Ordinary Grace (28 page)

here’s a math problem everyone is familiar with. It involves two trains. One leaves from one location, New York, for example, and the other from another location, say San Francisco. The

trains are traveling toward each other at different speeds. The idea is to calculate how far each train will have traveled by the time they meet. I was never any good at math and didn’t waste time trying to solve this problem but I did spend a lot of time thinking about it. Not about how many miles the trains would have covered but about the travelers on them. Who were these people and why were they leaving New York and San Francisco and what were they seeking at the other end of the line? Most especially I wondered if they had any idea what awaited them when the two trains met. Because I thought of them as traveling on the same set of tracks, I imagined their meeting as a catastrophic collision. So it always struck me not as a math problem but rather a philosophic consideration of life, death, and unhappy circumstance.

In my own life, the two trains of this problem are the summer of 1961 and the present. And they collide every year on Memorial Day in the cemetery in New Bremen.

This year my father is waiting for me in the shade, sitting patiently on the porch of his condominium in Saint Paul, staring at the world from under the brim of a clean white ball cap. A tall man, slender all his life, he’s grown thin and fragile over the last few years, with a heart that worries us both. When I pull into the drive, he rises from the bench and hobbles to my car. He walks like a man built of toothpicks, afraid that the connections will not hold. He opens the door and eases this body, this awkward construction of brittle bone and loose flesh, into the passenger side.

Good afternoon, sir, he says with chipper energy, and he gives me a smile, telling me with that flash of stained enamel that he’s happy to see both me and another day.

As we head south out of the Twin Cities toward New Bremen, we talk about things that in the grand scheme matter not at all. Baseball: The Twins are playing well this year, but it’s still a long season ahead.The French Open: Who’s out, who’s still in, and why aren’t there any Americans who can play on clay? And of course the weather. In Minnesota weather tops all other topics of conversation. My father, once a voracious reader, seldom picks up a book anymore. His hands tremble, he complains, and he has trouble concentrating. He’s well over eighty. Things fall apart.

At Mankato, we turn west and follow the broad valley of the Minnesota River. It’s been a good spring, plenty of rain but not too much, and the crops have all been planted and the fields are green. My father comments on their appearance with approval, as if he has a personal stake in the harvest still far ahead. I know him and I know that it’s more than idle talk. He hopes good things for these farmers whose lives are so helplessly bound to the whim of nature. Too much rain, too little rain, a devastating hailstorm, a plague of locusts, blight, they’ve all swept through this valley like the horsemen of the Apocalypse and the only recourse for those who stand and watch the sky is prayers or curses.

