The Best of Me (7 page)

Two miles from the outskirts of Oriental—and the curve he’d never forget—Dawson spotted the old gravel turnoff that led to the family land and automatically found himself thinking about his father. When Dawson was in the county jail awaiting trial, a guard had appeared suddenly and informed him that he had a visitor. A minute later, his father was standing before him, chewing on a toothpick.

“Runnin’ off, seeing that rich girl, making plans. And where do you end up? In jail.” He saw the malicious glee in his father’s expression. “You thought you was better than me, but you ain’t. You’re just like me.”

Dawson said nothing, feeling something close to hatred as he glared at his father from the corner of his cell. He vowed then and there that whatever happened, he would never speak to his father again.

There was no trial. Against the advice of the public defender, Dawson pleaded guilty, and against the advice of the prosecutor, he was given the maximum sentence. At Caledonia Correctional in Halifax, North Carolina, he worked on the prison farm, helping to grow corn, wheat, cotton, and soybeans, sweating beneath a blistering dog-day sun as he harvested or freezing in icy northern winds as he tilled. Though he corresponded with Tuck through the mail, in four years he never had a single visitor.

After his release, Dawson was placed on parole and returned to Oriental. He worked for Tuck and heard the townsfolk’s whispers on his occasional supply runs to the automotive store. He knew he was a pariah, a no-good Cole who’d killed not only the Bennetts’ son-in-law but the town’s only doctor, and the guilt he felt was overwhelming. In those moments, he would pay a visit to a florist in New Bern, then later to the cemetery in Oriental where Dr. Bonner had been buried. He would place the flowers on the grave, either early in the morning or late at night, when few people were around. Sometimes he stayed for an hour or more, thinking about the wife and children Dr. Bonner had left behind. Other than that, he spent that year largely in the shadows, trying his best to stay out of sight.

His family wasn’t through with him, though. When his father came to the garage to start collecting Dawson’s money again, he brought Ted with him. His father had a shotgun, Ted had a baseball bat, but it was a mistake to have come without Abee. When Dawson told them to get off the property, Ted moved quickly but not quick enough: Four years of working in the sun-packed fields had hardened Dawson, and he was ready for them. He broke Ted’s nose and jaw with a crowbar and disarmed his father before cracking the old man’s ribs. While they were lying on the ground, Dawson aimed the shotgun at them, warning them not to come back. Ted wailed that he was going to kill him; Dawson’s father simply scowled. After that, Dawson slept with the shotgun by his side and seldom left the property. He knew they could have
come for him at any time, but fate is unpredictable. Crazy Ted ended up stabbing a man in a bar less than a week later and was hauled off to prison. And for whatever reason, his daddy never came back. Dawson didn’t question it. Instead, he counted the days until he would finally be able to leave Oriental, and when his parole ended he wrapped the shotgun in an oilcloth, boxed it up, and buried it at the foot of an oak tree near the corner of Tuck’s house. Afterward he packed his car, said good-bye to Tuck, and hit the highway, finally ending up in Charlotte. He found a job as a mechanic, and in the evenings he took classes in welding at the community college. From there, he made his way to Louisiana and took a job at a refinery. That eventually led to the job on the rigs.

Since his release he’d kept a low profile, and for the most part he was alone. He never visited friends because he didn’t have any. He hadn’t dated anyone since Amanda because, even now, she was all he could think about. To get close to someone, anyone, meant allowing that person to learn about his past, and the thought made him recoil. He was an ex-con from a family of criminals, and he’d killed a good man. Though he’d served his sentence and had tried to make amends ever since, he knew he’d never forgive himself for what he’d done.

Getting close now. Dawson was approaching the spot where Dr. Bonner had been killed. Vaguely, he noticed that the trees near the curve had been replaced by a low, squat building fronted by a gravel parking lot. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look.

Less than a minute later, he was in Oriental. He passed through downtown and crossed the bridge that spanned the confluence of Greens Creek and Smith Creek. As a boy, when trying to avoid his family, he’d often sit near the bridge, watching the sailboats and imagining the faraway harbors they might have visited and the places he one day wanted to go.

He slowed the car, as captivated by the view as he’d once been. The marina was crowded, and people were moving about on their boats, carrying coolers or untying the ropes that held their boats in place. Peering up at the trees, he could tell by the swaying branches that there was enough wind to keep the sails full, even if they intended to sail all the way to the coast.

In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed the bed-and-breakfast where he’d be staying, but he wasn’t ready to check in just yet. Instead, on the near side of the bridge, he pulled the car over and climbed out, relieved to stretch his legs. He vaguely wondered whether the delivery from the florist had arrived, but he supposed he’d find out soon enough. Turning toward the Neuse, he recalled that it was the widest river in the United States by the time it reached Pamlico Sound, a fact that few people knew. He’d won more than a few bets on that piece of trivia, especially on the rigs, where practically everyone guessed the Mississippi. Even in North Carolina it wasn’t common knowledge; it was Amanda who had first told him.

