, I don't know why, I think I enjoyed that pain. Maybe it was the feeling of nostalgia that it caused, a familiarity that remained from all the long cold winters of my youth.

When my eyes adjusted to the stark fluorescent lights overhead, I looked about the room for a booth. Spotting an immediate vacancy by the entrance, I took a seat. That has always been a habit of mine, positioning myself near the door. It made for a great exit strategy if need be.

The only other patrons in the restaurant were all much older than I, so I had little fear of being recognized by them. The middle-aged waitress, who stood over a table pouring coffee into a sad looking man's mug, gave me a long stare. She seemed as though she was trying to decide if she knew me or not; but, at long last, it didn't appear that she would act on the possibility. That gave me a sense of relief.

When she asked me what I'd like to drink, I ordered two coffees. Might as well shave off a few awkward minutes of time with Kain by not having to wait with him on the coffee. I just hoped that he'd get here while it was still hot. It seemed to be taking him a while to arrive.

Maybe he stood me up. That would have been fine by me. I'd have had no problem with being ditched. I would have just gone back to my intended plan of driving to my parents, and settling in for a miserable Thanksgiving holiday. Then again, my faint hope for closure would have fled away along with him.

Kain did come in at last, and took a seat opposite to me. He had a great big grin on his face, and the smile glowed bright in his eyes. It appeared that he was delighted
still
by my association with Corry.

Conversation resumed, and it seemed like that familiar 'elephant' followed us from the graveyard and now stationed itself on a stool at the counter of the tiny diner. The disappointing thing was that I found myself imagining what a real elephant would look like sitting at the counter of an old 1950s diner, rather than listening to Kain's conversation.

When a little more small talk failed to affect any of the notable emotions that I would have expected closure to produce, I wondered if bringing up my feelings of guilt would help. But I couldn't summon up the courage to even broach the subject.

After a while, I noticed that he fell quiet. The awkwardness of that silence nearly prompted me to ask him what was wrong, when he began to speak again. During that break in discourse he must have been summoning up his own courage, because his sudden declaration turned out to be a shocking revelation.

"I'm the one who found him." Oh, no. No, no, no. If everything else he said up until this point made my heart twist in wretchedness, these words yanked the breath from my lungs and set fire to my brain. This was not closure. This was another helping of guilt. A huge heaping helping, piled high and drowning in a gravy boat of regret.

He continued, "It was all my fault. If I'd only been there maybe twenty minutes sooner, I probably would have been able to do something. But I was making out with my girlfriend at the time in the woods behind the high school instead of going home like I was supposed to, to do the afternoon chores around the farm. I left Corry to get started on them by himself. I shouldn't have. By the time I got home, it was too late." He paused. "I found him strangled to death by the back barn."

Stunned. That's the only word I could use to explain how his confession made me feel. Or didn't make me feel. I was too shaken to experience any sensations.

"I can still see that moment so clear in my head," he said, "like it's still right in front of me."

And so could I. I couldn't help but picture the sight in my mind. It was horrid; and it took every bit of willpower I had not to cry.

Kain took another sip of his coffee, gave himself a mental shake to break free of the sorrow, and smiled at me. I think the smile had been meant to reassure me that he would be all right, but I felt as though he unintentionally mocked my shame.

I envied him his ability to confess his feelings of fault in his brother's passing, misplaced as they were; but I felt all the more reluctant to relate my own part in Corry's death.

How was I ever going to get past this one event in my life that had caused so much damage to so many?

Chapter Four

The first few weeks of art class were rather uncomfortable, but, all together, uneventful. The Freak gave Claire what he probably thought were menacing stares, but she simply found his looks to be absurd. Other than the occasional disturbing comments, made in an unsuccessful attempt to rile a reaction, he didn't truly bother either of his tablemates. And after awhile he seemed to consider even those sporadic attempts to be a wasted effort.

Claire's other tablemate was less cumbersome, but his reticence was just as awkward. Corry was a young man of few words. She had yet to make conversation with him beyond a handful of short sentences in greeting, which varied very little from the following:

"Hi."

"Hey."

"How's it going?"

"'K. You?"

"A'right."

And that would be the end of all dialogue for the day.

As for the class itself, rather than teaching his students the fundamentals of art, Mr. Dart focused his efforts on channeling their creativity by issuing challenging projects. The first week of October he introduced a new project that would require the "initiation of inspiration to be ignited by fellow classmates" at their tables. Claire blushed at the thought of interaction with her tablemates, but listened on as her art instructor explained the assignment.

Each student was to bring a book excerpt, poem or article of his or her choice over the course of the week. They and their tablemates would use these written compositions to translate the subject into an illustration. Various art mediums were to be employed to do so.

Due to a distinct lack of enthusiasm from her tablemates, Claire volunteered to contribute the first item, which would be due at the next class session. She knew straight away what she would provide:
A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The poem had already established itself as her inspiration for life beyond Brickerton, and she thought that sharing it now would display her depth of fortitude regarding her own future goals. It wasn't that she had anything to prove to anyone in that regard, she told herself, but it re-emphasized her desire for accomplishment and success.