A few miles outside New Bremen we grow quiet, as we always do, and our thoughts begin to slide into a consideration of the past.
It seems to me that when you look back at a life, yours or another’s, what you see is a path that weaves into and out of deep shadow. So much is lost. What we use to construct the past is what has remained in the open, a hodgepodge of fleeting glimpses. Our histories, like my father’s current body, are structures built of toothpicks. So what I recall of that last summer in New Bremen is a construct both of what stands in the light and what I imagine in the dark where I cannot see.
Entering town we drive a new road across a recently built bridge spanning the river. Only a hundred yards east stands the trestle that is one of the solid fixtures of both past and present. The grain elevators along the tracks are gone but I can see down Tyler Street all the way to the Flats.The church, remodeled and enlarged over the years, is still there and in late afternoon the shadow of the steeple still falls across the house where the Drums once lived.
Halderson’s Drugstore is now a video store and tanning salon. The shop where Mr. Baake once held forth with barber scissors and gossip is now called The Shear Delight and caters mostly to women. The police department still borders on the square, housed inside the same stone walls that were laid when the town was first platted. The interior, I’ve been told, has been modernized but I have no desire to see it. For me it will always exist as it did that long ago summer night I first saw it when Jake and I went with our father to bring Gus home.
My grandfather and Liz passed from this world nearly twenty years ago and the family that bought their house has never taken particularly good care of the property, a circumstance that would have had my grandfather spewing forth a few choice expletives.
The Brandt mansion is still the Brandt mansion and is still occupied by someone who bears the family name. Axel and Julia Brandt adopted a child, a little boy from Korea, and raised him and loved him and willed to him the brewery. His name is Sam and on the few occasions I’ve met him I’ve found him pleasant but patronizing in the way of many people of wealth.
When we arrive at the cemetery Jake is waiting at the gate. He’s driven from Winona where he’s pastor of a Methodist church. He’s grown into a tall, graceful man and is just beginning to bald. He greets us both with a powerful hug.
With a nod toward his station wagon he says, I’ve got the flowers.
He drives ahead of us on the lane among the gravestones which are decorated with flower bouquets and various items of tribute and memory. We come every year on this day to pay our respects. In earlier times our families often accompanied us but our children are grown and our wives have made this trip too many times and today have made other plans so it’s just the three of us. It’s our intention after we’ve finished in the cemetery to head to a German restaurant in town and drink some Brandt beer and have a good German dinner.
Every year we visit a lot of graves. A number of them were dug in the summer of 1961. We lay flowers at the headstone of Bobby Cole and the headstone with no name where the itinerant is buried and the headstone of Karl Brandt. We always lay a small bouquet and spend a moment at the graveside of Morris Engdahl. It’s clear every year that we’re the only ones who bother but my father insists. We lay flowers on the graves of Emil and Lise Brandt who are buried side by side. Emil Brandt died first, a relatively young man at age fifty-one. Lise Brandt lived to be nearly seventy and after the summer of 1961 spent the rest of her life in the Minnesota Security Hospital in Saint Peter. She claimed not to remember actually killing Ariel. She’d found my sister on the lawn at the farmhouse that night and had gone outside to shoo her away. Ariel had reached out, touched her—who knew why?—and the next thing she remembered was standing with the bloodied crowbar in her hand and Ariel on the grass at her feet. She’d panicked, carried Ariel to the river, and delivered her to the current, hoping it would take the whole problem away. In truth she was not unhappy at the hospital in Saint Peter. She worked a garden and had a room to herself and, until his death, her brother visited regularly. Jake never deserted her and was with her at the end praying her into a peaceful final rest.
We spend time at my grandfather’s grave. He’s flanked by my grandmother on one side and Liz on the other and we lay flowers for them all.
We visit the graves of Ginger French and Gus who were married a year after we moved away. They were a happy couple, given to adventure. Ginger loved to ride with Gus on his Indian Chief. They both eventually took up flying and bought their own little Piper Cub and would take off for the Black Hills or Yellowstone or Door County at a moment’s notice. A dozen years into their marriage, on a flight to Valentine, Nebraska, they ran into severe weather and crashed in a cornfield and were killed. At their funeral my father delivered a moving eulogy.
There’s another grave I would visit if it were here, the grave of Warren Redstone. When I was in college at the University of Minnesota I ran into Danny O’Keefe. We recognized each other immediately and I was happy to find that he held no grudge because of the events that summer which drove his family from New Bremen. He told me his great-uncle had returned and was living near Granite Falls and he gave me an address and a telephone number. I went to see the man I’d wrongly condemned in my sister’s death. I found him fishing on a stretch of the Minnesota River, a spot where meadow ran along the bank and poplar trees gave shade.
He nodded for me to sit beside him and he said, You’re a couple of heads taller, boy. Damn near a man now.
I said, Yes, sir, I guess I am.
He watched where his fishing line disappeared in the cider-colored sweep of water. He wore a black hat with a wide, round brim and a colorful band. He’d let his hair grow long and it lay in two gray braids, one over each shoulder.
I figure I owe you my life, he said.
Which surprised me because mostly I’d come to apologize for having put him in jeopardy.
Always been grateful you kept your mouth shut while I crossed that trestle, he said. Those policemen, they’d’ve shot first and asked later.
I didn’t necessarily agree with him but it seemed pointless to say so.
I asked, Where’d you go?
Family on the Rosebud rez. Thing about family is they got to take you in.
We didn’t say much more. With the exception of that summer in which our lives had converged in a few dramatic moments, we had almost nothing in common. But when I left, Warren Redstone offered something I’ve never forgotten. As I walked away he called to me and when I turned back he said, They’re never far from us, you know.
Who? I asked.
The dead. No more’n a breath. You let that last one go and you’re with them again.
It was an odd thing to say in parting and I thought it probably had more to do with where Redstone was in the declining arc of his own life than anything to do with me.
Our final cemetery stop always is the small section beneath a linden tree where Ariel and my mother lie and where my father’s body will rest someday too.
I’m a teacher of history in a high school in Saint Paul and what I know from my studies and from my life is that there is no such thing as a true event. We know dates and times and locations and participants but accounts of what happened depend upon the perspective from which the event is viewed. Take the American Civil War. The residents of the beleaguered Confederacy recounted a very different history from the one touted by the victorious Union. It’s the same with the history of a family. Whenever we talk about New Bremen I’m aware that Jake and my father recall things I don’t and what we remember together we often remember differently. I’m sure that each of us has memories that for reasons our own we don’t share. Some things we prefer remain lost in the shadows of our past. My father, for example, has never said a word about the incident in the war in which both he and Gus played some terrible part and although I have often wondered I have never asked. And of that summer in New Bremen in which so much death occurred we hardly speak at all.
We stand the three of us where an important part of our lives lies buried. We can see the river brown with silt and on the far side the patchwork of fields and beyond them the wooded hills that long ago channeled the glacial flood of the River Warren. The sun is low in the sky and the light is pollen yellow and the afternoon is blessedly still.
It’s been a good day, my father says with satisfaction. It’s been a good life. In the way he did as a child whenever my father finished a sermon, Jake whispers, Amen.
Me, I throw an arm around each of them and suggest, Let’s go have a beer.
We turn, three men bound by love, by history, by circumstance, and most certainly by the awful grace of God, and together walk a narrow lane where headstones press close all around, reminding me gently of Warren Redstone’s parting wisdom, which I understand now. The dead are never far from us. They’re in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.

