Dogwood (23 page)

It was one of those dingy, dark days of rain and wet leaves familiar to our area of the world. Low-hanging clouds and mist over the road. The same kind of weather I remember when, as a child, I heard the Marshall University football team’s plane had gone down.

As I walked into the station, the rain seemed to intensify. The river was up and rising and had covered the field below, a brown monster growing outside its banks. I was glad to see cows moving to higher ground.

I passed Virginia’s desk but she didn’t look up. She had her purse at the ready for a quick getaway as soon as the clock reached five.

Seeb was in his office and it was past his regular quitting time, but he’d called me in for an emergency meeting. I should have guessed what this was about, but I had faith in him as a friend that it wouldn’t end this way.

My wounds had healed—except for an oozing scab on the back of my head that I kept covered with my hat. My face was still discolored, but the blackness was gone and I no longer got stares from people, except the normal stares from those who recognized me.

Seeb rose from his desk as I closed the door. “You okay?” he said.

“I’ll tell you after our meeting. What’s up?”

He looked at his desk and an envelope sitting there. My name was on the front. For some reason I thought of the Johnny Paycheck song “Take This Job and Shove It.”

“I’m sorry, Will. I truly wish there was something else I could do, but I just can’t make it work anymore. I hope you’ll understand.”

“Understand what? I haven’t missed a shift since you gave me a second chance.”

“You’ve done everything I’ve asked and then some.” To my surprise Seeb admitted, “With the little we pay you people, I couldn’t ask for more. But listeners are calling. Maybe the police blotter started it; then the
Dispatch
ran a story. You’ve probably seen it.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Nice to know I’m still a news item.”

“Once listeners start calling the advertisers, it’s all over. I tried to head that off, but we’re losing money now.”

“I’ve noticed the spot load is down.”

“It’s not down. They’ve stopped. I’m just running those for good faith.”

“The dealership threaten to take your car?”

Seeb pursed his lips around the cigar and held his long-fingernailed hands out, palms up, like he was pleading for his life. “What am I supposed to do? Tell me. Give me another option than letting you go and I’ll take it.”

A spider crawled up the wall behind his desk and disappeared in a small hole in the ceiling tile. “I understand. I can’t say I’d do anything different if I were in your shoes. I really appreciate what you did for me.”

He handed me the envelope, pulling his dress slacks high. “Your check’s in there for the last two weeks. I went ahead and paid you for the rest of this week.” He turned to the safe in the corner and rolled the tumblers. In all my years I’d never seen him
open it, but he pulled out a crisp stack of bills, leafed through them, and came up with four hundred dollars. “I didn’t add any more to the check, but this is sort of a bonus. You won’t even have to claim it on your taxes. It’s a gift.” He plopped the bills on the desk in front of me.

I just looked at it. “I can’t accept that.”

Seeb pushed the money closer. “I want you to have it. Go on. Use it to buy a grill for that new house. Or some shingles. Whatever.”

A better man would have thanked him and walked away, but I took the money. I had already calculated how many electrical sockets and how much wiring it would buy.

“Maybe if things settle down a bit we can rethink this,” Seeb said.

We both knew things wouldn’t settle down. The best you could hope for was the passage of time and the eventual closing of the open wound that was our town. I got the feeling that this wasn’t the last time I might be fired for being Will Hatfield.

“This has been coming for a while,” I said. “I hoped it wouldn’t, but I just have to deal with it.”

“If there’s anything else I can do for you or your mother, let me know. I’m real sorry, son.”

I nodded and shook his hand.

He smiled sadly, the cigar still jutting out, and I couldn’t help but think how much he looked like some character from a Dr. Seuss book. Yertle the station manager.

“I’ll never forget your kindness, Seeb.”

He nodded once, then rubbed a finger underneath his nose.

When I left the station, I waved at Clay, who was on the air, but he didn’t see me. Virginia’s desk was bare, and I saw her taillights blink red as she sped away. I took one final look at the production room and the years of memories. Just one more thing to say good-bye to.

The police report from the accident was written in a slanting cursive that looked a lot like my fourth-grade teacher’s handwriting. Mrs. Munroe was my first real love. She smelled like a fresh bouquet of flowers, and when she walked into the cafeteria, it was hard to eat she was so pretty. She’d sit with kids from our class, even after we’d played basketball and had that fourth-grade boy smell to us. She used to write notes on our papers, and once she wrote on mine that she thought I would go really far someday.

