Blue Diary (19 page)

From the rear of Mrs. Gage's yard, Trisha can see through the fence. Jorie is out in her garden, trying to make the place more presentable, as Liz Howard, who runs Monroe Realty, suggested when she came by to appraise the property. Two months without Ethan working and it will be hard for Jorie to make the mortgage payments. Three, and it will be impossible. So there she is, attacking tall bunches of Queen Anne's lace, pulling out the heads of lettuce that have gone to sced. Jorie is wearing shorts and one of her son's tee-shirts, and from a distance she looks as beautiful as she did in high school, when Trisha had thought her too high and mighty to ever approach.

Though she's not one to trespass, Trisha continues on through Mrs. Gage's yard to where her husband is standing, gazing into the Fords' garden. He has such a puzzled look on his face, and yet he doesn't seem surprised to see Trisha step out from Mrs. Gage's carefully weeded flower bed where the phlox are doing so well, banks of purple and fuchsia and white.

“I keep thinking that I'll figure it out,” Mark says. “If I just keep at it, it's got to make some sense.”

All that morning, at the bakery, as he drove through town, and now again as he stands here observing Jorie, he's been counting the times he and Ethan had gone fishing together, the number of beers they'd enjoyed, the nights they'd spent at the Safehouse playing pool, the times they'd rushed from the fire station on emergency calls together, hoping that the blaze they hurried to didn't affect anyone they loved. More than once, Mark had told Ethan he didn't know if he'd done the right thing in marrying Trish. Theyd been dating since they were fifteen, and she was the one and only woman he'd ever been with. and Mark had the feeling he'd missed out on something most other men had experienced.

True love comes once in a lifetime,
Ethan had told him.
And that's if you're lucky.

They had been over at the fire station the last time they talked about this. The other guys had been in the front room, watching baseball on the big-screen TV Warren Peck had donated. The day had been hot, but when Ethan started talking about love. Mark had been aware of an icy sensation across his chest. He wished he could be as sure of himself as Ethan was, and now here he stood, watching Ethan's house nearly every day, trying to understand what had happened and thinking about his own life and the course it had taken.

He doesn't step away when Trisha comes through Mrs. Gage's yard to stand beside him. “Not everything makes sense,” she says, thinking about Charlotte Kite, the girl she'd always been so jealous of, how pitiful she'd looked in her bathrobe, leaning her weight against the screen door. Who would have guessed that out of all the girls at school. Trisha would be the one to find true happiness? She gets on tiptoe and leans close to her husband. The acrid smell of the soil in Jorie's yard is in the air. “I'm so glad I have you,” Trisha whispers to Mark.

On the day when Ethan and Mark talked about love, Mark had begun to cry. He told Ethan that he had a wife and three boys and a beautiful little daughter, and still he hadn't a clue as to what real love was.

Don't think about what you don't have,
Ethan had told him.
Enjoy what you have right now
.

There has not been a day since when that thought hasn't run across Mark Derry's mind. These words have brought him comfort on the days when he's felt like getting in his truck and driving north along the highway to look for another life, one where he didn't have to be as responsible, one in which he loved his wife the way Ethan loved Jorie. It is only on this hot summer afternoon that Mark figures it out as he follows Trisha home. He's started smoking again, and the cab of his truck smells like sulfur. A man could change, that's what he decides as they drive down Sherwood Street, and Miller Avenue, and Front Street. He thinks of himself at fifteen, how he'd pledged his love to Trisha, how he'd made a life plan when he knew absolutely nothing about life. If he'd had the boy he'd once been in the truck with him right now, he'd tell him a thing or two. I led advise him to go on the road, to live out in the world before he made commitments that would tie him up until he was an old man.
People make mistakes,
that's what he thinks as he pulls up behind his wife's car in the driveway, that's what he decides.

