Something True (23 page)

“He does,” Maggie said. “Go out where?”

“He's living outside of town, off the old Logging Road 32. Supposedly. Some people says that he's out there with his sister. I don't know why a woman like that would spend a minute on him. She's Mennonite, you know. Not the kind of woman who comes in here, but a good person. Solid. Works as a nurse out in Newport.”

“Can you show us where the logging road is?” Maggie asked.

“I can. But I wouldn't go out there if I was you.”

“Do you think the police would go out with us?” Lill asked.

“Police? Who's hiring police around here?”

“They don't have police,” Vita said in a stage whisper. “It's like the Wild West. They probably shoot people for poaching.”

Janice laughed. “It's not that bad, but it's not that good neither. State police'll come if there's an incident, but there hasn't been an incident with Frank yet. We're all waiting. But so far, nothing.”

“We could file a missing person report,” Tate said.

“That's a fine idea, and that's what I would do too, if I could. But they're not gonna come out if she wrote her own note, saying she's wanting to be with him.”

“But he's a murderer,” Tate said.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Janice asked, putting her arm around Maggie's shoulders.

Lill, Maggie, Vita, and Janice all looked at Tate.

“You carry a gun?” Janice asked.

“Of course not,” Tate said.

“But you want to talk to Frank Jackson?” Janice asked.

“Not really,” Tate said.

“But we have to,” Maggie added. “It's our responsibility as women, as the collective mothers and protectors of our community.”

“Krystal's twenty, but she's a child.” Tate sighed.

“Well…” Janice dragged the word out over three syllables. “I can take you up to Road 32, to the gate. That's an old logging road. You gotta walk the rest of the way. You sure you don't want to pick up a gun first? That's the language Frank understands.”

Tate sighed and shook her head. That might be the language Frank understood, but it wasn't a language she spoke.

After lunch, they piled into Lill's van and followed Janice's faded, orange pickup truck deeper into the foothills than Tate thought one could possibly go. Finally, Janice stopped. Ahead, Tate saw a metal gate locked across the road.

Tate was starting to wish she had picked up a gun.

“Close as I know, Frank lives about a mile up and off on a side road,” Janice said, pointing to the gate. “It's probably not marked, but there's only one road come off the main drag. You sure you want to do this?”

Tate was not sure. Everyone was looking at her. And suddenly it occurred to her that they weren't coming along. She had envisioned the whole gang trouping up to Frank Jackson's house. In her mind, she had stood at the front, the first to call out, the first to get killed. But they were in it together. Now she noticed that Vita was still wearing last night's stilettos. Lill had on flip-flops. And Maggie, for all her political fervor and her leftist battle cries, was an old woman. Her shoulders slouched, and she swayed when she stood up quickly. She was not going to clamber up the coastal foothills.

The forest crackled with life. To Tate it sounded like twigs snapping beneath the footsteps of the murderous Frank Jackson.

“You're frickin' crazy,” Vita said.

Lill pressed the xeroxed court decisions into Tate's chest like a talisman.

“Remember,” she said. “This man has killed.”

Tate rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

Tate set off up the hill. Each rocky step sent a crack of pain through her foot and up her leg. After a hundred meters, she broke off a sapling from the side of the trail to use as a cane. But the pain in her foot had kept her from focusing all of her brainpower on her own imminent death. The walking stick lessened the pain, but that freed up more brain space for Frank Jackson.

Eventually, she came to the footpath that led off the main logging road. For several meters, there was no sign of human habitation. But eventually, she thought she heard the shriek of a small child. She froze and listened, but there was only the creak of the forest as cool wind blew down the hill.

She took a few steps forward. Through the trees she made out the gray of weathered boards. She took a step forward, and another. Each time she paused, she leaned against the far side of a tree, hoping to conceal herself for as long as possible.

Eventually, she arrived at the edge of a clearing. In front of her, a single sheet flapped on a clothesline. Behind that stood a tall, weathered house. The paint was long gone. The windows were small squares.

She dropped her walking staff, so it would be evident she was unarmed, and stepped into the clearing.

