Deception Creek (9 page)

Alice screamed, even louder than she had before, for Jack to stop.

He heard her, but the words never registered. Jack still saw William hunched over Alice. Still saw how oblivious William had been to Jack's presence.

Jack kicked once more, then grabbed William's shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

“Stop it!” Alice continued to scream.

Jack hit William over and over until William went limp and fell into the water. His head hit a rock. He rolled over and attempted to lift onto the hand that didn't have the broken wrist, but Jack bent over and hit him again in the face.

The driver of a passing car must have seen the fight, or heard Alice's banshee-like screams. A tall man in a loose flannel shirt headed down the bank zigzagging with the path.

Jack continued to hit William. His strained breathing burst out his mouth in guttural bursts with each swing and contact.

Alice never stopped screaming.

The man from the road ran into the water to pull Jack off William.

B
illy's legs shook as he lowered himself down the ladder at the end of the day. He left work tired and aching along his shoulders and thighs. His tongue almost stuck to the roof of his mouth. He thought of Jack's jar of water and became extremely thirsty. Bending to look at himself in the side mirror of his truck, Billy came face-to-face with his blue-collar double. Black grunge streaked his face and gathered at the folds of his neck. When he lifted his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead, a black palm appeared. He had removed his gloves while working with Hillman.

Billy wiped his hands on a towel he kept stashed behind the seat, then jumped into the truck, started it, and took off. Passing Scott's truck, Billy stopped and yelled. “I'm going to the library, but will stop by long enough to shower.”

Scott gave Billy the thumbs up.

Billy waved and pulled away. Scott often went for a drink with some of the others on Friday, but Billy didn't feel a need to stick around. He took the shortest road out of town, speeding most of the way, passing other cars whenever possible. The sun, still hot, headed for the mountains, pushing shadows out of trees and signs. Pitching those strips of darkness across the road like lines Billy needed to cross in order to find his way home. Cross this line, they said, then cross this one.

He felt guilty about his attitude towards his mom. She had, after all, kept him, rather than abort him. She had raised him as well as she knew how. How could he fully understand how such a young girl would feel in that situation? The trauma of rape, pregnancy, the parents of the father begging her to keep the child for their own
selfish purposes perhaps. Then having to raise him alone. Maybe Alice had truly loved him all those years, but the pain of seeing Charlie and Sarah ate at her, winnowing away her strength, reminding her, every day, of the rape. Perhaps the only way she could keep her sanity that long was to punish them for their son's crime. Billy didn't know. He couldn't.

Billy drove to London's, his thirst so great he couldn't wait any longer. He walked into the back of the store, took a bottled water from the cooler.

“You're looking a bit worn today,” Mrs. London said when Billy stepped to the counter.

“A tough one,” he said.

“Going out tonight after you clean up? A lot of the kids go to that new place in town. I forget the name of it.”

“I don't know either,” he said. “I'm going to hit the Shannon Library. Some research,” he explained.

“Sounds like fun.”

Billy smiled and nodded. “It does, doesn't it?” Before disappearing out the door, he said, “Tell Vicki I said hello.”

Billy sped back into the trees towards Scott's house, kicking dust and dirt into the air behind him in a whirl of wind. He came to a sliding stop, jumped out of the truck, and ran into the house, stripping clothes off as he went. The shower felt great, and before long, he was dressed in clean clothes and back on the road toward Shannon.

North on 107 was not a highly trafficked road, so Billy felt fairly safe even while driving dangerously. The few cars he did see that evening surprised him, but he was able to keep control of his vehicle.

As he drove down the mountain, the setting sun threw golden light over the sleepy town, a divine light, cast from the heavens to anoint the town and its occupants. Billy's amazement at its beauty surprised him. Since entering college, he had hardly seen the beauty of any small town, no matter how much he missed, or enjoyed, the woods and creeks. But that night something struck a chord inside him that, even if he didn't wholly understand the feeling, he recognized a sense of belonging.

