Shatter My Rock (22 page)

I
tried to kill Ricky once. It was just after Christmas, nineteen seventy-eight.
My ninth-grade American Lit. teacher, Mrs. Heller, had assigned some reading
over the holiday break: John Steinbeck’s
Of Mice and Men.
I’d cracked
the book only to escape a drunken Christmas Eve row my mother was having via
telephone with one of Ricky’s doctors, a cocksure, Harvard-trained blowhard who
was insisting my brother had no need of an emergency room, despite a hundred
and three degree temperature and a wild case of the shakes. 

I
finished the book in one sitting. Dog-eared a bunch of pages. Copiously
underlined. Scribbled what I thought were insightful notes in the margins, even
though it was a school-issued text. I memorized one passage in particular, a
bit of dialogue that read: “I ought to of shot that dog myself, George. I
shouldn’t ought to of let no stranger shoot my dog.” I thought about how George
had stolen that Luger and plugged Lennie in the back of the head to spare him
an even worse fate.

Then
Marjorie Blake called a couple of days later and invited me over to watch cable
TV. Her parents didn’t care if we watched R-rated movies, and I had to break
free of that carriage house before it flattened me, like it had Charlotte and
Ricky.

Marjorie
had peculiar taste in movies that bent toward the classics, anything critically
acclaimed, even some foreign stuff. 
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
was
the pick of the day. We watched in stony silence all the way to the end, right
past the scene where Chief Bromden holds that snow-white pillow to McMurphy’s
face and suffocates him.

I
got up at four a.m. the next morning. Never slept the night before, really.
Brought my own pillow with me to Ricky’s room and stood over him while his
chest rose and fell. Willed myself to be brave like George; imagined I was
Chief Bromden and Ricky was McMurphy. I wanted Ricky to open his eyes so I
could be sure, but when he did, I flinched.
He
didn’t, though. Even in
his deteriorated state, he knew what I was out to do. And he granted me silent
permission. As I turned away, he began to cry.

For
more than thirty-two years, I carried that pillow around in my mind. But no
more. Now I have the guilt of Owen.

In
the month since the verdict came down against me, I have not heard from anyone
from the outside world, with the obvious exception of my attorneys. There has
been nary a visit, or a phone call, or even a letter from Tim, or Ally, or
Jenna, or…

But
today that changes. Today Judge Parsons will fix a penalty to my crime, and the
legal portion of this ugliness, at least, will be done.

Zoe
squeezes my hand as Charlotte Tupper informs the judge that a number of my
victims wish to speak before I am sentenced.

My
victims.

I
do my best to disappear inside myself, tune out everything beyond my own skin, an
approach that succeeds until somewhere in the middle of my sister-in-law
Emily’s victim impact statement.

“She
didn’t have any family of her own,” Emily says in the distance, her voice
falling prey to the slightest quiver, “so we made her part of ours. And once
she had Ally…well, that was it.” She pauses, maybe to look at me, but I’ll
never know. “What I really want to say,” she continues, “is that I’m sorry for
what happened to her. As a woman, that’s a terrible thing, I know. I understand
that. But it doesn’t justify what she did. We all loved that baby, and she took
him from us. I’ll never forgive her for that. And what she did to my brother?
That was a crime too.

“All
I can ask is that you give her enough time to consider what she’s done—the repercussions
of such an evil—and repent.
Truly repent.
Because, right now, I’m not
sure that she believes what she did was wrong. I hope you can change that, Your
Honor. Thank you.”

If
I were to glance over my shoulder at the prosecutor’s lineup, I may find that
an army of people have appeared to say their piece against me, to pass judgment
anew on what I have done.

Judge
Parsons thanks Emily for speaking, and then Charlotte Tupper introduces Tim’s
dad. There is a scuffing sound as he makes his way to the microphone that I
attribute to a Korean War injury to his lower back and the strain of the “shit
storm” he described to me over the phone.

“My
name is James Fowler. I’m Owen’s grandfather; Claire’s father-in-law,” he
begins. “I traveled here today to say a few simple things—a few things I
figured might not’ve got said otherwise.”

He
waits a moment as if he expects a response, but when none comes, he sighs.
“Claire Fowler is a good woman. My son wouldn’t’ve married her if she weren’t.
Now I don’t condone what she’s done. Not by a long shot. She should be punished
for it; it’s wrong. But I’d like to think she could come home in time to see
her daughter, Ally, graduate from high school. Because that girl’s got a
desperate need for her mother, and you’re punishing her too. I just didn’t want
anyone to forget that.” He stops for longer this time, coughs and clears his
throat. “I guess that’s all I’ve got to say.”

I
feel an urge to turn and catch his eye, convey my humility and gratitude, but I
mash it like a carpenter ant beneath my calloused toes.

