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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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walked along together. “About where it started.”
Suddenly I recalled the look on his face the afternoon it had happened. Even from a distance, as he’d climbed out of his truck and come toward me, I’d recognized the change that had come over him. His face was somehow more deeply lined, as if he’d aged instantly at the sight of her. But his voice, in its wounded bafflement and incomprehension, still sounded young.
“Ben, something bad … Kelli … something really bad.”
I glanced toward the line of white roses he’d planted along the fence of his backyard. “I guess everything has a beginning.” I spoke almost casually, despite the fact that I could feel something rise in me, a prisoner clamoring for release. “Even something like that,” I added, trying to relieve the building pressure.
Luke did not look at me, but I could sense the restlessness that had suddenly enveloped him. “Maybe especially something like that,” he said as if sternly reminding himself of his purpose. “A specific cause. One thing.”
It was at that moment I realized that Luke had never believed the founding tale of his own religion, that all evil flowed from one immemorial sin so that each one of us was merely one small drop in the river of souls that had flowed out of Eden, the origin of the harm we did untraceably remote. He was not seeking the comfort of such distance or the peace of its acceptance. He was stubbornly looking for the truth.
I felt a sudden grave appreciation for the frankness of his quest, and in a moment of unguarded admiration I released a clue. “Maybe it began with something innocent,” I told him.
His eyes shot over to me. “Like what?”
I recalled that first connection and improvised an answer. “Like a poem, for example. That first poem she wrote.”
Luke continued to stare at me, but said nothing.
“I mean, if she hadn’t written that first …” I began, then felt a stab of fear, the old secrecy gather around me once again, and stopped.
Luke looked at me quizzically. “What?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
I think he must have seen the dread in my face, because he glanced away, eased himself farther back into his chair and fell silent for a long time. Sitting beside him, I could feel the doubt that had never left him from that first moment he’d rushed across my yard to tell me what he’d seen at the crest of Breakheart Hill. He’d barely been able to speak, but he’d struggled hard to do it, sputtering desperately that “something bad” had happened to Kelli Troy. His eyes had concentrated on my face with a terrible fierceness as he’d labored to get it out, repeating again and again,
Something bad, Ben, something bad
. I had stared at him silently while he’d worked to tell me what he’d seen, and I know that in a single flashing instant he’d glimpsed something terrible in the dead stillness of my eyes, the grim silence with which I waited for him to get it out, something that spoke words I did not speak, but which he heard anyway, and which answered his feverish “something bad, something bad” with a cool I
know
.
“Those roses I planted last year are really going strong,” Luke said quietly after a moment.
A wave of relief swept over me, as if I’d been granted a stay of execution. “Yes, they are,” I told him. And for all the peace it might have granted him, I could not tell him more.
B Y THE SECOND WEEK IN O CTOBER I WAS PUTTING THE finishing touches on the first issue of the
Wildcat
. I had tried to enlist a few volunteers, but none had come forward, and so most of the work had fallen to me. I had rejected practically nothing that came to me. Because ofthat, I was stuck with the same sort of articles Allison Cryer had always published, little nature essays, recipes, sports and even tidbits of school gossip, blind items usually, and almost always written by the same people who’d written them for Allison. The issue was dull, but I didn’t
Suddenly I recalled the look on his face the afternoon it had happened. Even from a distance, as he’d climbed out of his truck and come toward me, I’d recognized the change that had come over him. His face was somehow more deeply lined, as if he’d aged instantly at the sight of her. But his voice, in its wounded bafflement and incomprehension, still sounded young.
“Ben, something bad … Kelli … something really bad.”
I glanced toward the line of white roses he’d planted along the fence of his backyard. “I guess everything has a beginning.” I spoke almost casually, despite the fact that I could feel something rise in me, a prisoner clamoring for release. “Even something like that,” I added, trying to relieve the building pressure.
Luke did not look at me, but I could sense the restlessness that had suddenly enveloped him. “Maybe especially something like that,” he said as if sternly reminding himself of his purpose. “A specific cause. One thing.”
It was at that moment I realized that Luke had never believed the founding tale of his own religion, that all evil flowed from one immemorial sin so that each one of us was merely one small drop in the river of souls that had flowed out of Eden, the origin of the harm we did untraceably remote. He was not seeking the comfort of such distance or the peace of its acceptance. He was stubbornly looking for the truth.
I felt a sudden grave appreciation for the frankness of his quest, and in a moment of unguarded admiration I released a clue. “Maybe it began with something innocent,” I told him.
His eyes shot over to me. “Like what?”
I recalled that first connection and improvised an answer. “Like a poem, for example. That first poem she wrote.”
Luke continued to stare at me, but said nothing.
“I mean, if she hadn’t written that first …” I began, then felt a stab of fear, the old secrecy gather around me once again, and stopped.
Luke looked at me quizzically. “What?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
I think he must have seen the dread in my face, because he glanced away, eased himself farther back into his chair and fell silent for a long time. Sitting beside him, I could feel the doubt that had never left him from that first moment he’d rushed across my yard to tell me what he’d seen at the crest of Breakheart Hill. He’d barely been able to speak, but he’d struggled hard to do it, sputtering desperately that “something bad” had happened to Kelli Troy. His eyes had concentrated on my face with a terrible fierceness as he’d labored to get it out, repeating again and again,
Something bad, Ben, something bad
. I had stared at him silently while he’d worked to tell me what he’d seen, and I know that in a single flashing instant he’d glimpsed something terrible in the dead stillness of my eyes, the grim silence with which I waited for him to get it out, something that spoke words I did not speak, but which he heard anyway, and which answered his feverish “something bad, something bad” with a cool I
know
.
“Those roses I planted last year are really going strong,” Luke said quietly after a moment.
A wave of relief swept over me, as if I’d been granted a stay of execution. “Yes, they are,” I told him. And for all the peace it might have granted him, I could not tell him more.
B Y THE SECOND WEEK IN O CTOBER I WAS PUTTING THE finishing touches on the first issue of the
Wildcat
. I had tried to enlist a few volunteers, but none had come forward, and so most of the work had fallen to me. I had rejected practically nothing that came to me. Because ofthat, I was stuck with the same sort of articles Allison Cryer had always published, little nature essays, recipes, sports and even tidbits of school gossip, blind items usually, and almost always written by the same people who’d written them for Allison. The issue was dull, but I didn’t
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