Deception Creek (10 page)

“Grandpa?” Billy couldn't say anything else. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was ten till two.

“If you need me—” Sgt. Brink said.

“I'll be fine,” Billy said absent-mindedly.

They hung up and Billy stood for a long time with his hand over the receiver. Then he picked it up and automatically dialed his grandparents' house.

“Hello,” a rough, gravel-voice came over the phone.

“Grandpa,” Billy said.

“It's you.” Charlie Maynard didn't sound surprised.

“Are you all right?” Billy said. The voice on the other end of the phone sounded defeated, broken, or perhaps lost.

A long sigh came over the phone. Grandpa Maynard coughed. “Look, I don't know what I am right now.”

“Hang up,” Billy heard his grandmother say in the background.

“I have something for you,” Grandpa Maynard said. “A note.”

“But the police said—”

“I took it. No one should see this except you. It's written to you. I shouldn't have seen it either. Her last words. She got in the last word. I'll wait on the porch for you. Then, that's it. Just take it and leave. Leave us alone.”

Billy heard the phone click. He didn't know what to do. Go, he thought. Pick up the note.

Billy started out the door and ran into Scott coming in. “Where you headed?” Scott said.

“Grandpa's,” Billy told him, rushing past.

“I'll drive,” Scott said.

“No. I'm going alone.” Billy pulled himself into the driver's seat of the truck.

Scott ran around and jumped into the passenger side. “You're not going anywhere alone,” Scott said.

They stared at one another for a moment in the half-light the floods created inside the cab. “What the hell is it with you anyhow? Everybody's buddy?” Billy said. He put both hands on the steering wheel, waiting for Scott's answer.

Scott breathed deeply. He looked tired. “One of the guys at the bar heard on the police monitor that something had gone on at your Mom's house. That was a while ago. I thought I'd miss you by the time I found out, but decided to rush home anyhow. I was supposed to be here.”

“Don't pull that crap on me,” Billy said.

“Like it or not, rude or not,” Scott said, “I'm your sidekick tonight.” He turned straight in his seat. “So, let's go.”

Mumbling under his breath, Billy started the truck and pulled out.

Scott looked over at him. “If you want me to drive, I'm sober.”

“I know. Driving takes my mind off things sometimes.” Billy continued looking at the road.

“What happened?” Scott asked, his voice quiet and slow.

“You were right, that's what.” Billy waited for a response, but when one didn't come quickly enough, he went on. “Suicide. She took pills. The police said there wasn't a note, but Grandpa said there was. He took it.”

“He's not allowed—”

“Don't, Scott. It doesn't matter. I'd rather things are this way. Private. Her suicide's bad enough. I don't need anything else.”

“How you feeling?” Scott asked.

“How would you feel?”

“Devastated,” Scott answered.

“Part of me doesn't even care,” he said. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I hate that part. I should care more. But I don't and I don't know why. I feel like my whole life is a lie, like she's not my mom, like they're not my grandparents.” He sniffled.

“You okay?” Scott whispered.

Billy shook his head. “Yes.” He sniffled again. “I loved my mom and I hated my mom. But why'd she do this? Was living that bad for her?”

Scott sat quietly, waiting for Billy to go on, but Billy didn't go on. He just drove, swimming to reach the surface of his own thoughts.

* * *

Grandpa Maynard never forgave Jack for killing his son. His focus, for months, was on putting Jack in prison. Yet the rape tore at
his soul. William had accosted girls before. He seemed to think he was owed something. His whole life, William expected to win, to get what he wanted.

Eventually, Grandpa Maynard wondered what he had done to make his son so selfish and arrogant. But when that time occurred, it was too late. William was already gone.

Perhaps he had felt defeated, but by the time the trials were over and Alice, shyly and frightened, came to him with the news of her pregnancy, he gave in. He buckled to life's surprises, pulled out of his old life in Shannon and began a new one in Wyoming.

Sarah argued his decision, but he had made up his mind. He knew Alice would give birth to a boy. He knew that he'd have a second chance at raising a son. This time would be different.

