Ash Wednesday (17 page)

"He's a prick," Beth said.

"How come you know so much about him?"

"I know a lot about all the kids at Hatch. And their parents, present or absent. Bonnie Meyers spilled her guts out to me quite a few times when we had problems with Frank."

"You never told me."

"Confidential."

"Oh, sorry. Now you're a priest, huh?"

"What's wrong with you?" she said, her voice dangerously close to losing control.

"My son's dead," he said simply. "I killed my son."

Her eyes widened. "Don't say that," she said. "Don't even think it."

"It's true."

"That's stupid. Why do you say that?"

His eyes filled with tears so that he could no longer see to drive, and he pulled the car off the street. And then he told her what he had told no one before, about trying to get the children out, and seeing the fire, and leaping from the bus. "I jumped," he said. "I don't even remember doing it, but I did. I let them go . . ."

"There was nothing you could have done."

"I don't know how long . . . I don't remember how long it was. . . There might have been time. . . ."

"No," she said firmly. "There was no time. You couldn't have done anything." Her eyes bored into his, and for a moment he believed her. "You couldn't have saved them, Jim. No matter what you'd done. You did everything you could." She gazed at him, wanting it to be the truth. "Didn't you?"

"You
did
."

He nodded, his mouth slack-jawed. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Each was so intent upon the other that neither one noticed the green Volkswagen slowly pass them.

~*~

The following week there was a hearing into the cause of the accident, the blame for which was placed solidly on Henry Martin, whose brakes had locked on the ice, sending him skidding into the bus. His truck had been found nearly fifty yards away from the burned bus, his nearly severed head protruding from his splintered windshield. At the hearing, Jim Callendar answered the questions put to him listlessly, automatically, until the presiding magistrate asked a question that made him blanch. "Mr. Callendar," he said, "from what you've told us and from the evidence we've seen, would you agree with me that you did everything you could to avoid the accident and save the children?"

Jim did not answer immediately, and Beth straightened in her chair, expectant, wary, fearful. The small group gathered in the room sensed her discomfort and Jim's unease, and the room became very silent.

"I couldn't have avoided it," Jim said. "There was . . no way I could have avoided it."

"And afterward," the magistrate said. "You did all you could for the safety of the passengers, isn't that true? You said you tried to get them out, after all."

Jim sat looking at the man as though he were a stern, unforgiving father before whom he dared have no secrets. "I jumped. "

The room stinted. Faces turned to one another and then back toward Jim. "You . . .
jumped?
" the magistrate asked.

"Off the bus. I saw the fire and I jumped . . . leaped off." His voice was hushed, as though he wanted only the magistrate to hear. To hear and give him absolution.

"But you . . . were in danger. Of being caught by the fire yourself. Isn't that true?"

"I . . . don't know. I don't know how long I was . . . in the air."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Callendar, I don't—"

"Don't you
see?
" Jim hissed, his eyes wide. Each word came painfully slowly now, as if explaining to a child. "If I jumped . . . and landed before the fire was . . . was
big
, then it was wrong, then I did wrong, but if when I hit, the fire was where I would have been standing, then it wouldn't be so
bad
, but I . . . don't
remember!
" His voice was shaking now, on the point of tears. "I don't . . . remember . . .
landing
. I was just
there
, and the fire was . . . it was . . . Oh, Terry . . .” He broke down in sharp staccato sobs, and Beth put an arm around him.

"He doesn't know what he's saying," she said, her own voice nearly breaking. "It's been such a shock . . . everything . . . it's been too much . . ."

"I understand," the magistrate said kindly. "Mr. Callendar, no one blames you for anything that happened. There are occurrences that are tragic, unfortunate, but no one is really to blame, and most certainly you can't be held at fault for what happened. No one is accusing you of a thing. If the fault lay anywhere, it lay with Henry Martin, who has already paid the highest price he could. Now, my advice to you” —and he cleared his throat, as if embarrassed that Jim had not ceased crying—"my advice to you is to stop holding
yourself
responsible for what happened to your son and to the other children. You could . . . It's simply not realistic," he finished weakly.

After a few formalities, the hearing was adjourned. Only three of the other parents had been present—Rodney Miller, Angie
Gianelli
, and Brad Meyers, who had been sitting in the back wearing a bulky fatigue jacket. Miller and Mrs.
Gianelli
rose and left the meeting room immediately, their faces stony. Brad Meyers sat and watched the
Callendars
leave with Bill Gingrich. Jim seemed unaware of his presence, but Beth noticed his gaunt face, wiped clean of any expression, and shivered as though the cold outside had crept into the overheated meeting room.

By the time they reached the car, Jim's tears had dried and Beth felt some of her self-confidence returning. "Well, Bill," she said tightly to Gingrich as they climbed inside, "did you get a story?"

"That's not fair, Beth," he replied. "That's not why I came. I came because you're my friends."

"Is that compatible with honest journalism?"

"Beth," Jim said weakly, "that's enough."

