Rene Gutteridge - Listen

Frank noticed movement and shouting near the kitchen. He squeezed around a small crowd of firefighters to where two EMTs were hunched over someone.

He assumed it was Darla. Her feet, shoeless but with pink socks, were barely visible at the moment. Her left hand outstretched on the kitchen tile, frozen in a clawlike grip.

“Save her! Please!” Tim’s shrill voice punctured through tense noises of the room.

What could’ve happened here?

“Frank,” said a calm voice behind him. Grayson.

“What in the world is going on?”

The captain’s tone was somber. He glanced at Darla on the floor and then at Tim. “He lost his temper. That’s what he’s telling us. He was asking for the officer he first talked to. He couldn’t remember your name.”

Frank turned back to Darla. As the EMTs moved around her, he saw glimpses of her shirt, bloodied. Her chin also bloodied.

“He apparently threw a remote control. It hit her skull. He claims it was an accident, that she stepped right in his line of fire.” Grayson pointed to the remote, shattered into pieces on the kitchen floor.

“Is she going to make it?” Frank whispered, still trying to get a better glimpse of Darla.

“I don’t know. She’s going into seizures. They’re trying to stabilize her.”

Suddenly Tim was pulled off the couch and to his feet by the officers.

Frank faced Grayson. “Let me have a couple of minutes with him, will you? Before Murray gets to him?”

Grayson looked hesitant.

“I won’t interfere. I just want to talk with him for a second. He did ask for me.”

“All right, but make it quick.” Grayson motioned for the officers to leave Tim.

Frank sat on the couch and pulled Tim back down. “What happened?” Frank asked.

Tim gasped for air, but no words came out.

“I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Tim asked, unable to take his eyes off her.

“I don’t know. They’re trying their best.”

Suddenly the EMTs lifted her onto the stretcher and raised it. “Clear the way!” one of them shouted. They rolled past them in the living room, one of the EMTs holding up an IV bag. Frank still couldn’t get a good sense of how bad it was, but by the way they were rushing her out, it couldn’t be good. They both watched through the front window as she was rolled down the sidewalk and quickly put into the ambulance. The sirens blared through the house, but soon enough the sound was distant.

“What happened?” Frank repeated.

Tim sobbed into his hands again, and Frank could barely make out what he was saying. “I just lost it. I thought… I thought Darla told.”

“Told what?”

Tim finally looked up at Frank, his face a splotchy mess of emotion. “I thought she told the Caldwells what I’d said.” His bloodshot eyes glared at the handcuffs. “How else could anyone know what we said?”

“What did she say?”

“She denied it. She said she would never do that. But,” Tim said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “what was on that Web site… it’s exactly what I said. Exactly. Verbatim. She was the only person in the room. How could that be?”

“Tell me what happened here tonight.”

Tim tried to gather himself, taking two deep breaths and squeezing his handcuffed hands like he was accustomed to using them when he talked. “We got into an argument. I accused Darla of telling the Caldwells. She said she didn’t. It just got more and more heated. She accused me of some things… of never knowing when to shut up.” He sniffled. “Which is true. My mouth and my ego, they kind of get in the way sometimes. And… people are talking. About us. About me.”

“Then what happened?”

Tim covered his eyes as if he were being forced to watch it all over again. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so enraged. I couldn’t imagine how all this was happening.” He looked toward the kitchen, his gaze glued to the floor where blood was smeared across the white and gray tile. “There was the remote sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up. Darla said something-I can’t even remember what now-and I turned and threw it. I think she had moved; I’m not sure. It hit her… right…” Shaking fingers moved to his skull, just above his right ear.

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes.”

Grayson walked back in. “Let’s get him to the station, Merret.”

Frank helped Tim to his feet and handed him over to two officers behind Grayson. They led him out of the house.

“What a mess,” Grayson said. “That guy’s going to do some heavy time. All for losing his temper. Did you get anything useful?”

“He definitely did it. But it sounds like he didn’t mean to hit her with the remote.”

“Yeah, well, he can explain that to a judge. I’m going home.”

Grayson and Frank walked out of the house. Frank tried to find Damien in the crowd, then noticed Reverend Caldwell walking straight toward him.

“Reverend Caldwell,” Frank said.

The reverend put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, lowered his voice. “I’ve known this man for a long time. I know what he did in there, but that’s out of character.”

Frank sighed, searching the reverend’s pleading eyes. “I understand, sir. But this is not working in his favor. He assaulted his wife.”

“I know. I know. This is very bad. All of it. But I know this man. And I know he’s not what everyone is saying he is.”

“What is everyone saying?”

“Empty words. Accusations.” A sadness swept over the reverend’s expression. “We’re neighbors. We’re supposed to look after one another.” He gestured toward the Shaws’ house. “All this over a conversation. We humans can tame animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue.”

Reverend Caldwell’s words crawled over Frank’s flesh. All that could be heard was the low, fretful murmuring of the nearby crowd.

“Officer? Are you all right?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Damien stood in the middle of the street for a moment, taking it all in. He wanted a complete picture for the story, which included the setting-a quiet neighborhood in Marlo, just two blocks from their world-famous chocolate shop, erupting in violence on what on any ordinary day would be a playful, tranquil street. Damien noticed a crowd gathered on the lawn directly across from where the incident took place, whatever that incident might be.

A stretcher with medical personnel around it had made a hasty exit out of the home on the left. He caught a glimpse of a woman lying on it as they wheeled her toward the ambulance. The EMTs were in a hurry to get her loaded. A couple of firefighters helped lift the stretcher.

Damien took out his notepad and wrote down a few words to help him remember the moment. Yeah, he knew, this was supposed to be investigative reporting, but cold, hard facts don’t always tell the complete story.

At least, in his opinion.

The wailing sirens of the ambulance caused him to shiver. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t good. Wasn’t right. Through the glowing front window of the home where the lady was taken from, he saw Frank pass by, hands on his hips, a strangely fierce look on his face.

He decided to see if someone from the crowd would talk to him. He pulled his newspaper ID badge from his wallet and clipped it on his shirt. Just a few short steps toward them already drew attention. They all stared as he approached.

He smiled pleasantly but not eagerly. “Hi, folks. I’m Damien Underwood from the paper. Can I ask some of you a few questions?”

An elderly woman with a tight expression sized him up. “From the paper, you say? Underwood? Don’t you write those opinion pieces?”

“Yes.”

“And crosswords,” someone else said. “A little easy for my taste.”