he days came hot one after another but there was decent rain and by mid-August the farmers in my father’s congregations were commenting guardedly to one another that the crops in

the valley all looked pretty good. What they really meant but would not allow themselves to say openly was that they were anticipating the best harvest in years.

My mother began to organize for our move. The most difficult part, I suspect, was clearing Ariel’s room. She did this alone and over a long period and I often heard her crying as she boxed. Most of what had been Ariel’s we didn’t take with us to Saint Paul. My father donated her things to an agency that distributed clothing and other items of necessity to the migrant families who came in large numbers to work the harvests.

We weren’t the only ones who left New Bremen for good that summer. Danny O’Keefe’s family moved too. His mother got a job teaching in Granite Falls and they put their house up for sale and by the second week in August, Danny and his family were gone.

In those final days New Bremen for me had a different feel. Whether this was because of our move or because of all that had happened that summer I couldn’t say. It seemed as if the town and everything in it was already a part of my past. At night sometimes I tried to reach out and grab hold of what exactly I felt toward the place but everything was hopelessly tangled. I’d lived there five years, the longest I would live anywhere until I married and had my own family and settled down. I’d been a child there and had crossed the threshold, perhaps early, into young manhood. In the daylight I walked a lot, usually alone, visiting the places that would become monuments in my memory. The trestle that had been the scene of so much tragedy that summer. The quarry where I’d taken such childish pleasure in challenging and besting Morris Engdahl. Halderson’s Drugstore with its frosted mugs of root beer. I walked along the river, passed the place where Warren Redstone had built his little lean-to. The sides were already collapsed and I knew that in the flooding which came every spring all sign of the man’s presence would be washed away. I lingered at the place below the home of Emil Brandt and his sister where the trail threaded up the rise through the cottonwoods, the trail I’d been so certain was the way my sister had been carried to the river. And a little farther on I stood below Sibley Park where the cold black ash of many bonfires lay on the sand like leprous sores and where Ariel had last been seen alive on this earth. If understanding was what I sought, I was disappointed.

After Ariel’s funeral my mother took Jake to only one more session of speech therapy. He told me afterward that they questioned him mercilessly about the inexplicable disappearance of his impediment. When he insisted that it was the result of a miracle they looked at him as if he said he’d kissed a frog and been granted three wishes. Then my mother calmly told them it was the absolute truth, a miracle by the grace of God, and they had no reply.

Gus spent more and more time away and although he was reluctant to talk I knew because my father told me that he was helping Ginger French at her ranch. He’d put the brakes on his drinking and didn’t hang out anymore with Doyle.