The sheet flapped on the clothesline, obscuring the front door. Behind the noise of its movement, she heard a sound she knew only from late-night TV drama: the sound of someone cocking a shotgun. And like a character from the same late-night drama, she saw her life flash before her eyes—not so much a story as a few fleeting images. Vita standing in front of a burning porch. Maggie handing her a plate of cookies. The lights dimming in a lecture hall at PSU. The espresso machine hissing at Out Coffee. Laura's face lit by the light of Palm Springs.

She heard another authoritative click as metal met metal.

D
on't shoot!” Tate said.

The tip of a rifle appeared at the corner of the sheet and threw it back.

Standing before Tate was a woman of about fifty in a long dress, white sneakers, and white mesh cap over her hair.

“Who are you?” The woman's face was plain and clean, and her lips were set in a thin line.

“Tate Grafton, Portland barista.” Tate raised her hands to show her good intentions. “I'm looking for Krystal Jackson. I'm a friend of hers. I just want to talk to her.”

Slowly the muzzle of the rifle came away from Tate's chest. The woman eyed her from her boots to her labrys tattoo.

“You look like a friend of Krystal's.” It did not sound like a compliment. “What's your business with her?”

This must be Frank Jackson's Mennonite sister
, Tate thought. She was not sure how honest to be. Perhaps blood
was
thicker than water. Perhaps this godly woman would not appreciate the fact that Tate had come to rescue Krystal from her brother.

“I'm worried about her,” Tate said.

“I asked Krystal if she left any loose ends in Portland. She said no. Would you call yourself loose ends?”

“Maybe.”

“Meaning?”

“Krystal's been living with my friend, Maggie. We had a disagreement. Krystal left us a note, and said she'd gone to see her father.”

“And you're worried 'bout what my brother might do to her now he's been released.”

It wasn't a question, and Tate did not bother denying.

“You better come in,” the woman added.

Tate approached the house slowly. Inside it was as quiet as the forest beyond. It took her a moment to realize what was missing: TV, radio, the hum of a refrigerator. There was only the slightly muffled sound of the wind.

“Sit,” the woman said.

The woman took a seat at the table across from her. She was silent for a long time.

Finally, she said, “There are a lot of people lookin' for my brother, lot of people who aren't celebrating his homecoming.”

“I'm sorry,” Tate said.

“Ran into some men down in town said they was looking for Frank, said he owed them a debt. They said they'd come looking for him if he didn't get them their money. I told them the only debt Frank owes he paid to the state of Oregon. Rest is up to the Lord. But they'll be back. I know they will. That's why I have the shotgun. Didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't,” Tate said reflexively. “Well you did, but I understand.”

“I'm not sure you do.”

The silence stretched between them.

“No. You're probably right.”

She's killed him
, Tate thought. She's killed Frank and Krystal, and now she's going to kill me.

A pale-faced boy of about six appeared at the window in the back door, startling Tate with his ghostly appearance.

“It's okay. Come in, son,” Frank's sister called. “My Zacharia won't leave my side, never does.”

The boy pushed open the door and ran across the kitchen on bare feet. He buried his head in his mother's lap.

“She's not one of the bad men I told you about,” the woman said to him.

“When are they coming?” the boy spoke into her skirts.

“We don't know when they're coming, but you know what to do when you hear someone.”

“Hide,” the boy said and began to cry.

The woman pushed him off her, rather roughly for Tate's taste.

“What did I tell you? I told you you could be a grown boy or you could stay with Miss Aster from church. Which'll it be?”

“I want to stay with you.” The boy sniffed, the effort to hold back tears turning his face red.

“And what do you do if you hear someone who isn't Uncle Frank or New Sister?”

“Hide in the root cellar and don't come out 'til I hear someone I knowed.”

The woman patted his head.

“Okay. Go bring in your toys.” To Tate she said, “Miss Grafton?”

“Yes.”

“You came here to see Krystal. I think it's time you see Frank too.”