Alice fought for her son's attention and freedom from the Maynards, every day of her life, and Grandpa Maynard hated her for that fact more than any other. He would not get the second chance he deserved, so he would go along with everything Alice wanted until she felt the pain he had to live with every day.

There were those times Charlie Maynard resented Billy for what he had allowed Alice and William, and even Sarah, to do to him.

W
hile Scott waited inside the truck, Billy walked up the drive to meet Grandpa Maynard, who handed him some crumpled sheets of paper. “You were right the other day, Billy. You were right,” Grandpa said, his face long, sad, tired. He let his arm drop to his side after Billy took the papers. “It was all a lie.” I had my suspicions from time to time, but—” He stopped. “I don't know you.” He looked up and into Billy's face as though he were looking for something, but couldn't find it. “Get out. Go on.” He became more animated. “Get the hell away from here. I don't want you around. Go!”

Bill hesitated, but said nothing. He ran back to the truck and handed the papers to Scott, who took them and held them as they pulled out. Charlie Maynard was already inside the house.

Billy's lips pushed into a pout. He coughed, then turned slowly towards Scott. “Read it.”

“Maybe we should wait,” Scott said.

“Read it! Read the fucking thing!”

“All right.” Scott held up the note and leaned toward the window where small amounts of light came in. “Dear Billy,” he read. Then he cleared his throat. “Dear Billy, This is not your fault. It is the result of living every day of my adult life inside a lie. Not one, but many. I am ashamed.” Scott waited a moment, before reading on at his slow pace. “I love you, Billy, and that love cannot be taken away. But you are not William Maynard's son. Look at you. How could you be? I was scared. Once I started lying, I couldn't stop. William raped me. I know Charlie told you that. It's true. William was a son-of-a-bitch. My parents were very old when I was born an only child.
They were poor. I've worked hard, but can't seem to do enough. They died, both my parents died, soon after the incident. It killed them. William's violent actions killed them. I want to scream. I've wanted to scream for years. But I couldn't. I had to hold it in. Every day I am closer to screaming. But not today.” Scott licked his lips and swallowed. His jaw muscles tightened.

Billy drove with his face forward and chin jutted forward, stalwart.

Scott began reading. “The Maynards had money. I couldn't live without their help. I may have been pregnant with you before I was raped, but I don't know for sure. I couldn't know. I didn't want to know. Nothing mattered but you, even then. I could never have given you up. So I lied.

“Jack and I were supposed to meet down by the river. That's where we always met. William followed me there. He had always been angry with me because I wouldn't give him the time of day. I knew about him. William was so angry. He attacked me at the edge of the water. It was so quick. Jack was late. When he arrived, he attacked William. They fought while I screamed. Someone who had been driving by heard me scream and came down as Jack mindlessly, insanely pounded William over and over and over. I couldn't stop crying. Jack was out of control. I was frightened of him. I didn't know who he was. I didn't know what to do.

“We knew how powerful Charlie Maynard was in those days. Jack told me to keep quiet. We had nothing. We were confused. We didn't know the law, only that we were both poor white trash. Jack went to jail and I lied to the Maynards once I found I was pregnant. They believed me when I told them it was William's baby. Jack told me to stay away from him, so that no one would put two and two together. He didn't have to tell me. I didn't know him any longer. Once I started down that path, I didn't know how to change. They must have known once you were born. Charlie wanted a son so bad. He wanted to raise you, to take you away from me, to prove something to himself. But I wouldn't let him make another monster.

“I'm sorry, Billy, but I can't live like this any longer. It has nothing to do with you. I love you. So, here's what you have probably been wondering about. Jack and I were lovers. I could have
already been pregnant when William raped me. I don't know. I never will. No matter what, though, you are not William's son, you are mine. I raised you. You have your own look. You are your own person. Your mom.” Scott stopped talking and sat quietly, placing the note in his lap and holding it carefully.

Billy felt like a machine. He didn't move except to drive. A long time went by. They were nearly at Scott's house when Billy first spoke. “Well, there it is,” he said. “There it is.”