As the day of our departure drew nearer we had a lot of visitors, folks stopping in to say their good-byes. Many were a part of my father’s congregations but others were a surprise. Edna Sweeney came with cookies. I had no idea if she and Avis were finally doing okay in the sack but she was such a good woman at heart that I hoped so. I knew I would miss the view of her underthings drying on the line, swinging a little in the summer breeze as if beckoning. The Klements dropped by one evening and while our parents talked on the porch Peter and Jake and I spent an hour sitting in the pasture behind our house kicking around the Twins and
The Twilight Zone
and speculating on what living in Saint Paul would be like. Peter was not hopeful. He thought a place like Cadbury—or even a town like New Bremen—was infinitely preferable. There were streets in Saint Paul, he warned, where people couldn’t walk safely at night. And everybody locked their doors. Before he left he repeated his invitation to come anytime for a visit and he’d teach us about motors and things. The Coles visited, too, briefly. They’d been old when they had Bobby and his death had made them even older. They were not much more than fifty then but in my memory they are always ancient. They held hands as they walked away and I thought that although they’d lost Bobby they were lucky. They still had each other.

A week before we left town Morris Engdahl was killed in an accident at the cannery where he worked. He was out on bail, awaiting his hearing on the Mann Act charges that had been filed against him. He’d gone to work drunk and the foreman had told him to go home and Engdahl had taken a couple of swings at his boss. He’d missed and, off-balance, had tumbled from the platform where the altercation took place and had broken his neck in the fall to the cannery floor below. In a kind of irony, Engdahl’s father, who was not a churchgoing man, requested that my dad preside at the burial service. I asked if I could be there and my father allowed it. It was one of the saddest funerals I’ve ever attended. Engdahl had no mourners at all, not Judy Kleinschmidt or even his father, whom we later found out was dead drunk in a town bar.

Two days out from the move to Saint Paul the house already had the feel of abandonment. Mother had directed Jake and me to pack up our things in the boxes she provided and we emptied our dresser and our closet. Jake had carefully packed his model airplanes and his comic books. I had nothing special that I cared about in the same way and threw in my own collected junk haphazardly. Walking through the house we negotiated a path between stacks of boxes: linens and towels and tablecloths; my father’s books; table lamps and vases and framed pictures; kitchen utensils and pots and pans. We still had curtains on the windows but not much else to cozy the place.

In those last days Jake had begun to divide his time between our house and the home of Lise Brandt. My parents had severed their relationship with Emil. When Brandt told her truth about his relationship with Ariel my mother had been outraged but she hadn’t held long to that useless emotion. What’s done is done, I heard her tell my father, and I believe she meant it. I don’t know that she ever forgave Emil Brandt. Maybe like Jake she was simply tired of being angry. As far as I know she never saw Brandt socially again. I suppose that in its way this, too, was a loss she suffered.

But with Jake it was different. He told me he felt sorry for Lise. As far as he could tell, the only people in the world who cared about her at all were he and Emil, and although Lise seemed fine with the company of her brother her face lit up with undeniable delight whenever she saw Jake. He visited often using the garden as an excuse to offer his companionship. He told me that he sometimes saw Emil Brandt sitting on the porch or heard the music of his playing drift from the house but he never talked to the man. It wasn’t because he felt any anger. He claimed that he sensed something coming from Brandt that was like strong waves pushing him away. I figured Jake was onto something. The Brandt family had always seemed a kind of island, separate and distant and a little forbidding, and there had never been, as far as I could see, the kind of energy, whether love or the yearning for simple human connection, that held them together or drew the larger world to them. As a family they seemed to have no center and I figured they would fall apart. Because my own family was healing and because wholeness seemed possible again, I kept the Brandts in my prayers.

On the day before we were to leave New Bremen my brother asked if I would help him and Lise with a project. She wanted to build a little wall around one of her flower beds using the rocks she’d pulled and piled when creating all her garden spots. Jake said it would be easier with three of us, especially because some of the rocks were big. I wasn’t excited about returning to the Brandt home but I agreed to give a hand.
We arrived after lunch and found Lise at work loading a wheelbarrow with the smaller stones from the huge pile beside the shed. The flower bed itself was in the middle of the yard, positioned in a sunny area between deep pools of shade that lay beneath a couple of tall hackberry trees. It was circular and at its center was a birdbath. Jake had explained that what Lise had in mind was to use the smaller stones to build the wall maybe a foot high and to put the large rocks inside, placing them carefully among the flowers so that the effect in the end would be a touch of wildness within the circular geometry of the wall.

