Liberty or Death (18 page)

"They keep asking me that, too. I can't answer them, though."

I knew I should shut up, but I didn't. "They'd probably give you bail if you promised not to go after that man at the VA." He shrugged. "And then they've got no reason to hold that cop."

He shrugged again. "I'm in, I'm out, it makes no difference about that cop, once they took him."

He was pulling away from me, drawing in. I took a chance and asked one more question. "Mr. Harding... I don't understand. Your mother is elderly and in poor health and she really needs your help. If you can get out, why won't you?"

He shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw, and cast a fearful look at the boy. "No more questions," he said. "Hell, honey, you're starting to be as bad as them."

Honey bit her lip and choked back her words. There were a hundred follow-up questions I wanted to ask but I could tell from the look on his face that he wouldn't answer any of them. If I persisted, I'd blow any chance remaining that he thought I was just a nice girl who was a bit too curious. I looked at my watch. We had to get going if I was going to be back in time for dinner. It didn't seem like I'd accomplished much, other than learning how adamant he was that he didn't want to be let out. And that the vanished Mindy had been Paulette's roommate. Maybe another time he'd talk to me. Not too likely, though. Jed Harding meant to keep things to himself. I'd been lucky to have as much conversation as I'd had.

It wasn't very satisfying to drive an hour and a half each way to hear his laconic opinion that Andre was unlikely to survive this. Only a masochist like me will drive for hours to be punched in the stomach. I stood up. "I'm sorry. We've got to be getting back. I have to work tonight. Maybe I can bring him down again, if I ever get another morning off."

"That Theresa sure does work 'em hard. Fair woman, though. Her girls make good money."

"That's what everyone says. Lyle, give your daddy a hug good-bye."

"Wait," Harding said. "How's my momma doing?"

He wanted me to say something reassuring, I knew. And I could have. But I was feeling a little mean. Discouraged by what he'd said about Andre. About the whole visit. "Not very well," I said. "She's pretty worn out."

He sighed without speaking, then turned and took Lyle in his arms. It was a long hug that made me feel like weeping. My tears were close to the surface these days anyhow. I packed up the markers and the coloring book and drawing pad. On the top was a picture Lyle had drawn of himself in his wheelchair, with Lyle crudely printed, sporting a backward E. "Don't you think your daddy would like to have this?" He nodded. I tore out the picture and handed it to Harding. "Some artwork for your cell. Until next time."

He stood up, slow and unsteady as a much older man, and took a step toward me. For the first time, I noticed his limp. I held out my hand to say good-bye. He captured it between both of his and held it there, looking at me from serious gray eyes. "Anyone asks, you say I'm doing fine. You say I had a great visit with Lyle and I'm fine. You're a real good person, Dora, for doin' this," he said. "You take care of yourself." He bent to settle his son in the chair.

Sometimes, when my lesser nature doesn't get the upper hand, I try, I thought, as I turned swiftly away so he wouldn't see my tears. I gripped the handles of the wheelchair. "Okay, Lyle. Here we go. I've got some apples and cookies in the car."

"Anything to drink?"

"Juice boxes."

"What kind?"

"You have a choice. Apple or fruit punch."

"Okay."

"You're supposed to say 'thank you,' " his father reminded him.

Lyle gave me one of his endearing smiles. "Thank you, Dora."

He ate three cookies and an apple, drank a box of juice, and fell asleep clutching the pillow his grandmother had insisted he take. I wished I could nap, too. I was so tired. Tired and discouraged and wondering why I was doing all this. Worried for Andre, a worry that keyed up a notch as I noticed how many places people had spray-painted "Free Jed Harding" on billboards, barns, rocks, and road signs. Lyle woke up cheerful when we got to his house, gave me a hug and a cookie-crumb kiss, and immediately started drawing again, with the "great new drawing things Dora got me."