Tate followed Frank Jackson's sister up a flight of stairs as steep as a ladder. The top of the stairs opened onto a narrow corridor with two closed doors. The space was dark, except for a small window at the end of the hallway. Tate noticed something else that was missing. Light fixtures. She scanned the baseboards—no sockets. Above their heads only the stained plaster. There was no electricity. She opened her mouth to comment, then closed it.

“In here,” the woman said, knocking gently on one door, then pushing it open. The room hung heavy with the scent of disinfectant, urine, and, over that, something like sage. As Tate's eyes adjusted to the dark she saw a plain room, like an Andrew Wyeth painting. Curtains were drawn over the window. In the middle of the room stood a bed. In it lay the remains of a man, like someone who had starved or desiccated.

“Tate!”

A voice from the corner of the room startled her. It was Krystal, dressed in a loose gown and wearing a handkerchief over her hair. Tate rushed over. Krystal flew into her arms.

“Are you all right? We were so worried.” Tate squeezed her.

“Shhh,” the sister said. “He's resting quietly.”

“I'm sorry, Sarah,” Krystal said, falling out of Tate's embrace. “Sarah, you met my friend Tate.” Krystal clasped her hands and looked down.

“You said no loose ends, Krystal,” Sarah said. “You told me you'd made your peace with everyone you was leaving behind.”

“I did,” Krystal mumbled.

“Well, clearly you didn't because she's here. We got too many loose ends here already.”

“I wrote a letter.”

“Then you didn't say what needed saying.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The transformation was shocking. Gone were the pink pigtails. Gone was the bubble-gum-pink lipstick, the Hello Kitty purse, and the eighteen-buckle boots.

“Are you okay?” Tate asked again, trying to catch Krystal's eye so Krystal could signal her unspoken distress. Krystal met her eyes, but there was no hidden message.

“This is my father,” she said. “They let him out because he has liver cancer. They let him out because it was too expensive to take care of him in prison, and they wanted him to die.” She looked at the bed, her face a mask of grief. “How could they do that, Tate?”

Sarah put her hand on Krystal's shoulder.

“He'll be with God soon.”

“But I want him to be with me.”

Sarah frowned.

The figure in the bed stirred. Tate jumped.

“Is he in pain?” Tate asked.

“No,” Sarah said.

“Sarah's a hospice nurse. She takes care of people like him.”

Tate heard pride in Krystal's voice.

“How long does he have?” Tate asked.

“Krystal-Anne, go downstairs and fetch a glass of water and make sure Brother Zacharia isn't playing with the chickens.”

When Krystal had disappeared downstairs, Sarah sat wearily in a faded wingback armchair.

“About a week. Less probably. He's just using up the last of his air. That's what my gram used to say. It's one last, long sigh, this part of life is.”

Gingerly, Tate lowered herself into a facing chair. In the dim light, Sarah looked older and less stern. She rubbed her hands together and gazed past Tate.

“I knew it would come down to this. Him dying and the rest of the family not knowing to grieve or to just thank the Lord for a safe passage. But I didn't figure on her.” She glanced toward the door.

“Krystal was in foster care since she was ten,” Tate said.

“Probably for the best. Frank had the devil in him,” Sarah said, as though Tate were not in the room.

“Why are you taking care of him here?”

“He's my brother.”

Blood is thicker than water
, Tate thought and felt glad that she had picked her family. At the same time, she appreciated something in Sarah's plain speech. It was clear: In her world there were some things one had to do out of duty because honor called for it. Perhaps Sarah wasn't that different from Laura. Weren't these the same reasons Laura had pushed her into the closet? Wasn't it all because of her family's greater calling?

“You could put him in a hospital,” Tate said.

“God brought him back to me for a reason.”

Krystal appeared with the water.

“Maybe so I'd meet Krystal-Anne,” Sarah added. “Set that water down for your father then come and talk to your Miss Grafton.”

“Tate,” Tate said.

Sarah gave her a closed smile and said nothing.

“Tell her what your plans are,” Sarah said to Krystal.

“I'm going to stay here with my dad,” Krystal said.

Tate hesitated.

