An Incidental Reckoning (3 page)

“Do you ever think about him? Where he is now?”

“Who?” Jon asked, but he knew.

“Stape.”

“No. Not really. Well, maybe I’ve thought about it, but really who cares?”

Jon stared at his line during the exchange, avoiding Will’s eyes and the indication of something beyond idle curiosity. Since Jon had taken care of the tent and firewood, there hadn’t been much more set-up required, so they had driven down lonely dirt roads navigable only by the DeLorme’s atlas that Jon kept in his trunk, looking for a trout stream. They found it difficult to determine whether the waters discovered were legal for live bait or lures only, finally deciding to take their chances, doubtful that a Fish Commission officer would fight the boggy ground and thick rhododendrons to check up on them. Jon had detected pensiveness to Will after the initial greeting and slaps on the back. He had said little and stared at nothing as though weighing something of substance in his thoughts. Now, bringing up Stape in such a direct manner portended something Jon didn’t know if he wanted more information on.

“He was just released from prison. Got ten years...and he did all ten.”

“For what?”

“Possession of heroin with intent to sell."”

“Oh.”

Jon hoped that it would end there, that a trout would derail the conversation by making a run at one of the redworms pierced through with their hooks.

“Do you ever think about getting even?”

“Not with anything approaching seriousness. Why are you asking about this, Will? Are you planning to do something?”

“I already have.”

Jon paused, waited for more, and then sighed and allowed himself to be drawn in further. He couldn't deny his curiosity or the trepidation that held its hand.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“He doesn’t live that far from Tanville now. A house out in the sticks where his parents lived when we were in school. I went there last summer. Sorry I didn't stop by, but I had...business."

"What did you do, Will?" Jon asked, but afraid of the answer. "Did you kill him?" The last part came out as a near whisper.

"Kill him? No, I didn't kill him. Jeez, Jon. What do you think I am?"

"Sorry."

Jon turned back to his line that stretched over the water and disappeared through a small ring where it broke the surface. A dragonfly had landed on it, searching for prey, its wings catching the sun and shattering the light into the colorful parts of its whole. They had chosen a spot where the stream made a small turn and widened out, the main current rounding against the far bank to scoop away the gravel and create a deep hole. The creek bottom dropped sharply in front of his feet, disappearing into dark waters in which Jon imagined dwelt some trophy brook or brown trout. The trouble with trout, though, was that either they were biting or they weren't. No trouble if they were, but so far in twenty minutes his repeated casts to settle his worm near the far bank where a tangle of roots provided perfect cover had proved fruitless. He decided not to ask Will anything more. He would get to it, or he wouldn't.

"I trashed his car. An old Mustang sitting in the driveway. I drove by a few times, looked like nobody was home, so I found some rocks and went back. Smashed the windshield, the back window, and dropped the biggest one on top of the hood. I hope it broke something inside, but I don't know. Then I got out of there."

Jon absorbed this, couldn't deny a feeling of satisfaction at his friend's actions. And it wasn't murder. He figured Brody deserved at least what Will had done, probably still had more coming. But he had no desire to mete out punishment of his own. He still lived with the pain, but didn’t want to approach its source. Brody, a newly minted ex-con, surely hadn't learned anything, spending ten years in prison, a loser if there ever was one. But curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "So how did it feel? To strike back?"

Will turned to him, and Jon saw a haunted man.

"At first it felt great. I actually fibbed a bit before. I had intended to come to your place afterwards, figured we could have a small celebration. But by the time I got to Tanville, I just felt sick. Pathetic. It didn't change anything. Either that or it just wasn't enough. Maybe if I had walked up to the door and knocked, and then punched him in the face..."

"Will, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I know that. What gets me the most is that I don't even think I could do it. I'm too afraid. Almost forty years old, and I don't have the balls to stand up to him." Will's voice choked, and he turned away.

"If it helps, I don't think I could either."

"But why, Jon? How did it go on like that? How is it that no one saw what was happening to us, or if they did, why didn't they stop it? Do you think we were wrong? Not to fight back, or tell our parents or somebody?"

Jon starting reeling his line in again, a purely mechanical action now, his heart far removed from the act of fishing.

"I don't know. Stuff like that happens all of the time. Kids beaten or worse from their parents or some creepy uncle, and it just goes on. People don't want to know, sometimes, because then they have to do something about it. But we made it. And I don't see the use of questioning what can't be changed."

"But are we cowards, Jon? I've never been in a situation since then that could tell me otherwise, never been in another fight after all of that. I didn't run from anything, and I didn't look for trouble…but either way I never had a chance to find out. I sometimes think I should just find a guy on the street and pick a fight. See what happens."

Jon frowned. "What would it prove? We both have jobs, contribute something. You coach little league. And what did Brody do with his life? Sold drugs and spent ten years in prison. So he can beat people up. What does that amount to, in the end?"

Will brought in his line and picked off the lifeless, pale worm that had given its all and re-baited his hook. For a few minutes they focused on the fishing again, and on their own thoughts.

"You're right I guess. But it still bothers me. What if, for instance...someone came onto the field while we were practicing baseball? Threatened the kids. My son. What would I do? Could I stand up to the guy, or would I be too afraid?"

