The Pages We Forget (26 page)

“That's okay,” she responded. “I can still walk.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know you didn't.”

Mrs. Croft stared tearfully at June. “Oh, my baby,” Mrs. Croft cried. Lucy Kaye got out the car and put her arms around Mrs. Croft. “I can't believe this, Lucy. I can't believe this is happening.”

“I can't, either,” Lucy Kaye said and led her toward the porch. “But try not to let Junie see you upset.”

The others gathered around. Some watched through tear-filled eyes, while others wore pasted-on smiles to hide the terrible loss they felt. They all claimed June as their own, and each in their own way, struggled to deal with the now certain outcome.

Alex helped June get her feet out of the car and lifted her up.
Trevor got out behind her and put his arm around her waist. Alex put one of her arms around his shoulders and they both supported her as she walked to the porch, glancing back at Keith.

“Alex, how's Keith?” Lucy Kaye asked. “Why hasn't he gotten out of the car?”

“He's coming. Give him a minute.” Trevor and June both turned back to look at Keith, but Alex reassured them. “Trust me. He'll be okay.”

“I hope so,” Lucy Kaye said. “Oh, how I wish his daddy was here. He'd be able to talk to him.”

Kathryn, who sat almost as paralyzed as Keith, finally got out of the car and immediately stepped into Coach Rickard's strong, supportive embrace. “Jordan, tell me why this is happening,” she whispered in her friend's ear. “I need to know why.”

“I don't know, Kathryn, but I'd give anything to make things right again. Anything.”

Coach Rickards and Mr. and Mrs. Whitehurst followed Kathryn into the house, while the others stayed on the porch with June, Alex and Trevor. June exhaled. She was finally home with the people who truly knew her and loved her. Everyone was here, caring for her and wishing her well. Everyone except for him.

“Keith.” Mrs. Blue Hen tapped on the car window. “Are you going to get out?”

Keith turned and looked at the stately old lady, nicknamed Mrs. Blue Hen because she began coloring her hair a dark shade of royal blue forty years ago when she discovered her first strand of gray hair.

“Hi,” he said nervously.

She opened the door and stepped back so he could get out. “Keith,” Mrs. Blue Hen whispered. “You know Mrs. Blue Hen isn't going to let anything happen to you, so give me a chance. Give us
a chance. Please.” She reached for his hand, which he placed in hers and stepped out of the car. Her grandson walked up and she introduced him to Keith. “This is my grandson, Simon. I don't know if you remember him.”

“I do, but he was a little bitty fellow when I last saw him.”

“He's fifteen now.”

“Fifteen?”

Keith was fifteen when his troubles started.

“He's a freshman in high school,” Mrs. Blue Hen said. “He's already a starting pitcher on the varsity baseball team. Coach Rickards says if he keeps it up and works hard, he's got a real shot at going to the majors one day.”

His troubles started here in this place he used to call home fifteen years ago.

“Keith was one of the best ballplayers in the state when he was in high school,” she told Simon. “He could have gone to the majors, too.”

“Why did you quit playing?” Simon asked.

The look on Keith's face revealed he didn't have an answer to Simon's question, so Mrs. Blue Hen answered for him. “He decided to be a writer instead. And he's a very good writer.”

“Do you ever miss playing ball?” Simon asked. “I mean, do you still dream of playing major league ball?”

“Not really,” Keith replied. “I guess my dreams changed.”

“My only dream is to pitch for the Braves.” Simon beamed as he boasted about his dream. “And nothing's going to change that.”

“Then hold on to that dream, and don't let anybody take it from you,” Keith said and started up the walkway. “Hold on, Simon,” he whispered to himself. “Hold on.”

(lyrics and arrangement by June)

Baby lay down,

here next to me.

Forget your worries,

let your heart beat free.

I won't get too close;

or ask what's going on.

I'm not here to judge you,

or to say what went wrong.

But there is one thing

that I need you to do.

You don't have to explain your actions.

But I need to hear sorry come from you.

CHORUS:

So baby, baby, baby,

why can't you say,

say you're sorry?

Cause baby, baby, baby,

I need to hear you say,

say you're sorry.

Sometimes it takes the dark

to bring out the light,

and the words, I'm sorry,

to end the fight.

So lay your troubles down,

give them all to me.

My love can keep you,

if you just believe.

But there is one thing,

that I need you to do.

You don't have to explain your actions.

I just need to hear sorry come from you.

CHORUS

(Repeat to fade with background)

Sorry is what I need. (Background)

Can I touch you?

Touch me?

Yes. Can I?

Why do you want to touch me?

Because.

I'm sorry, but I don't want to do—

Sshhhh.

Please don't. Please.

That was when the line was crossed. Trust became an aphrodisiac, precipitating a violation that would undo Keith's life and all of their lives. Footsteps in the middle of the night when everyone should be asleep decided their fate. A wavering voice whispered into unreceptive ears. A button pried loose.
Sshhhh.
Lips kissing parts they shouldn't. Keith was the first to topple. Soon, like dominos, the others followed.

Reverend Adams had the hardest time living after the breach. He blamed himself, even though he never knew the line existed, let alone was crossed. He punished himself by concocting all kinds of unfounded reasons for Keith's leaving, eventually placing the blame squarely on himself. He had moved his family back to Hampton Springs so he could pastor the church on the corner of Bacon Street after his father, the church's minister, passed. He put
Keith on a pedestal and was raising him to be the next minister of Mt. Nebo, which had been led by an Adams since it was founded in 1903.