Scott folded the papers and put them into his shirt pocket. He looked out the side window. They had turned down onto the dirt road leading to his house. When the truck stopped, the trees became still, silent. Scott got out and spit onto the driveway stones, which crunched under his feet as he walked around the truck.

Billy followed Scott into the house. They both put their boots in the mud room. If Scott expected more of a reaction, for the emotions to explode out of Billy, it wasn't going to happened. Scott stuck by him for a while as though watching him. Every so often, Billy wiped tears away. He did not cry openly. The tears seeped out of his eyes as if an underground stream seeping water into the lowlands.

Billy drank a tall glass of water while leaning against the sink. “There it is,” he said once again, as though he were stuck on an ever-revolving merry-go-round of words, no additional thoughts able to make their way into his mind.

Perhaps Billy's mind had shut down right at the beginning of his mother's note and nothing else had sunk in. Perhaps his words were absent of all meaning. Perhaps his mind was in the process of feeding itself one piece of information at a time. That it hadn't shut down, or gone off-line altogether, but had turned to some self-protection mode. Billy didn't even know.

Scott reached for Billy's glass, pried it from his fingers, and placed it in the sink. “Are you okay? You seem calm, but I know there's something going on in there.”

Billy made no response until Scott interrupted Billy's mental loop by slapping his shoulder and saying, “Let's go sit down.” Scott had to shove Billy to get him moving.

Billy sat, slumped forward, elbows on knees, on the living room couch, the one Scott had made with his own hands.

“Let's talk about it,” Scott said.

“What's there to say?” Billy said.

“Nothing, I suppose. I just wondered what you thought.” Scott sat back in his chair, apparently feigning a relaxed pose.

“I think,” Billy said, sitting up straight, still at the edge of the couch cushion. “I think,” he said louder, “that Mom lied her whole life—to everyone. That's what the note said.”

“How do you feel about that?” Scott asked.

“I don't know how I feel. I'm numb. I've been trying to sort it out, but I can't. You know what though?” Billy pointed accusingly at Scott. “I'll tell you what just cropped into my head. That Mom looked at me and remembered being raped, remembered Jack was in prison. Maybe she saw Jack beating William to death. That's what I just thought. You know what else?”

“No. What?” Scott said.

“I think the Maynards believed I was Jack's kid often enough to learn to hate me. I think they may have been disappointed that I didn't fucking rape somebody, proving to them that I was their son's son.” His lips were pressed tightly together. His teeth clenched. “I don't know who I am. A rapist's son or a murderer's son?”

“Jack's not a murderer,” Scott said. “Not if we can believe that note your mom left.”

Billy lifted his head. “He murdered someone.”

“He witnessed something terrible happening to a loved one and reacted. That does not make him a murderer, regardless what happened afterwards. Maynard had him put away.”

“Mom's dead,” Billy said, breaking through the mire of his own thoughts for a moment.

“Yes, she is.”

“I never knew her, did I?” Billy asked.

“Perhaps not as deeply as you could have, but you knew her.” Scott shifted in his chair, scratched his cheek.

“You think she would have been different with me, had she known whose kid I was?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. She was loving and protective, wasn't she?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, she was. Especially when I was little.”

“Remember those good times, Billy. Forget the rest. Regardless of how things have been between you lately, remember those times,” Scott said.

“I wonder why she didn't approach Jack after all these years. Fear? Shame?”

“We'll never know. Maybe she did,” Scott answered.

“I wonder why Jack came here instead of running away and starting a new life somewhere else.” Billy looked to Scott for an answer. “You think he came to see Mom and was scared, so he looked me up?”

“Ask him,” Scott said. “That's one thing you can do. Ask him. Talk to him.”

“What if he doesn't know anything either?” Billy asked.

“Then you are where you are, start there,” Scott said.

“From scratch?”

“If you have to. You've got more information than you need right now. Too much to think about, I'd say,” Scott said.

“I'm tired,” Billy said.

Scott nodded. “Why don't you go to bed and we'll talk in the morning?”

Billy reached out and shook Scott's hand. “I probably have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“I'll be here,” Scott said.