"I'm sure you'd do the right thing, if the kids were in danger."

"I wish I could say for sure. But what if I couldn't? What if it's some genetic thing? What else explains it? Why does one guy feel no fear, goes to war and comes home a hero, while another guy hides behind a rock, hoping that the bullet has anyone's name on it but his? What if I'm one of those guys? What if we both are?"

Jon bristled at the implication, but he couldn't claim that he hadn't wondered the same thing. He had never given it too much thought, or at least allowed it to become such a pointed issue in his life as Will had, but could he? Would he try and take down the gunman that barged into his workplace to turn it into a hunting preserve, or hide behind his forklift and cover his ears to stop the screams and block out the gunshots that brought them to an abrupt end? But did anyone really know that answer, until they were there? Even the ones that hadn't been forced to fight their best friend in high school? And especially the ones absolutely certain they could?

"I suppose we'll know if the time ever comes. All we can do is live the best we know how."

"Sure." Will said, but he sounded disappointed, as though he had expected Jon to have all of this worked out.

My father would have
, Jon thought. His method of parenting consisted of spouting platitudes, placing unrealistic expectations on his son, and then stepping back and offering no support or encouragement when he failed to live up to them. But plenty of criticism. When he wasn't at the bar drinking.

A trout finally roused itself and struck Jon's line, and the conversation was postponed as he reeled in a thirteen inch brown that gasped for oxygen as Jon carefully removed the hook.

"Should we keep this one?"

"Nah, it's getting late and that certainly isn't enough for both of us. Let's wait until we can cook a full supper. If we get that lucky."

"All right. Should probably get going. I don't want to try and find our way back to the car in the dark."

Jon stooped and put the trout back into the water. He released it, and it flailed its tail apathetically and then turned over and floated belly-up. He watched it, willing it to swim. Trout were such delicate fish, didn't take much to kill them. He hoped this one was only recovering from the shock of its abduction, and would soon revive and dart back into the cold darkness of its protected shelter. He suddenly felt terrible for luring it out for his own sport, a mild pleasure soon forgotten but a life and death game for the fish.

Swim.

Swim, swim, swim, swim...

With a flash, its scales catching the last of the afternoon sun lighting the pool, the trout righted itself and disappeared into the deeper water. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, found himself close to tears, surprised by it. He had never given a second thought to catching a fish, wondered if in five years he'd be head of a local PETA chapter and chaining himself to tree trunks.

"You okay, Jon? Ready to go?"

He stood up and looked out into the water, wanting to make sure the fish didn't rise to the surface again; which, if it happened, would feel like an omen of some kind though he had never believed in that sort of thing, either. The surface of the water remained unbroken, and Jon collected his pole and creel, and without looking back followed Will down a faint fisherman's trail.

Just as he made out the white roof of Will’s car through the dense vegetation, a thought occurred and he asked, "Will, are you sure Brody didn't see you?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Nobody was home. Hey, I brought some hot sausage we can cook up on the grill for dinner if you’re interested."

"Sounds great."

Anything sounded better than fish.

Chapter 3

They spent the evening in a companionable, but tense, fashion. Jon sensed that Will would talk more about his philosophy of courage if encouraged, but he wanted none of it, tended to shun most abstract thought, saving his concerns for the here and now. The sausage was excellent, and just sitting, chewing and staring into a fire provided all the stimulation he currently required.

They spoke some about their wives, and Will about his son Justin, too. Jon had no children, had never wanted children. With any woman he had dated, and they had been few, he managed to slip in some indication of his thoughts early on and then decided on future dates based on her reaction. He knew his aversion to producing offspring came from his lack of any real role model when it came to fathering, refusing to pass on the damage done by his own dad. They hadn’t spoken in years, and Jon couldn't guarantee attendance at his funeral, or envision a tearful reconciliation on the horizon at any time before that. Life didn't always work out like a movie on some women's television network. Jon was content with the distance between them, a situation much better than living under his roof.

Now, after Will’s expression of his fears, he wondered if something had worked within his subconscious, or at least augmented his conscious reasons. A boy with a coward for a father would probably turn out the same way, or worse hold his dad in contempt and become unmanageable. Get involved with the wrong crowd or companion. Maybe someone like Brody.

Even his relationship with his wife Erin suffered, he knew, from the lack of watching a father and mother interact. He found it fascinating how one could recognize deficient traits in the process of practicing them, and yet still carry on as though programmed and devoid of the ability to change. But Erin had her faults as well, selfishness being one of them, and he knew it as the main reason behind her own desire to remain childless. He wouldn’t call it a model relationship in any sense of the word, but he did the best he could with it…and realized that this had become his mantra. And probably just as much an excuse for the mediocrity that he had settled for in so many areas of his life.

He hadn’t done anything extraordinary, nothing that would ever stand out, would end up as another name on a headstone that if he were lucky would entertain a few visitors now and then. He had a few friends, or at least people to watch the game with or meet for a beer. And in this wasn’t he like most people, just trying to get by? But then he had never really
attempted
anything beyond himself, either. Did it, like Will seemed to think, stem from a personal deficiency? They had never feared taking on each other in a fight, because they knew it wasn’t real, even though some of the blows had felt real enough…