Timothy Johnston - The Current

“That’s OK,” Marky said, “I’ll give it to him when he calls,” and he stripped the paper from the pad and folded it once and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt just as the glass door swung open and Mr. Wabash walked in.

“Thank you, Marky,” the girl said.

“You’re welcome.”

Mr. Wabash stepped behind the counter. He gave Marky a look and turned to the girl. “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”

“No, thank you. I’m all set.”

“Something wrong with your car, there?”

“No, sir. I just came in to talk to Marky.”

“Talk to Marky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you need to talk to my employee for?”

“I’m sorry—I think that’s between him and me.”

Mr. Wabash looked at her. He ran his finger over his mustache like a comb. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be talking to him on my time, hey?”

“Sir?”

“I pay my guys to work on cars, not stand around answering your questions. Like this boy could tell you anything anyhow.”

She looked at Marky and he saw that she felt bad that she’d come in, saw that she wanted to tell him how sorry she was to get him into trouble, and he wanted to tell her it was OK, but he couldn’t say anything as long as Mr. Wabash was standing there.

“I know who you are,” Mr. Wabash said. “And I got a pretty good idea this has to do with this boy’s brother. Am I right about that?”

“I’ll just go now,” the girl said, still looking at Marky, giving him a smile, and Marky raised his hand slightly but that was all, and the girl turned and went back out the door, and he and Mr. Wabash watched her get back into the Ford, and they watched as she pulled out of the lot and drove away, and then Mr. Wabash turned to look at Marky.

“Well?” he said. “What the heck did she want with you? Was it about your brother?”

He didn’t want to lie but he didn’t want to tell Mr. Wabash something that wasn’t any of his business either.

“I better go help Jeff Mister Wabash.”

Mr. Wabash frowned. He shook his head. “Yeah, you go do that, Marky.”

And Marky did that, and now it was 3:45 and Danny hadn’t called.

SHE WAS REACHING for the doorbell button when the inside door swept open and he appeared in the window of the stormdoor, his face clear for just a moment before the glass began to fog. Rachel raised her hand to him and he opened the stormdoor and she knew before she got a good look at him that he’d not bathed or put on fresh clothes that day, though it was nearly sundown.

“Gordon,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No, bother,” he said, and stood looking at her, his face pale and bristly. A redness in his eyes. Her heart was beating. It was too much like it had been ten years ago, when he did not even seem to recognize her.

“Do you think I might come inside, for just a minute…?”

“Oh,” he said. “Sure,” and he opened up the door, and she wiped her bootsoles carefully on the welcome mat and stepped in.

No lights on in the kitchen but light enough from the window to see it all as it had been: the yellow-and-blue-tiled counter, the same coffee maker, the deep sink where she and Meredith had stood rinsing dishes and looking out at the summer dusk; the round oak table where they’d sat drinking coffee or sometimes wine while the men watched football and the kids thumped about upstairs in Holly’s room.

“Sit,” he said, and as she moved to the table something crunched under her boots, bits of cornflake maybe, or cookie crumbs. The broom stood leaning against the counter, as if he’d begun to sweep but had become distracted, perhaps by her arrival. The garbage had gone sour, and there was the smell of woodsmoke too. From where she sat she saw the coals pulsing in the darkness of the living room, the curtains drawn, the face of the TV black and empty.

He went to the counter and began to set dirty plates into the sink. He poured out the old coffee and she said, “Please, don’t bother. Could you just…?” and she looked at the broom again, and then she looked at the space beside the refrigerator where it had always been kept and there was something else there, set back into the recess but not far enough that it could not be easily reached. It was a hunting rifle. She never knew he owned one.

She looked away and found him watching her, the empty coffeepot in his hand.

“Can you just sit down with me for a minute?” she said. “Please?”

IT WAS DARKER in the kitchen when she’d finished. The coals in the living room had gone black and there was no sound in the house other than the sounds she and Gordon made themselves, clearing their throats, shifting in their chairs. The three sheets of stationery lay faceup on the table and beside them lay the white square of cloth. Gordon’s hands rested on the edge of the table, one hand folded over the knuckles of the other.

“Well,” he said at last. “It wasn’t me who shot at him. If that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” she said. “That never even occurred to me, Gordon.”

The refrigerator was in the corner of her eye but she would not look at it; would not look away from his face.

“Where has he gone?” he said.

“I don’t know. As far from here as he can get, I suppose. He’s not answering his phone.”

Gordon nodded. “Don’t worry, Rachel,” he said, but it sounded to her like something one was expected to say at such times. He was staring at the piece of cloth.

“Do you recognize it?” she said.

“I saw it when he showed it to me. Last week, I guess that was.”

“I mean before that. From back then.”

Gordon frowned. “The better question is, do you?” he said. “It was you who bought the blouse.”

She stared at the cloth. “When I first saw it I was so sure. Now that I see it again here… I mean, it’s a silk pocket.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t swear to it, Gordon.”

“You wouldn’t have to. That blouse is still in a bag somewheres in the sheriff’s evidence room. Wouldn’t take much to match it up.”

“There could be DNA on it,” she said hopefully.

“Yes,” he said. “Could be. Could be Danny’s. Could be yours. Could be mine.”

“Could be that deputy’s.”

He stared at the silk cloth. As if to see the DNA himself.

“There’s something else,” she said. “Something not in the letter. Something Danny didn’t even know about.”

Gordon was silent, watching her with eyes that had seen too much, knew too much, and that now waited to know a little more, and she stopped herself. Did she have to say it? Did he have to know this too?

“Do you remember a girl named Katie Goss?” she said.

“I remember that name.”

“She was his girlfriend at the time. Danny’s girlfriend.”

Gordon said nothing, and Rachel went ahead in a rush—telling him about Audrey going up to Rochester, telling him what Audrey had not told her, Rachel, not in so many words but which anyone—any woman—would know just by looking at the girl. That Moran had raped Katie Goss.

Gordon looked down at his hands.

She watched him, her heart pounding.

“Gordon…”

He looked at his hands—at one fist wrapped in the other, a great tight ball of knuckles.

“Gordon,” she said again, but he would not look up. “Gordon, we have to try, don’t we?”

He said nothing. Staring at those fists.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” he said at last, without looking up. “But you won’t like it.”

“Tell me.”

He unclenched his hands and flattened them on the table, one to either side of the piece of cloth. He looked up.