He expected a lot from his son. Reverend Adams acquiesced after three years of obsessive soul-searching that maybe he had put too much pressure on Keith and that's why he ran away. During those years, all of his sermons were about the need for parents and everyone in the community to open their eyes and truly see their family members and friends. Nobody minded the repetitious sermons. Easter. Christmas. Mother's Day. Father's Day. Every Sunday. They understood and they sympathized because they understood that he saw himself as a failure. He spent every day pondering the unfathomable. Why did his son walk, no, run out of his life?

“Stop doing this to yourself,” Lucy Kaye would respond whenever he came up with what he thought was the most obvious reason. The reason that had been staring him in the face all along and he had been too blind to see it.

“That has to be it,” he would tell her. “Why else would he leave?”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Because I need to know!”

Lucy Kaye didn't have the answers and Keith didn't provide any when he wrote to them a year after his departure. No matter how many possible scenarios Reverend Adams invented, he never questioned Keith about them in the daily letters he wrote back. He thought Keith's occasional replies were a sign that he would be coming home soon, so he didn't want to trouble him. Months passed and he never came, which forced Reverend Adams to spend more and more time waiting and looking for answers in the wrong places.

He started suffering from insomnia. Every night, when he was
sure Lucy Kaye was asleep, he would slip outside, get in his car and attempt to go after his son. But something inside him would not allow him to leave the yard. No matter how hard he tried to back out the yard, he couldn't. Knowing his son was in Micanopy, two hours away, became even more unbearable than not knowing his whereabouts. One night, out of desperation, he got down on his knees and begged Lucy Kaye to take him to Micanopy.

“Please.” He completely broke down. “You have to take me. I have to see my boy.”

“Reverend, you know I can't do that,” she told him. “Remember what he said? He said he would run again if we went there.”

“Then why did he write and tell us where he was?”

“He told us so we would know.”

“No! That wasn't why! He wants us to come after him! I know my son! And that's what he wants us to do!”

“That's not what he said. He said he would run. Is that what you want? He's not here with us anymore, but at least we still have him.” She sat up in bed and guided his head into her lap. Then she tried to caress away his pain. “I know how much it hurts, but we have to let this be enough for now. We have to keep holding on. Keep believing. Remember what you said right after he left? You told me to keep the faith. And that's what we have to do.”

“What did I do, Lucy? What? I've spent my whole life preaching the gospel and trying to save lives. Trying to rescue lost souls. Now, look at me. I couldn't even save my own son. I couldn't stop him. I called him but he kept running. Why did he keep running, Lucy? Please tell me. You're his mother and if anybody knows, you know. So, why won't you tell me? Why?”

He died of a broken heart the following night, still believing that he would see his son again. The night he died his prayer was
unusually brief. “Please let me see him just one more time,” he pleaded. A moment was all he said he needed with him. “Just long enough to say I'm sorry.”

After his prayer, he went to sleep, knowing full well he would not see another sunrise. Redemption came a little after midnight. Lucy Kaye was sitting up in bed quietly watching over him. She knew it wouldn't be long. He was lying beside her, but she could tell he was mostly somewhere else. In his mind he was staring at a wooden sign nailed to a cypress tree on Philco Road perhaps. Gliding above the dirt road toward a large wooden house, where a young man sat alone on the screened-in porch typing under the glow of a kerosene lantern.

He was looking into his son's eyes, whispering the words, “I'm sorry.” And Keith was staring into the darkness of the cool January night and somehow seeing his father and hearing his apology. She watched as Reverend Adams took his last breath, imagining Keith reaching out to him. Holding him. Finally forgiving him. Her eyes filled with tears. How could she cry when he looked so relieved? So thankful?

•  •  •

Don't tell.

I can't.

That's good.

Is it?

It's what's best.

For who?

The shame hurt more than being touched. So tell? Tell who? Tell what? Even if there were words to describe the transgression, the consequences of speaking them would be insufferable. Telling
would only turn his pain into theirs. And he was not going to let that happen. No one else should have to fall.

Still, June fell. But unlike Reverend Adams, she kept living, even though her life was ruined. She had to keep living for Trevor, who was sitting next to her, cautiously eyeing the two men across the table. One was his dad and the other was a man whose presence scared him, yet someone he was undeniably drawn to. He saw who he would become in Keith. He saw the physical features, like the straight black hair, the caramel complexion, and their dark, penetrating eyes. Alex saw them, too.

“You haven't eaten anything,” Alex said. “What's up?”

“Nothing,” Trevor answered. “I'm just not hungry.”

“I can't believe that. You must be an impostor. My boy would never let all this good food go to waste.”

“I'll put his plate in the microwave,” said Kathryn, who was sitting at the head of her dining room table. “He can eat it later.”

“I'm going riding,” Trevor announced.

“No!” June's frail hand reached for him. His hand met hers. “You can't just skip out on my birthday dinner. I want you to eat dinner with me. Okay?”

Trevor nodded and began eating.

“Thank you,” she said and smiled at him.

Everybody was here. Trevor. Her mother. Alex. Keith. Lucy Kaye. Leatrice. Bernard. Willie and Joe. These were the people she held most dear. There were others who dropped by, like Mrs. Rosa Lee, who brought a honey glazed ham. Mrs. Blue Hen and her grandson, Simon, brought a sour cream pound cake. Mrs. Croft baked two pumpkin pies. Inez brought flowers and balloons. And the Whitehursts came with a basket of fruit.

“Ma, can I go horseback riding after I'm done eating?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” June answered. “When I can watch you.”

“But I want to ride today!”

“Trevor, I really don't—”

“I'll watch him,” Keith said. “If he doesn't mind.” He wasn't sure why he offered to watch Trevor. The words simply came out.

Everyone stared at Trevor. Alex felt a lump in his throat as he waited on pins and needles for his son's response.