"No. I want to know if you'll print it, Bill. What Jim said."

Gingrich glared at her. "No."

"Because you're our friend?"

"Because there'd be no point. I'm concerned with the outcome, not how it was arrived at." Gingrich shook his head and looked at Jim. "Though why you ever gave that goddamn
mea culpa
is beyond me."

"I could have done something," Jim whispered.

"
Stop
it!" In the confines of the closed car Beth's cry was painfully loud. "Will you stop it! It wasn't your fault!" Jim bit his lip and stared at his hands in his lap.

"Oh, Jesus," sighed Beth. "Jesus. Will you take us home please, Bill?"

It was late in the afternoon when Gingrich dropped them off. Beth went directly to the kitchen to make dinner, which was usually Jim's job. But today he simply sat in the living room in front of the TV set and watched a talk show. They exchanged as few words as possible that evening, and went to bed early, without kisses or embraces.

That night, as on all the nights since the accident, sleep came hard to Jim, and when he could attain it, sleep was no longer a flat black, but a dark and muddy gray, like burnt charcoal, its texture not smooth, but viscous. He allowed himself to sleep only lightly, fearful that he would dream. But his dreams could have been no worse than the conscious memories that he replayed over and over. Bobby Miller's shattered hole of a face, the cries of "Mama, Mama" from the dark cave of the bus, that other mindless call, and he thought again and again, Was it Terry? Was he in there waiting for me? If I had stayed, could I have gotten him out, gotten them all out? Was there time; was there time? and he would tell himself that it was over and done and didn't matter anymore, because nothing could change it now, so go to sleep and forget.

But it
did
matter. He knew that. And beyond that he knew that it was the only thing that mattered. The feeling bound him with chains stronger than love or sex or hunger, and he identified it, quickly and correctly, as guilt. He had to bear it; no one could take it from him, strip it off his back like a tired, patched coat. He chose it and wore it, thought it would he his forever, and decided the best he could do was to live with it, as others went through life sightless, or on crutches, or in hospital beds. But it was his mind that was crippled, and he soon learned that any sympathy he expected to receive came hard to those who were sound of body.

The news of his admission at the hearing spread quickly through the town, and people who had been friendly to him before still smiled, but with a studied tolerance and a look of wary suspicion, as if not quite sure whether the man in front of them was really the same person they had known all these years. The fact of the accident itself did not separate him from them. That alone would have been dismissed in a year or so; it would have been remembered as a tragedy, but Jim's name would not have been as inextricably and permanently linked with it.

What made the difference was the dark doubt that he had expressed publicly about himself and his actions. If one were an adulterer or a thief or a cheat—or a coward—one kept it to oneself. It was the admission as much as the suspicion that made the people of Merridale shun him. Rumors were rampant. Bill Gingrich heard them but did not communicate them to Jim. One ran that he had never been thrown from the school bus at all, but had crawled out immediately once the bus came to rest. Another crueler one intimated that the children were found burned to death piled up against the back door of the bus, and all would have escaped alive and unharmed if Jim had not run.

Though Jim heard none of these, he could feel the tone of the community easily enough the first few days after the hearing. He could not bring himself to face anyone at first, and called Bill Gingrich to tell him that he had written neither of the columns Gingrich needed for that week's
Messenger
. Gingrich listened quietly, then said, "Can I count on you for next week?"

"No, I think we'd better just forget it for a while."

"How long?" Jim didn't answer. "Don't do this to yourself, Jim. Don't do it. You've got to get out. You can't lock yourself away."

"I've seen them. Seen their faces."

"Fuck
them!
Whoever
they
are!" There was silence on the line, and Gingrich thought Jim might have quietly hung up. "You there?"

"Yes."

"I want to talk to you. I want you to meet me—”

“Can you come here?"

"No. Out. At the Anchor."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No. I won't drive. And Beth's at school."

"I'll pick you up."

"Be there in ten minutes." And Gingrich hung up.

At Jim's house, Jim followed Gingrich fearfully, almost blindly, into his car. It was four in the afternoon when they entered the Anchor, and only a few workers from early shifts were seated at the bar. Gingrich guided Jim to a booth at the side. The bar, already quiet, became more so as they entered, and when the conversation resumed, it was in a low hum, with frequent sidelong glances at Jim. Gingrich returned the glances with glares, but to little effect. When he looked at Jim he was surprised to find him smiling. It was a small shy smile that hinted of self-satisfaction. Jim looked at Gingrich.

"They're talking about me," he said.

Gingrich nodded. "Yeah. They probably are." He paused. "That bother you."

"No." Jim shook his head. "They should be. After what I did."

"What are . . .” Gingrich began, but the waitress was beside them, smiling at Gingrich, trying to smile at Jim. They ordered beers. "What are you talking about?" Gingrich asked when they were alone. "After what you did?"

Jim looked at him, no longer smiling. "It's simple, Bill. I'm not going to be punished for what I did. Not by the law. So
they'll
punish me."