When
I hear Tim’s voice, I flinch. “I was, uh, Owen’s father,” he mumbles. “Owen was
a happy baby. Barely ever cried. Slept like a champ. Loved to cuddle and play.
And he was smart. He had this light in his eyes, like he knew more than he was
letting on, you know. I could tell he was going to do something big in this
world, same as his sister. Those two were peas in a pod. Carbon copies of each
other. All I wanted was for them to grow up happy. Do something they loved.
Have families of their own. Live good lives.”

He
gives a little sarcastic huff. “But then…
this.
This is not how things
were supposed to… I’m sorry, but I just can’t accept
this.
And she
didn’t even tell me!” he cries. “That’s the kicker. She didn’t trust me enough
to make a goddamn peep. What does that say about our marriage? It was a fu— It
was a goddamn sham; that’s what it says. A mirage. I have no idea who… I
thought
I knew my wife. I really did. That makes me the idiot, I guess.”

I
am so lost to the abyss, so recoiled at my husband’s venom, that I do not
recognize the tears when they come. Not that they matter. I could spill remorse
from my pores without negating an iota of the harm I’ve done.

Tim
goes on, “The thing is, I would’ve helped her. I would’ve
done
something.
Had that…had that scum locked up for what he did. Or worse. Taken Owen to every
expert, every specialist, until someone could…fix what happened. Or help him
somehow. I wouldn’t have just quit, like she did. Look where
that’s
gotten
us.”

I
begin to sniffle, but Tim is unmoved. “She can cry all she wants,” he says with
agitation. “So can I. Big deal. It doesn’t matter. Nothing we do now matters,
because it’s over. And she didn’t even let us
try.
Owen deserved more
than that. We all did. It wasn’t up to her to decide.”

I
let the edge of my vision drift Tim’s way just enough to see his hand balled
into a fist—clenching, unclenching, clenching again. “If I could take it back,
I would,” he says, offering me a dose of my own medicine. “Everything but Ally.
The house? The cars? The parties and the trips? The perfect little make-believe
life we built? She can have it all, because it ain’t worth a damn now anyway.
Never was, I guess.”

My
husband sighs deeply, and a few of the spectators follow suit. “I don’t
understand much about…about this whole thing. But I know one thing: She chose
this.
She chose this,
” he repeats louder. “She chose it. That’s all.”

My
head falls into my hands and my shoulders sag.

Tim’s
mother wears her heart on her sleeve when she tells the court about Ally, how my
girl is stricken with insomnia and, when she does sleep, nightmares. How my
precious daughter, in so many words, told a psychologist she has pondered
suicide. How the spark has gone out of Ally’s big hazel eyes—and her spirit.

When
Ellen speaks of Owen, she sobs. And in the space between, she opens a window on
her love for my boy, despite what a DNA test might have shown.

On
the subject of my fate, my mother-in-law is apathetic, too many of my problems
now clogging her plate. “Do as you see fit,” she tells the judge. And by the
time she finishes speaking, gladness for prison settles over me like a blanket
of humidity in front of a hurricane.

I
never really believed Ricky would die, and I’m glad I wasn’t there at the end
when he did, because my brother deserved more from life, from doctors, from our
parents, from God and from me. He deserved to swing a baseball bat and hit a
pop fly, ace a spelling test and earn a gold star, play one of the wise men in
a Christmas pageant—or mercilessly beg our parents not to make him do so. He
deserved to kiss a girl, have his heart broken, look into the eyes of his own
child one day.

But
if none of this was meant, my brother at least deserved freedom from suffering
and pain, a say-so in how he lived his life—or whether he lived it at all. A
choice I stole from Owen in a dark moment, never to be undone.

My
transition to prison should have been more difficult. More painful. But I have
descended so far down this rabbit hole there’s nowhere left for me to go.

Yet
on day twenty of my ten-year sentence at the Maine Correctional Center, my
salvation comes in three parts. The first is a note from Ally, who, in defense
of my heart, I’ve convinced myself has abandoned me.

But
it isn’t so.

Dear
Mommy,
the
note begins, an opening so sweet and gentle it is, on its own, enough. But
there is more, of course. A page full of delicate cursive letters I inhale in a
single breath.

Dear
Mommy,

How
is the new place? I hope it’s okay and it goes by fast. Did you know that Dad
and I are moving too? He found a house for us to rent near the river, about a
mile from Gran and Gramp’s. Gran seems kind of sad to see us go, but I think
Gramp’s happy to get rid of Muffin and Cupcake (they’ve been digging up the
yard, and he can’t fill in the holes fast enough). The house is small, but
since it’s just me, Dad, and the dogs, it should be okay.