She wore a loose short-sleeved yellow blouse and dungarees and tennis shoes and had soiled gardening gloves on her hands. It was hot and the blouse clung to her sides and back. We came from the river, through the gate in the back fence. She was intent on her work and didn’t know we were there until Jake circled so that she could see him. She clapped her hands together like a child pleased at a new toy and she signed something to Jake who signed something back and then he said, Frank came too. He pointed toward me and she turned and although she didn’t beam as brightly as she had with Jake she nonetheless looked pleased to see me. In her drone she said, Thang you, Frang.

We got to work. Mostly it was a question of transport, hauling the rocks from the pile to the garden thirty yards distant. Jake and I did this part while Lise constructed the wall. We filled the wheelbarrow half full because any more was impossible for us to handle and crossed the yard through the hackberry shade and dumped the stones in jumbles spaced along the edge of the garden. Lise carefully fitted the stones together with a bit of mortar that she’d mixed in a bucket.

We worked late into the afternoon. Toward the end I heard the swell of a piece I recognized as Rachmaninoff coming through windows of the house and saw Emil Brandt step onto the front porch and sit down in his rocker and I figured he was playing a record on his stereo or maybe a tape on his reel-to-reel. Not long afterward the wall was complete. Jake and I were sweating like a couple of pack mules. Lise put down her mortar trowel and pulled off her garden gloves and said, Wan pop?

Yes, Jake and I answered together.
She smiled and made gestures to Jake who understood clearly. When she turned to go, he said, She wants us to get the crowbar out of the shed. We’ll need it to pry the big rocks loose that she wants to put in with the flowers.