That evening, Mark Derry phones Kip Louis, president of the town council, as well as Hal Jordan, the county commissioner of Little League, and Warren Peck, the most senior member of the volunteer fire department. In this way the defense fund for Ethan is begun, and why shouldn't these good people rally around him? He is their neighbor, the same man he'd been last month when they'd trusted him with their children, when he'd carried the keys to their houses in his pocket and was considered by one and all to be the most honest man in town. Mark sits in the dining room for hours on the night the defense fund is born, with the Monroe phone book open before him, and a growing list of donations. Trisha gives the children dinner, and hushes them when they're too rowdy, sending them out to play in the fading blue dusk.

As the light grows dim, Trisha stands in the kitchen doorway, in order to watch her husband. Katya was right, and Trisha has been wise to heed her counsel. Following Mark has helped her understand the road he's been on. In fact, she is truly impressed. As well as she knows him, she had no idea that he could string so many words together; she's never heard him talk as much or be as passionate about anything. Already, there are plans for a rally and talk about approaching town businesses for pledges. Mark has come up with every bit of this strategy on his own. While he works, Trisha fixes him a sandwich, roast beef on rye, and places it on the table. It's done the way he likes it, with horseradish sauce and sour pickles. Mark smiles up at her and nods his thanks as he speaks to their minister. Dr. Hardwick, about a particular Bible passage that might be the source of a suitable sermon for their congregation on the Sunday to come, given the circumstances and the fact that Ethan never walked away from a man in need.

“You see what a person can do when he sets his mind to it,” Trisha says to Brendan, who is mooning around the kitchen, in a bad humor ever since Rosarie Williams dumped him. “You get on your computer right now and make up a flier for your father's rally. Get your mind on something important.”

Startled by his mother's harsh assessment of his lovesick ways, Brendan goes up to his room. The rest of the Derry children are playing kickball in the street with the Howard kids from over on the next block, and Trisha can hear them through the open window. The sky outside is tinted pink and a breeze trickles in, ruffling the curtains. Everything seems different to her on this evening, hopeful somehow. Trisha tells herself she will have to remember to bring dear Katya the lemon-poppyseed coffee cake that is her favorite, in gratitude for what is certainly some excellent advice.

At the end of this long day, when the children have all bathed and gone to bed, Trisha pecks her head into the dining room. The house is quiet, aside from the click of Brendan working at his computer upstairs and the low rumble of Mark's voice as he calls neighbor after neighbor.

“How about some coffee?” Trisha suggests to her husband between phone calls. She is proud of the fact that instead of sprawling on the couch or taking up space at the Safehouse, wallowing in the sorrow of the situation, Mark has the character to do something to rectify the mess Ethan Ford is in. Her heart is full of love. “It won't take me a minute,” she says, and looking up at her, nodding as he dials the next number on his list, Mark Derry wonders if contrary to what he's thought all along, perhaps he is indeed a lucky man.

Those fliers Brendan Derry printed up can be found everywhere in the next few days; black print on orange paper, they flutter around town like orange lilies, planted on lampposts and shop owners' bulletin boards, stuck in mailboxes and on car windshields. This is the week when Jorie and Collie move over to her mother's home on Smithfield Lane, driven off by the reporters stationed in the driveway of the Gleasons' house across the street. The same week when Charlotte's doctor informs her that her course of treatment will take ten full months of radiation and chemotherapy. On this day, Charlotte finds a stack of fliers left outside the bakery door and, disturbed by Ethan's confession, she tosses them in the trash. But when Rosarie Williams sees the orange paper tucked into the mailbox, she sits on the porch and studies it carefully. She calls Kelly Stark, and the girls head to the firehouse on the night of the first rally. At least it's something to do, and there will probably be reporters there, interested in taking their photograph. The girls stand at the edge of the surprisingly large gathering and listen to Mark Derry speak about forgiveness and compassion and before long they find themselves cheering with the rest of the crowd.

Jorie is supposed to be there as well; in a way, she's the guest of honor whose presence will surely elicit compassion and large donations, but when Mark stops by to pick her up at her mother's house, Jorie's not ready to leave. It's a quarter to eight, and people have begun to gather on Front Street; Jorie should already be seated on the center chair of the dais behind the podium, but she can't find Collie anywhere.