I
can’t believe school is starting again in two weeks! You missed it, but sixth
grade pretty much stunk. I have a few more friends now, though, so seventh
grade will be better, I think (I hope).    

Dad
and I drove by our old house last week. I don’t know why, but we did. There’s
still a
For
Sale
sign in the yard, even though the place is a pile of rubble. I said I
didn’t know why those women had burned it down, but Dad said he did. He said he
knew why, but it was wrong. I know why you did what you did to Owen. I also
know it was wrong. But I forgive you. I just wish none of this had ever
happened. When I told Dad that, he said he wished the same thing. He wished we
could go back to the way it was before Owen. I feel bad about saying it, but I
wish that too. We were happy then, and now Dad is sad all the time, even though
he tries to fake it.

I’m
going to try to talk Dad into visiting you soon. I’ve brought it up a few
times, but he keeps making excuses. I think he’s just not strong enough yet.
Don’t worry, though. I’m going to bug him until he gives in.

I
love you, and I miss you. I’ll send you one of my school pictures once we have
them taken, which is supposed to be in the first few weeks of school. And maybe
I’ll even see you before then. 

Hugs
& Kisses,

Ally,
Muffin, & Cupcake   

I
read Ally’s note twice more, notice how she’s traded that neon-purple ink for a
sophisticated black felt-tip, how, even in her words, she has matured, begun
slipping away.

But
she won’t,
I
tell myself, running my fingers over the page as if I can absorb a bit of her.
She
still loves me,
I think.
And the proof is right here.

I
fold the note and tuck it inside the Bible I have procured from the prison
chaplain in hopes of redeeming my soul. Then I stare at my lap for a moment,
perplexed. Because there is another letter for me today, a communication
offered on golden stationery in a sure hand. A hand I do not recognize and one I
may not identify by its return address, as the prison removes all envelopes
before we inmates get a glimpse of the mail.

I
think about flipping to the end of the letter to discover the identity of its
mysterious author, but this swiftly becomes unnecessary.
 

Dearest
Claire,

My
name is Soledad Ross, and I am your half-sister. I have thought of writing you
many, many times since I learned of your troubles, but the opportunity never
seemed right. I did not want to be a burden.

I
am contacting you now to tell you that you are in my heart and in my mind,
though we have never met. When our father died, he left a cigar box of
mementos—pictures, cards, ticket stubs—that I treasure as he did. In that box
was a photograph of you and him in Paris, lounging on the banks of the Seine,
your legs dangling over a stone wall.

He
must have told the story of that picture a thousand times—how your mother had
just snapped it when you reached for a butterfly and started to fall. But he caught
you. You were never really in danger, he said, but you were so frightened you
clung to him the rest of the day, slept wedged between him and your mother in
the hotel that night, though you had your own bed, even at five years old.

That
story, like others he told of you and Ricky, captured my imagination from as
far back as I can remember, because through that story, I
felt
you. I
knew you in a way only blood can know blood. The way a tree knows the earth.

As
you may well know, I spent the bulk of my childhood in Sonora, Mexico with our
father, until he died suddenly of an aneurysm in 1987, when I was six years old.
My mother had died birthing Amelie, another of your half-sisters, the previous year,
a week past my fifth birthday. A few years after our father passed, I moved the
younger children to Chihuahua and then, eventually, to Tampa, Florida, where
Amelie and Joaquim (your half-brother) still live. I am now in Washington,
D.C., and Christina (yes, another half-sister) is in Anchorage, Alaska with her
husband, a specialist in the U.S. Army.

I
tell you this because Joaquim, Christina, Amelie, and I are your family. We
loved the same father you loved, mourned him with the same tears. It has been
too long a road getting here, but we would like to know you, whenever and
wherever you choose.

I
am including my contact information in hopes that, when you become ready, you
will reach out to me—to all of us—because it is past time.

Bless
you and be well.

Yours
Always,

Soledad
 

I
stare at my sister’s words until they take on the look of a foreign language,
transform into a sort of emotional Rosetta Stone. This cluster of straight
lines and curved loops, open arches and simple dots, is the key to my sense of
belonging. The roots of my tree.

“I
love you,” I say to Soledad and Joaquim, Christina and Amelie, Ricky, Charlotte
and George, Tim, Owen and my dearest Ally.

Then
I crack the Bible again, landing on the words I have been groping for since the
day Ricky died:

Deliver me from
sinking in the mire; let me be delivered from my enemies and from the deep
waters. Let not the flood sweep over me, or the deep swallow me up, or the pit
close its mouth over me.

With
my heart thumping in my ears, my lungs constricted, regret burrowing into my
soul, I ask Him to grant me this. And in His infinite mercy, He does.