The report said that a hit-and-run accident had occurred at approximately 7:43 a.m., and then it gave the location on Route 60, right where I had led my sisters. I couldn’t look at their names or the description of their injuries, but I already knew what they looked like. I’d been there. Jumped the guardrail and let them die.

The officer described the scene, said there were no visible skid marks but that the car had veered off the road and into the gravel and lost control and spun into the guardrail, killing the children.

There was talk around town that the sight had torn up the chief who was first on the scene, and the other officer who showed
up had to take a week off from work, then didn’t return. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I believe it could happen. That kind of thing’s like glue and not water. It sticks.

There was something strange in the report. It said, The driver of the vehicle, Will Hatfield, left the scene of the accident, only to return after police and rescue personnel had responded.

Do you find it strange that you don’t remember that part of the accident? my counselor said after I told him some stuff I’d discovered. That you don’t remember seeing Will pull away from the scene?

Can’t people get kinda spacey and go off and not know what’s happening? I’ve heard about that before.

It’s called shock, he said.

Yeah. Maybe that’s what happened. I jumped over the guardrail and was down there a long time. I don’t remember the hospital or even very much about the funeral.

After looking at the police report, you still hold yourself responsible? You still think you killed your sisters?

I was in charge of them and I blew it. I didn’t even have the guts to hang on to their hands. I just let go like.

You should have held on?

I should have tried to help them. That’s all I’m saying.

What about Will? What responsibility does he have?

I shrugged. At least he called the police. I gotta give him that. But he drove away and left them there.

But he came back. Why do you think he did that?

Guess he felt guilty.

Should he have?

Yeah, he killed my sisters.

I thought you killed your sisters.

The room felt a little hotter than when I’d arrived. Well, I guess we both did. It’s like leaving a loaded gun lying around and having a kid pick it up and pull the trigger, you know? The kid did
it, but it was the fault of the person who left the gun there. Like a double fault, if you know what I mean.

So you don’t think you’re totally to blame for the accident?

They’re totally dead, so it doesn’t really matter. I still should have held on. Maybe if I had, they wouldn’t both be gone.

A week later I awoke to a knock at the front door and a deep voice trying to explain something to my mother. At first, I thought it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses back for another talk with my mother. There seemed to be no end to the visits they paid to her and other people in the community.

I lay there, watching a cloud pass the window, one of those slow-moving ones that would probably stay the entire day. A hole opened in the middle of it as if some astronaut would appear soon and drop through.

The conversation in the next room was not theological but legal in nature, and the man’s voice grew more strained.

My mother, who had tried to keep things as quiet as possible while I slept during the day (I had not broken the habit of sleeping days and working nights), was uncharacteristically loud. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice turning to a whine. “This is impossible. I’ve paid taxes on this land for longer than you’ve been born.”

“I’m sure you have. But the fair market value will be paid—”

“How do you calculate fair market value of all I’ve invested in this place? or Will’s work back on the hill?”

I walked into the room scratching my head, picking at the scab. Splotches of blood marked my pillow each morning. “What’s going on?”

The man at the door wore a bad suit, and his hair was slicked from one side to the other, hiding a bald spot. He had a high forehead and beady eyes like some little animal kicked out of the nest to fly when it wasn’t quite ready.

My mother held out a piece of paper with a shaky hand. “Will, he says they’re going to take our land. Just up and take it with a court order.”

The man looked at me with those small eyes, as if I were supposed to help him explain things to my mother. “Eminent domain,” he finally said. “The town passed an ordinance last night saying this land was to be condemned and taken in the public interest.”

I read the document. “What public interest?”

“I won’t go into all the legalese, but there’s really nothing you can do at this point. The decision’s been made.”

“What possible good could this land be to Dogwood?” my mother snapped. “What’s the compelling interest?”

He looked at me instead of my mother, as if someone had told him this might not be the easiest job he would have today. At the end of the driveway was a police cruiser, and I recognized Bobby Ray. He’d been sent as backup, I guessed.

“I’m very sorry this has come as a surprise, ma’am. I was just told to deliver this and explain it as best I could so you could make other arrangements as quickly as possible.”

“Make other arrangements?” my mother squealed. “How dare you say—?”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep your cool, Mama.” Then I said to the man, “Thanks for coming by. We’ll take it from here.”

The relief that spread over his face was immediate and complete. “Yes, well, have a good day.”

I closed the door before he could say anything more trite.

“But, Will, could there be oil here? a coal seam? What? Why would they want this property?”

“It’s not about this property or what’s under the ground. They don’t want me here, and I can’t say I blame them.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.”