I’ll get it, I offered.
The door of the shed was open and I stepped inside. Sunlight streamed in at my back. The shed smelled of damp soil and faintly of a mechanical odor like cutting oil. Lise kept the little place neatly organized. Clay pots and potting soil stood stacked beside each other against the far side. The tools of her yard work—rake, hoe, edger, clippers, shears, shovel, spade, pick, trowels—all hung neatly from hooks or nails set into a row of two-by-fours that ran horizontally along the inside of the wall midway between floor and roof. To the right was a narrow workbench with a vise and above the bench a Peg-Board that was hung with hand tools—hammer, screwdrivers, hacksaw, wrenches, chisels—and beneath the bench was a small cabinet with half a dozen drawers. The cabinet was honey-colored and decorated with handpainted flowers. Leaning in one corner of the shed was a long pry bar and cradled across a couple of nails next to it lay the smaller crowbar. The crowbar I remembered well. That day in early summer when without thinking I’d touched her and she’d gone berserk, I’d’ve been dead if I hadn’t been so quick to dodge her wild swing. I reached for the crowbar and as I pulled it off the wall I cut my finger on the head of one of the nails. The cut wasn’t bad but it was bleeding and my hands were dirty. I took the crowbar out to Jake and showed him my wound.
Lise keeps a box of Band-Aids in one of the drawers in the shed, he said. I don’t know which one.
I returned to the honey-colored cabinet and began opening drawers. Mostly they held nails and screws and washers. But when I opened the middle drawer something else caught my eye. Amid a collection of bolts and nuts lay a delicate gold watch and a mother-of-pearl barrette.
Jake was stretched out on the grass. As I walked to him he glanced at my face and then he sat up. What’s wrong?
I held out my hands that were soiled with dirt and blood.
Jake looked at what I held in my palms, the little treasures that had gone missing with Ariel, and his eyes crawled up and met my gaze and I saw something in them that made me go cold.
You knew, I said.
No. Then he said, Not for sure.
He looked away toward the house where Emil Brandt rocked on the porch like a metronome keeping time with Rachmaninoff. I moved closer to him and leaned down. Tell me.
I didn’t know, he said.
You said you didn’t know for sure.
I thought . . . He stopped and I was afraid he was going to commence to stuttering but he just spent a few seconds collecting himself and then he went on. That day you told me Mr. Brandt killed Ariel I began to think about it, and I thought probably it wasn’t him.
Why not him?
Jesus, Frank, he’s blind. But Lise, she’s strong and can see, and she never liked Ariel. But I figured if she did it, it had to be an accident. Like when she almost hit you with this crowbar, he said and picked up the iron tool. You remember?
Yeah, I remember. But maybe it wasn’t an accident.
Jake looked down. I thought about that too, he said.
Why didn’t you say something?
She doesn’t have anything, Frank. Just this place and her brother. And maybe she thought Ariel was going to take that away from her. And what if people knew and she went to prison or something?
She should go to prison, I said.
See? I knew if I said anything you’d get mad.
Jake, this isn’t like she just did something a little bad. She killed Ariel.
Putting her in prison won’t bring Ariel back.
She has to pay for what she did.
Why?
What do you mean why?
Look around you. She almost never leaves this yard except to go down to the river sometimes. And she never has visitors except me. Isn’t that what a prison is?
She might hurt someone else. Did you ever think of that? Jake put the crowbar down in the grass and didn’t answer.
I stood above him pissed as hell and at the same time marveling. He’d once again seen something that the rest of us had missed, an awful truth that he’d held to alone. Even in my anger I understood what a terrible burden that must have been.
Did you say anything to Lise?
He shook his head. Then he said, Seventy times seven, Frank.
What?
He lifted his face in the sunlight. Seventy times seven. It’s how we’re supposed to forgive.
This isn’t about forgiveness, Jake.
What’s it about then?
It’s the law.
I heard the back door of the deck slide open and looked up and saw Lise come out carrying a tray that held three Coke bottles and a small plate of cookies.
Jake didn’t take his eyes off me. The law? That’s really what you’re thinking about?
Lise descended the steps and started across the yard toward us.
Frank, Jake said pleading.
I could see the smile on Lise’s face. I could see how lightly she walked.
Please, Jake said.
Warren Redstone, I replied.
Jake looked at me, confused. What?
The sheriff ’s still looking for him. What if they catch up with him and he tries to run and gets himself shot? Could you live with that?
Jake considered this and his shoulders dropped and he shook his head in defeat.
I’d lived for weeks with the belief that I’d let Ariel’s killer escape and although my father had helped me understand how to carry that burden it still weighed on me. Standing in that shaded old farmyard, I finally felt it evaporate. Warren Redstone was not a killer. He’d never done a thing to harm my family. And what I was about to do would free him too.
I put my hands out. Lise Brandt when she reached us glanced at what I held and I saw by her look that she recognized these things.
She quickly composed herself and said with a smile, Wha tha?
I said, You know what they are.
She kept smiling and shook her head.
You killed Ariel, I said.
She frowned dramatically. No, she replied and it came out like a small moan.
Jake looked up at me. What are you going to do, Frank?
I kept my eyes on Lise Brandt and my face toward her so that she could read my lips. I have to tell someone. I’m going to start with Mr. Brandt.
I left Jake sitting on the grass and walked past Lise where she stood with the tray still in her hands. I’d taken only a few steps when I heard the clatter of the tray and bottles as they hit the ground and a banshee cry at my back and Jake screaming, Lise, no!
I turned and saw her stoop and grasp the crowbar and charge at me, the whole time wailing like a wounded beast. She swung the bar at my head. I dodged and hit the ground and rolled and tried to get to my feet as she came again with the hard iron in her hand but I felt my ankle twist painfully and I crumpled to the grass. I lifted my arm in a feeble attempt to deflect the blow I knew was coming.
Then Jake was on her, grabbing her arm and holding fast. She screamed bloody murder and tried to shake him loose and slapped at him with her free hand.
From the porch, Emil Brandt yelled, What’s going on?
She turned and turned again and finally flung Jake from her and he fell to the ground. She stood over him with the crowbar raised high, breathing deeply and loud. I tried to rise but my twisted ankle prevented me from moving quickly enough. Jake just lay there looking up at her helplessly. He didn’t even lift a hand to defend himself.
And then the final miracle of that summer was delivered. Something—only God knows what—stayed the hand of Lise Brandt.
I heard breath rushing from her in and out and in. I watched paralyzed as the crowbar held still, poised high in the air. I nearly wept as she slowly lowered it and let it fall to the ground at her feet. She collapsed onto her knees facing Jake and she clasped her hands as if in prayer and droned, Sorry. I’m sorry.
Jake gathered himself and knelt beside her. He reached out but did not touch her. It’s all right, he said.
Emil Brandt hollered, Is everything okay out there?
Jake looked at me and I saw no child left in him at all. He said, I’ll stay with her, Frank.
I stood and held fast to the things that had once been Ariel’s and limping because of my injured ankle I began to make my way through the deep shadows of that August afternoon toward the porch and Emil Brandt.