A short drive through town and Billy pulled into the library parking lot. Inside was the same young man who worked in the reference section the last time Billy was there. Recognizing Billy, the boy pulled the microfiche out for him to go through. As Billy prepared the microfiche and ran it through the machine, looking for where he had left off before, a familiar voice said, “Hello, Billy.” He turned. Vicki stood behind him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

A sly smile crossed her face, and although Billy already knew what had happened, he waited for her to explain. “Well,” she said, pulling a chair out to sit next to him. “I called Mom to check in. She told me about your little talk the other day, then said you were headed here. We weren't camped far, so I came by and waited for you.”

“It wasn't a little talk,” Billy cut in. “It was light conversation at the checkout counter.”

Vicki closed her mouth tightly, looked disappointed. “I thought you might need a friend.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I could use a friend.”

Vicki turned her chair and looked into the newspaper print enlarged before her. “What are you looking for?”

“My past,” Billy said. He pointed to the place where he'd left off and began to read.

Vicki read also. “Oh, my God. Was he your dad?”

Billy nodded.

“I thought you knew what happened.”

“Apparently not,” Billy said.

“It says three teenagers,” Vicki read.

“Mom was there.”

“Your mom and dad? Who was the third person?”

“Some guy at work. He just got out of jail.”

“And he came here?” Vicki looked puzzled. “What about your mom? Does she know?”

“She's tried to get me to quit, tried to get him fired, and has been insanely ballistic since I got home.”

“Do you blame her?”

“I blame her for not talking to me, for using me.”

“Using you?”

“She was raped,” Billy said. “I just found out yesterday.” Billy motioned for them to leave. “Come on.”

He led her outside, where they walked a few blocks to a diner. They ordered desert, apple pie. Billy had coffee and Vicki had ginger ale.

“I feel betrayed in a lot of ways. Mom never told me the truth. Worse than that, I think she named me after William to get back at Grandma and Grandpa.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“My mom has been on the edge a long time.”

“The whole thing has got to driver her nuts, though, don't you think?”

Billy shook his head. “I can't imagine.”

Vicki looked out the window for a moment. “The papers said nothing about rape.”

“Grandpa was in politics. He probably snuffed out the details for his own sake.”

She touched his hand. “How do you feel? About all this?” she asked.

“Like I said, I feel a little used. But regardless of Mom and my grandparents and their relationship, she wanted me or I wouldn't be here right now. Grandpa always treated me well. I always go back to that.”

“We could have the story wrong.”

“How so?”

“Well, did the guy at work kill your father, or did your mom do it, then blame it on him because he was around at the time? Is that why she's afraid of you talking with him?”

While Billy thought for a moment, Vicki said, “Hey, what about this? Maybe she's afraid this guy's going to harm you for what she did? Either way you look at it, whether he actually killed your dad or she pinned it on him out of fear, she had to testify against him in court, right?”

“I never thought of that,” he said. “I guess Jack didn't seem the type, even if he did scare me a little at first.”

“Jack,” she said.

“Yeah, that's the guy's name.” Billy looked at Vicki while she pondered the situation. Her pretty face intense in thought, brows knitted, eyes partially closed. “Why are you doing this?”

“A friend, remember?”

“I keep going back and forth in my head about this. One minute I want to attack Jack for killing my father. The next moment, I hate my dad for what he did to Mom. I wouldn't blame Mom if she accidentally killed her attacker, but I was brought up thinking my dad was some wonder-kid. I don't know how I'd feel about Mom if I thought she lied and put Jack in prison for something he didn't do.” Billy sighed and stared into his coffee cup.

“What is it?” Vicki wondered aloud.

“These small towns. What's their appeal?”

“A simple life, perhaps. Or a connection to the land, to place, family, history,” she said.

For a moment Billy thought he saw, if only a glimpse, Vicki's hopes and dreams. He didn't want to have to live up to the expectations of someone so young. He knew how totally unrealistic and out-of-control imaginations could be at that age. He could never fulfill that fantasy.

“History,” Billy repeated. “In my case, that might be what keeps me out of town. A history no one wants to remember.” He shrugged. “I wonder if Mom is reminded of that time every time she looks into my face? No wonder she's nutty. And Grandpa and Grandma, they must wonder, every time they see me, if I'm going to be like William, if I've got his genetic tendencies. They must wonder what he would have grown up to be like.”