“And after…?” she asked.

“I'm going to learn about my family.”

“What about your GED?” Tate asked.

“We'll see to it she gets her education,” Sarah said.

“I'm going to be a certified nursing assistant like my cousin Louisa.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Tate held Krystal's gaze again. “Maggie is down at the foot of that logging road, and she's waiting to take you home if you want to go. No one cares about those videos.”

“I didn't post those videos.”

“No one cares if you did,” Tate said.

“Well, I'm staying.”

Tate looked from Krystal to Sarah.

“Back home there are people who care about you. Maggie thinks of you like a daughter.”

“I'm his daughter!” Krystal pointed toward her father.

Tate stared at the man in the bed. There was so little left of him. It was hard to imagine that he was anyone's father, but Krystal sounded as certain as she had ever been about anything.

“He is my father,” Krystal said.

Tate tried to picture Krystal's life. She could stay with Sarah and wear a modest dress in a house without electricity. She could be a CNA and tend to the sick with Christian devotion. Maybe she would marry a logger and have a brood of children. Or maybe she would walk back down the hill, dye her hair Crayola purple, and spend her twenties barhopping and taking anthropology classes at community college. Maybe she would start her own coffee shop or become an activist or meet a girl and join the Peace Corps. Tate thought,
This is the moment when you choose.

What about the choices she had made? What would have happened if she had picked her studies over Maggie's coffee shop? What if she had waited in Laura's closet? For that matter, what if she had tolerated her stepbrother's abuse, stayed in the house, lived with her mother? There was no way to know. It seemed to Tate one simply had to walk blindly forward into the world, hoping for solid ground.

“I won't force you to come back,” Tate said. “But please, will you at least write to Maggie and let her know you're okay? She's so worried.”

“You can tell her,” Krystal said. “I can't tell her. I know what she's done for me, but I can't be her daughter like that.”

“She'll write,” Sarah said. “I'll see to it she appreciates those that helped her when she needed helping. Now, Miss Grafton, I think you'd better go.”

They were halfway down the stairs when Tate heard the sound of branches snapping and an engine roaring. A second later, the little boy flew into his mother's skirts.

“They're here,” he said, his voice muffled. “They're here. The bad men who want to take Uncle Frank.”

“Get back in the cellar,” Sarah barked. “Krystal, you lock yourself in your father's room. Stay away from that window.”

Tate followed Sarah down the stairs, but when she reached the bottom step her bad leg buckled beneath her and she sank to the ground. Cowering in the stairwell, unsure whether to fight or flee, and unsure how she would go about either one, she wished that she and Krystal were in the root cellar with the boy, but it was too late.

Through the brown lace of the front curtain she could see the grille of an enormous vehicle, the chrome like shining teeth. The engine growled to a stop. A car door slammed. Hard, angry footsteps marched up the wooden stairs outside. Sarah grabbed the shotgun and braced herself against the kitchen table, the rifle trained on the door. The door flew open.

At first, Tate thought she was hallucinating. Perhaps the sound she had taken for the door slamming against the wall was really a gunshot. She touched her chest. Perhaps she had been shot. This must be a last, fading dream, for it appeared to be Laura Enfield bursting through the door in high heels, a navy skirt suit, and too much gold jewelry.

“Laura!”

It did not make sense. She looked like a cutout from a magazine pasted on the Andrew Wyeth painting that was Sarah's house. And she was walking directly into the muzzle of Sarah's shotgun.

“This is unnecessary,” Laura said, as though this was a business meeting she could control with a stern tone. “Put that thing down before you kill someone.”

“Get back,” Sarah said.

“Drop the gun.”

Tate heard the ominous click of metal locking into place.

“Sarah, no!” Tate yelled. “I know her.”

“I said put it down,” Laura barked.

Tate watched the next seconds in slow motion. Laura reached for the shotgun. Sarah took a step back and stumbled against the table. A shot rang out. Instinctively Tate closed her eyes. One arm flew up to cover her face. She heard Laura yell “No!” Then a painful ringing silence followed the shot.