I must have looked as tired as I felt, as tired as we all felt, because Mary Harding studied my face when I tried to say goodbye and then put a thin, dry hand on my arm. "Excuse me, I keep forgetting my manners. I've got some iced tea and sandwiches. Before you rush off to work again, come on in the kitchen and tell me about my son."

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Mary Harding's kitchen was clean and spare, a bare-bones, worn-out place that matched its occupant. The windows were open but no breeze came through. It was that kind of day. Stagnant and stultifying. The kind where I almost wished I didn't have too much pride to lie down in a shady patch and pant like a dog. Pregnancy seemed to have raised my body temperature or diminished my ability to cope. Something was different. I felt flattened by the summer heat in a way I never had before. The air felt like I could clasp it in my hands and wring it out and the damp had made my always difficult hair impossible. I looked like Medusa.

Despite my offer to help, she motioned for me to sit, then got out a pitcher of tea and a plate of sandwiches, set places for the two of us, and lowered herself wearily into her chair. She rested her hands in her lap for a moment, shoulders hunched, eyes shut, summoning the energy to continue. "Lyle can eat something later," she said. "I was hoping we could talk alone." She gestured toward the plate. "Go on. Don't be shy. I'm sure you must be hungry..."

I took a couple halves and put them on my plate but I wasn't really hungry. I'd thought, eating for two, that I'd be ravenous, but fear worked far better than Phen-fen or amphetamines at killing the appetite. She took one, took a tiny nibble, and set it down. "Tell me about my boy," she said, leaning forward eagerly.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know her well enough to gauge whether she wanted comfort or the truth. I wasn't even sure I knew what the truth was. "What did you want to know?" I asked.

"Everything. How he looks. Is he eating? Do they treat him well? Is he getting his medicine?" Suddenly this stiff, taciturn old woman was as eager as a girl.

"I don't know about his medicine. He didn't mention it. He looked worn-down and tired... but it's bound to be a strain, being locked up like that." I decided I might as well be frank. "He looked like a man who has suffered a lot, but he didn't look sick. He was rational. I got the impression that he's not very talkative, but he made polite conversation. He had a nice visit with Lyle. It was obvious that he loves his son and Lyle loves him." I wished I had more to tell her.

She reached out as if she was going to touch my arm, then pulled her hand back and put it in her lap. "Is he..." She searched for the word she wanted, and then said, "Did he seem scared?"

I shook my head. "Not to me. Of course, I don't know him, but he seemed to be at ease. The guards are all very sympathetic, Mrs. Harding. When I asked if there was a time limit on visitors, they said that if they couldn't let him go, at least they could let him visit with his son as long as he wanted."

"Eat your lunch," she urged, staring down at her own barely touched food. "It was good of you to take the boy. He wants so badly for his daddy to come home... and of course, Jed can't... not after what..."

I pounced. "After what?"

She shook her head but didn't answer.

"I don't understand, Mrs. Harding. All he has to do is say he won't go shoot that VA guy, and they'll let him go. It doesn't make any sense. Lyle needs him. You need the help. Why doesn't your son want to be let out?"

She went on staring at the plate. "Did he say anything about his wife?"

Her voice was so soft I had to lean forward to hear. Did she know something about what had happened to Paulette? Was the whole town in on this big secret? More important, did she believe her son had had something to do with it? "Just that she used to work at the restaurant. And that she was gone."

She nodded and seemed relieved, but I had no idea why. She had a face that wasn't easy to read—a blank, severe façade. I picked up a sandwich and took a bite. Egg salad. And very good. I ate both halves, drank my tea, and stood up. "I wish I had more to tell you, Mrs. Harding."

"Don't apologize, dear. You did your best. More than most people have done for us, and I've lived here all my life. So's Jed, of course. And Lyle. It's something to know he's not sick and they're treating him decent. He didn't seem... nervous?"

"Nervous?" I didn't understand.