“I'm sure he'll show up,” Mark assures her, but Jorie's not listening. She hasn't seen Collie for the better part of the day; the later the hour has grown, the more distressed she's become. She actually sent her niece Gigi out to look for him, scouting the field beyond the high school and the park over on Center Street, with no success. Jorie has no idea where her boy might have gone, for it isn't like Collie to disappear without leaving a note. I Ie's reliable and careful, or at least he had been until now. With Mark Derry there urging her to come with him, Jorie finally understands. It's the rally. Collie doesn't want to know about it or think about it. He doesn't want to be in the same universe as his father.

Jorie assures Mark that she'll be down to the firehouse before long, and there's nothing he can say to stop her from getting into Ethan's truck and going off to search for Collie. She drives through the quiet streets of the old section of Monroe, looking down lanes and into backyards the way she might search for a lost dog. The sky has faded into darkness and Jorie feels cold pinpricks of worry up and down her arms. She circles around Lantern Lake, terrified she might spy something floating in the shallow waters, which thankfully are empty and glassy green. She crosses the highway, looking for a lone hitchhiker, but sights nothing except bramble bushes and row after row of those orange lilies she's never liked. She knows that lights have been set up outside the firehouse for they crisscross the sky, but there's no one on the streets of Monroe. People are either at home or attending the rally, depending upon their allegiance.

It isn't until after nine that Jorie thinks of going to their house, and when she pulls into the driveway, she can tell he's been there. The garage door is ajar, and when Jorie goes to investigate she sees someone has been through Ethan's tool shop. Screwdrivers and wrenches are scattered on the floor, and one of the saws is missing. Jorie has a tight feeling in her chest. She closes and locks the garage, then cuts across Mrs. Gage's lawn. By the time she knocks on the Williamses' door, she's in a panic.

“I need to talk to your granddaughter,” she says to Katya when at last the door opens. “Right now.”

Kat is standing behind her grandmother. She's gotten tall this summer, as tall as a woman, though she's dressed like a little girl. Her hair is in scraggly braids, and she's wearing jeans and a white blouse that's a hand-me-down from her sister.

“Is something wrong?” Katya, the grandmother, asks.

“I just need to talk to her.” Jorie is speaking to the girl's grandmother, but it's Kat she's staring at. She nods for Kat to come outside.

“Well, it's late,” Katya begins. She doesn't like the expression on Jorie's face. A desperate woman, that's what Jorie looks like. One with very little to lose.

“It's okay.” Kat Williams slips out from behind her grandmother and steps onto the porch. “It's fine,” she says as she closes the door behind her.

“Where's Collie?” Beneath the porch light, Jorie notices that Kat is wearing lipstick. Isn't she too young for such things? Shouldn't there be a few years more before she starts trying to look older than her age? “Don't tell me you don't know, because I can tell from your note that you seem to know everything.”

Kat feels the heat of an accusation and she raises her chin the way she always docs when she's cornered. “I said I was sorry.”

“Right. That fixes everything.” Jorie sounds more spiteful than she intends. “Well, you turned my husband in, so do me a favor and do the same for my son. Where is he?”

Kat stares back at Jorie. They are nearly the same height, which surprises them both. “How would I know? He's hardly talking to me.”

The lights from the fire station are like streaks of lightning in the sky. On the other side of town, Mark Derry is making an appeal to the crowd, and the cheers in response to his pleas ricochet over rooftops and chimneys.

“You know.” Jorie's voice is quiet, but it's sharp. “Tell me.”

“Go left on Front Street, then head to King George's.”

Jorie is surprised. “To the jail?”

“Way past. But the thing is,” Kat informs her, “you won't find the place without me.”

And so they walk across Mrs. Gage's lawn together and get into Ethan's truck. On the way through town, Jorie avoids Worthington Street and the rally and goes around on Miller Avenue. When they pass Liberty Street, Kat understands what Collie's been up to. There, in front of the library, is the fallen apple tree, the boughs and bark tumbled across the lawn and onto the sidewalk. The sight of it fills Kat's eyes with tears, and she has to blink hard. She cannot believe he did this without telling her.