As always, he wondered about her: what she was doing, where she lived, what her daily life was like. That she was married, he had no doubt, and over the years he’d tried to imagine the kind of man she would have picked. Despite how well he’d known her, he couldn’t picture her laughing with or sleeping next to another man. He supposed it didn’t matter. The past can be escaped only by embracing something better, and he figured that was what she’d done. It seemed as though everyone else was able to, after all. Everyone had regrets and everyone had made mistakes, but Dawson’s mistake was different. It was strapped to his back forever, and he thought again of Dr. Bonner and the family he’d destroyed.

Staring out at the water, he suddenly regretted his decision to return. He knew that Marilyn Bonner still lived in town, but he didn’t want to see her, even inadvertently. And though his family would no doubt learn that he’d come back, he didn’t want to see them, either.

There was nothing here for him. Though he could understand why Tuck had made arrangements for the attorney to call him after he’d died, he couldn’t figure out why Tuck’s express wish had been for Dawson to return home. Since receiving the message, he’d turned the question over and over in his mind, but it didn’t make sense. Never once had Tuck asked him to come and visit; more than anyone, he knew what Dawson had left behind. Nor had Tuck ever traveled to Louisiana, and though Dawson wrote regularly to Tuck, he infrequently received a response. He had to think that Tuck had his reasons, whatever they might be, but right now he couldn’t figure them out.

He was about to return to the car when he noticed the now familiar flash of movement just beyond his periphery. He turned, trying without success to locate the source, but for the first time since he was rescued, the hairs on his neck started to prickle. There was something there, he suddenly knew, even if his mind couldn’t identify it. The setting sun glittered sharply off the water, making him squint. He shaded his eyes as he scanned the marina, taking in the scene. He spotted an elderly man and his wife pulling their sailboat into a slip; halfway down the dock, a shirtless man was peering into an engine compartment. He observed a few others as well: a middle-aged couple puttering around on a boat deck and a group of teenagers unloading a cooler after a day spent on the water. At the far end of the marina, another sailboat was pulling out, intent on capturing the late afternoon breeze—nothing unusual. He was about to turn away again when he spotted a dark-haired man wearing a blue windbreaker and staring in his direction. The man was standing at the foot of the dock and, like Dawson, was shading his eyes. As Dawson slowly lowered his hand, the dark-haired man’s movements mirrored his own. Dawson took a quick step backward; the stranger did the same. Dawson felt his breath catch as his heart hammered in his chest.

This isn’t real. It can’t be happening.

The sun was low behind him, making the stranger’s features difficult to discern, but despite the waning light Dawson was suddenly certain it was the man he’d seen first in the ocean and then again on the supply ship. He blinked rapidly, trying to bring the man into better focus. When his vision finally cleared, though, he saw only the outline of a post on the dock, fraying ropes tied at the top.

The sighting left Dawson rattled, and he suddenly felt the urge to go directly to Tuck’s place. It had been his refuge years before, and all at once he recalled the sense of peace he’d found there. Somehow he didn’t relish the thought of making small talk at the bed-and-breakfast as he checked in; he wanted to be alone to ponder the sighting of the dark-haired man. Either the concussion had been worse than the doctors had suspected or the doctors were right about the stress. As he edged back onto the road, he resolved to check with the doctors in Louisiana again, although he suspected they’d tell him the same thing they had before.

He pushed away the troubling thoughts and rolled down the window, breathing in the earthy scent of pine and brackish water as the road wound among the trees. A few minutes later, Dawson made the turn onto Tuck’s property. The car bounced along the rutted dirt drive, and as he rounded the corner the house came into view. To his surprise, a BMW was parked out front. He knew it wasn’t Tuck’s. It was too clean, for one thing, but more than that, Tuck would never have driven a foreign car, not because he didn’t trust the quality, but because he wouldn’t have had the metric tools he’d need to repair it. Besides, Tuck had always favored trucks, especially those built in the early 1960s. Over the years, he’d probably bought and restored half a dozen of them, driving them for a while before selling them to whoever happened to make an offer. For Tuck, it was less about the money than the restoration itself.

Dawson parked beside the BMW and stepped out of the car, surprised at how little the house had changed. The place had never been much more than a shack even when Dawson had been around, and there had always been a half-finished-and-in-need-of-repair appearance to the exterior. Amanda had once bought Tuck a flowering planter to spruce up the place, and it still stood in the corner of the porch, though the flowers had long since withered away. He could recall how excited she’d been when they’d presented Tuck with it, even if he hadn’t known quite what to make of it.

Dawson surveyed the area, watching a squirrel as it skittered along the branch of a dogwood tree. A cardinal called a warning from the trees, but other than that, the place seemed deserted. He started around the side of the house, walking toward the garage. It was cooler there, shaded by the pines. As he rounded the corner and stepped into the sun, he caught sight of a woman standing just inside the garage, examining what was probably the last classic car that Tuck had ever restored. His first thought was that she was probably from the attorney’s office, and he was about to call out a greeting when she suddenly turned around. His voice died in his throat.

Even from a distance, she was more beautiful than he remembered, and for what seemed an endless span of time, he couldn’t say anything. It occurred to him that he might be hallucinating again, but he slowly blinked and realized that he was wrong. She was real, and she was here, in the refuge that had once been theirs.