She stared down at her hands, not answering. Maybe it was unfair of me to take advantage of her weakness, but I had a stake here, too. My life was just as wrapped up in her son's situation as hers was. "Mrs. Harding, I'm sorry if I seem confused, but I just don't understand. Your son could get out. I know he could. All he has to do is promise to stay away from the VA. It's obvious that you need him here, that Lyle needs him. Yet he won't do it, and you act like that's perfectly acceptable. Why?"

The gnarled old hands knitted together in her lap, twisting around each other and clutching at folds of fabric. She stared down at the tabletop. "Jed's afraid to get out," she said. "You have to know him, I think, to understand. He's a kind boy, really. A kind man, I mean. Too kind. Gentle and giving and an easy mark for anybody's got a sad story and an open hand. When he was a boy, he was always bringing home strays—cats, dogs, mice, squirrels. Brought a baby skunk home, once. I didn't let him bring that into the house. He cried and carried on, but I was firm about that one. Well. He grew up and darned if he wasn't the same."

"Still bringing home animals?"

She shook her head, smiling faintly at my misunderstanding. "By then it was people. Lost souls. Down and outs. Crazy folks. He understood, see. After Viet Nam..." She said it like it was two words. Pronounced it crossly, as if the words had a bitter taste. "He got messed up real bad over there. Not just the chemical stuff that gave him the cancer and the pain, so's he was never healthy again. It messed up his mind." She sighed faintly, looking toward the window, but she wasn't seeing anything. She was remembering. After a moment, she sighed again and shook her head.

"You'd never believe it, to see him now, but he was the spit image of Lyle. He was so beautiful. My boy. I sent a handsome, high-spirited young man off to that damned war and got back a sickly, haunted man who jumped every time you slammed a door. Come hunting season, it was like he was in some torture chamber. Sometimes... not always... a gun goes off and he's down on the floor, eyes rolling, looking like maybe his heart's gonna stop." Her hands folded like she was praying. "And the dreams! Sometimes I wonder if he'd of been better off if they'd just killed him, once and for all, instead of this long slow killing of him that's been going on ever since. But then..." Her eyes shifted toward the doorway. "Then we wouldn't have the little one, would we?"

Her head moved from side to side, slowly, sadly, a faded ghost of a woman in a hot, shabby kitchen. Too much heartache had really taken a toll on this family. "I guess it's an awful thing, a mother wondering if her own child would be better off dead. I don't mean it. I only wish he could have some peace. But things just go from bad to worse."

I was almost out of time and though I'd heard a lot, I still didn't have the answer to my question. My heart wanted to comfort her, to take over and see if I could make her life better, but I resisted the impulse. Like everyone always tells me, I'm not responsible for the whole world. "But why is he afraid to get out? Why won't he come back here and help you?"

She looked at me then, tears welling up in her faded eyes.

"He wants to, you know. It's no easier on him being separated than it is on the child." She held out her hand, two arthritic fingers crossed, middle over index. "They're this close. Always have been. Boy's mother wasn't much. Oh, she tried, within her own limits, but she wasn't much more than a child herself. Didn't have the backbone. She thought having a baby would be like playing with a doll. Not that Lyle was easy... but she shouldn't have taken up with another man. Not around here. Not with Jed being in the..." She shook her head sadly. "It wasn't right... girl never had no common sense."

"About your son, Jed," I reminded her. "Why won't he..." Pressing her, torn between my need to know and my reluctance to be aggressive with such a fragile person.

Her silence hung like a curtain between us in the hot, heavy air. At last, reluctantly, she said, "He's afraid. Says he's worried about what might happen. Won't tell me what he means." Her eyes slid away to the window again, but this time, I thought it was evasion and not reverie. Something she didn't want to tell me. "Jed gets these flashbacks sometimes. Thinks he's still over there. Wants to fight back. Lash out. Used to drive his wife crazy. She didn't try too hard, tryin' hard wasn't something Paulette understood, but living with him wasn't easy. Once or twice, he jumped on her in his sleep, grabbed her by the throat. Thought she was the enemy."