“Better,” Vicki said. “You're a better person.”

Billy laughed. “Then they must be jealous of how Mom was able to bring me up that way, when they couldn't do as well raising William. That would make them even more pissed every time she hit them up for money on my behalf. Maybe she used that as leverage. So I wouldn't ‘turn out like William.' I can even hear her say the words.”

“And you didn't,” she said.

“I'll get through this,” he told her.

She punched his shoulder playfully. “That's the spirit.”

After paying for their dessert, they walked back to the library parking lot. Vicki got into her car. Billy placed his hands on the window ledge and peered inside the car at Vicki's framed face. “Thank you for everything. I really needed someone tonight, even if I wasn't so receptive at first.”

“You came around.” She started the car and waved good-bye as she drove off.

He watched her pull out of the lot, leaving it empty. A cool wind blew through the empty space. In a few minutes, he started his truck and drove around town, noticing how many people were awake and window-shopping late on a Friday night. Two diners and a coffee shop were open — perhaps others on side streets he hadn't explored. All of them were busy, people talking, having been neighbors all their lives.

History
, he thought. On the next pass through town, he took the first turnoff that led toward 107 and back to Wyoming. There was a hollow place inside him. Billy dwelled on the predicament he was in.

Every thought he remembered from his past took on new meaning, was seen through different, cracked, glasses. The more he thought, the further from his old life he moved. History, at least his history, had been a lie. His life had been a lie. He could never look at his mother again without wondering, in turn, what she saw in him.

Nearly at the turnoff that would take him back the dirt road to Scott's house, he halted his thoughts.
Enough
.

Driving up, he saw that the house was dark. Inside, Billy flipped on a minimum number of lights. On the kitchen counter, the answering machine blinked. There were three messages. Billy hadn't remembered the phone ever ringing before, let alone having three messages.

He noticed a memo pad sitting next to the answering machine and decided to listen to the messages. Positioning himself next to the machine, pen in hand, pad ready, he pushed the “Message Playback” button. The answering machine hissed as it rewound, then snapped loudly, stopped, and snapped again. He heard the hiss of the tape recording silence, then someone spoke. It was Grandpa Maynard's voice. “I'm looking for Billy Maynard. Have him call his grandfather.” Silence. “It's important.” The voice was sad, angry. It
faltered as he spoke. Billy wrote “Grandpa Maynard” on the pad. The next message came on. It was similar to the first, except that Grandpa Maynard added: “You need to take care of this, Billy, not me.” The third message said: “Look, call the police, but don't go home.” A long pause. “Or call me,” he said in a whisper. “Although I don't know what I'll tell you.” The machine beeped loudly, then paused, then rewound the tape, ready for new messages.

“Call the police?” Billy looked around for a phone book and found one under the counter. He called the police. When someone answered, Billy said, “This is Billy Maynard, and I got a message to call you. What's going on?” He knew it was about his mom.

“Hold on and I'll transfer you to Sergeant Brink.”

No sooner than the phone clicked off, someone else picked up. “Billy Maynard? I'm Sergeant Brink, Wyoming City Police.”

“What's going on?” Billy repeated.

“I'd like to come out and talk with you about that.”

“Cut to the chase.” Billy's heart raced and he tapped the pen on the pad in time with its beat.

“Would you rather come down here?” Sgt. Brink suggested.

“What the hell is it?”

“Calm down, Billy. It's about your mother.”

He nodded to himself. “What happened?”

Sgt. Brink insisted that he needed the address where Billy was staying before he'd say.

Billy gave him Scott's address and phone number.

“I have it on good authority that you're a stable young man. Nonetheless, I want you to call me first thing in the morning. Take down this number. If you don't call, I'll be sending someone to find you.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Take it down,” Sgt. Brink repeated. He made Billy read the number back into the phone. “If you need to talk you can call me there. That's my home number. I'll be here until two, then I'm going home. I'll be at that number,” Sgt. Brink said.

Sgt. Brink sighed into the phone. “Billy, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother is dead.” He stopped, struggling for more
words. “Pills,” he said. “There was no note. Nothing. Your grandfather called it in. He was pretty shook.”