“I couldn't have read that letter. You've been a friend.” With those words, Billy remembered his best friend Sam. He'd need to call Sam and let him know what happened, what was going on. He thought, as he went to his room, that he had several friends — real friends — Sam, Scott, and probably Vicki. It occurred to Billy that he could begin to define his life through them. At college, he found he could, and often did, forget his home in Wyoming. His home. His mind switched directions once again, shifting, in its exhaustion, to the next thought. He'd have to do something with the house. Rent it? Sell it? Let the Maynards have it? After all, they paid for it. School then, he would have to fill out new paperwork. He'd need a new permanent address. Random thoughts took over his mind, like so many mice in a cage, as he undressed and slipped into bed.

The feel of being awake and living inside his head, versus being asleep and living inside his dreams, stood so close that Billy couldn't remember, the next morning when he awoke, exactly when he had fallen asleep, or how well he slept through the night. If he thought about it, he could imagine either a sound or a fitful night of sleep. Both seemed equally possible.

He still felt drained of energy as he showered and dressed.

When Billy walked into the kitchen, Scott looked up from a magazine he held. “There's coffee,” he pointed. “How'd you sleep?”

“I'm not sure,” Billy told him. He poured himself coffee.

Scott chuckled. “I've been reading up on the latest trends in furniture.” He flipped up the cover of the magazine for Billy to see.

“So, what's going on?” Billy couldn't read the cover from where he stood, but it didn't matter. It was conversation.

“Well, from my studies, almost anything.”

“Be creative then,” Billy said. “What's stopping you?”

“A full-time job, a house and workshop to finish, a life.” Scott laughed, then became very serious. “A Sgt. Brink called this morning. He gave me a bunch of info about your mom. What to do and stuff.”

“I'll deal with it later,” Billy said.

“You don't have to.” Scott raised his eyes. “If you don't want to.”

“What do you mean?” Billy asked.

“My dad called. Said he'd take care of everything he could. Give you a detailed list of what you need to do, when to show up, where, what to sign.”

“No. He can't do that,” Billy said.

“He's a retired principal. He loves to do this stuff. You don't know my dad. He's like that. I suggest you let him do it.” Scott shrugged, then pointed to the clock.

“Why would he do this?”

“Why not? The man can do anything. Let him go.”

Billy nodded. “How do I thank him?”

Scott laughed. He seemed to be in a good mood that morning. “My dad? Say thank you. Shake his hand. Look into his eyes and say it like you really mean it.”

“That's it?”

“He's a man of kindness and integrity, my brother always says. I agree. So, that's it.”

Billy sipped at his coffee while Scott looked through his magazine. “Okay. Let him do it,” Billy said. In a little while, he walked into the living room, sat down on the couch, and stared. No specific thoughts had entered his head. Thoughts were his saviors, without them an overwhelming sadness set in.

Later that morning, Vicki called and spoke with Billy for a few minutes expressing her deepest regrets. She suggested they meet somewhere for lunch, but Billy refused politely, telling her, honestly, that he needed to be alone. Billy never questioned how she had heard. He never thought to apologize for not showing up at the Court House either.

That afternoon Jack called. Billy wanted to think before he spoke with Jack, Charlie Maynard, or anyone else. He asked Scott to put it off for him.

The next few days were long. Many times, Billy had wished he'd taken care of everything himself. It would have given him something to do. But the day of the funeral was upon them. Monday. And all Billy could think was how wonderful it would be to be back to work on Tuesday. To be busy. He wished he had a test to study for, something to keep his mind occupied.

Scott's father had taken care of everything, just as promised. All Billy had to do was be there. He had signed the proper papers and left the rest to Mr. Pierce.

Over the course of the past few days, Billy had been able to sort out some of his feelings by compartmentalizing them as efficiently as possible. Attributing anger to the lies, love to his mother's care of him, fear to the future. Emotions came in waves and he tried to recognize the overriding one, then mentally shove the emotion into its category. Not the best way to deal with things, he knew. Still, that's how he worked through his thoughts. How else could he have gotten through the pain and confusion inside him?