Bill Clegg - Did You Ever Have A Family

There had been rumors right away about Luke causing the explosion. The day we left Wells, the woman at the front desk at the Betsy told us she always knew something terrible was going to happen the moment she heard Lydia Hannafin’s boy moved into June Reid’s house. Bound to end badly, she said, shaking her head and sounding perversely satisfied. The four of us stayed quiet and left the small lobby as quickly as possible.

We chose to believe that what happened was a horrible accident, nothing more and nothing less. Anyone who had ever been in that kitchen knows it had to have been something to do with the stove. It looked like something from the Depression era. Rusty and white, tilting at an angle. I remember the afternoon before the rehearsal watching June fussing over one of the burners to boil water for tea, muttering when it wouldn’t light right away. If I blame anyone, it’s June. She should have taken care to replace that treacherous appliance. It was so clearly not safe. She had the means, and the rest of the property was well maintained, meticulous even. I try not to think about it, but at times I catch myself wondering how on earth could she have missed this one thing. How could she have been so careless? Knowing that June must agonize over these same questions dulls with pity, but does not eradicate, the anger I can still feel.

What was left of that old stove, the house, and any clues to what exactly caused the explosion were destroyed the day after the accident, bulldozed and dragged away by the state, though no one knew why. Our family is certain that Luke did not set out to hurt anyone. He was a decent man, and despite tensions in the house that night and even the days before, he was no killer. If it was due to some carelessness on his part, the boy paid a high price and God bless his tortured soul. His time in jail and his being black made him an easy scapegoat in that town, which you could hardly call racially diverse. Will, who planned on becoming a public defender in communities that didn’t have adequate representation, would have been livid to see how swiftly the finger was pointed. So with so much unknown, our family chose to follow Will’s lead and let go of any theories or blame. This doesn’t mean we haven’t suffered, we have. And it doesn’t mean we’ve found peace.

After we returned to Portland, there was a period when Mike wouldn’t speak to us because we hadn’t pressed for more of an investigation right after the accident. He insisted we hire a lawyer to sue the fire department, or the town, I can’t remember now exactly who he had in his crosshairs. Maybe we should have. But when I question our choice to walk away, I realize that whatever punishment we might have unleashed on the clumsy small-town officials responsible for destroying our chance for answers, or even if through some great show of force or determination or luck we actually found out what happened that night, there would be no changing the awful truth: Will is gone. We will never again see or hear or be with our magical son.

Mike has come around, but it’s still not easy. We see him less, but Mimi and I know it’s just for now. Pru has taken time away from graduate school and moved back home. Her friends from Moclips and college call and occasionally drop by, but she keeps to herself, reads novels she’s read before at the kitchen table until after midnight and sleeps in late. For now, we just give her space and let her be. And Mimi and I still teach — her third grade and me fifth — and we do what we’ve done for years: encourage and discipline, scribble what needs to be learned on chalkboards, and keep watch as the young people who come under our care for a short while hurry by on their way to the world.

We talk less now. There are car rides and Sunday mornings and entire meals when Mimi and I don’t speak a word to each other. Not out of anger or punishment, but we’ve learned that grief can sometimes get loud, and when it does, we try not to speak over it.

I’m ashamed to remember that we did not reach out to Lydia sooner than we did. Good reason or not, we kept our distance from her in those unreal days between what happened and the funerals. She lost her son the same way we had, and still we had no words for her. When we spoke in January, I told her I was sorry it had been so long since she’d heard from us, and that she had been and would continue to be in our prayers. I asked her to let us know if June turned up, and she said of course and I promised the same. We stayed on the line for a few breaths of uncomfortable silence, and then we said good-bye.

A month later, from the Moonstone, Mimi dialed Lydia’s number again, but it just rang and rang. We tried a few more times but each time it was the same. This was the day after we checked in, when we first saw June. It was early, and Mimi and I had been up and showered and getting ready to go for a walk down the beach and around the old neighborhood. Just before we left the room, we saw June cross like a ghost in front of our window. She was wearing the same clothes she wore the night of the rehearsal and the unreal days after. It was just a moment, but she looked the same, only thinner, less animated. We didn’t see her again until that evening, just after the sun had gone down. The four of us had walked to the water’s edge at sunset to spread Will’s ashes. The surf was rough and the cloud cover was thick, so there was no grand ceremonial sunset as we’d hoped. Just the chilly surf and a pewter sky and Pru, knee-deep in the ocean, shaking the small ceramic container where we’d kept Will’s ashes all year. Once the last bit of ash had finally disappeared, Pru came back to where we stood on the beach. We circled her and, with Mike, threw our arms around each other and we wept. We stood together for a long time. I’ve never been one to go to church, but I’ve always believed in a creative intelligence behind the ongoing riddle of the world. To that great force I prayed to guide Will’s soul wherever it was and to protect my family. The second prayer was a selfish one. Shoulder to shoulder on that beach I couldn’t bear the idea of losing any of them. Yet I knew we would, one by one, lose each other. Life never felt so gifted. Mike let go first and nudged us away from the encroaching water. Reluctantly, I let go, too, and we began to make our way back to our rooms.

A light mist was in the gusting wind, and by the time we reached the Moonstone we were drenched. The lights in Room 6 were on, and as we neared the building, we saw Cissy step out the door, shut it behind her, and head toward home. Before the door was closed all the way, we could see June, arms across her chest, standing very still. She did not see us, nor did Cissy. How strange it was to see such a significant figure from Will’s past, from ours, leaving June Reid’s room. And how strange that Cissy hadn’t come by to see us since Rebecca and Kelly must have told her we’d checked in. Whatever her reasons, when Mimi and I got back to the room that night, we tried Lydia’s number one more time, only to hear it ring without answer. Mimi pulled a pen from her purse and began writing a note on the small pad of Moonstone stationery. We’d get an envelope and stamp from Kelly the next morning and post it to Lydia with an address no more specific than Main Street, Wells, Connecticut. We hoped it would find her.

The kitchen is dark. A tinny laugh track from the TV in the apartment upstairs spells the silence. Lydia pulls her chair closer to the kitchen table, and as she does, it softly scrapes the floor. She holds the receiver to her ear with both hands and asks Winton if he is still there.

Always, he answers calmly, as if he’s been waiting to say this exact word.

Good… just stay there. Lydia draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly. She’s still shaking from her run-in on the sidewalk with the boy who must be Kathleen Riley’s son and the woman who slapped her minutes ago, but she’s not afraid. She closes her eyes as she speaks.