The Ninth Step (8 page)

“Okay, wait a minute. Wait a minute. We’ve been down this road. Police work will solve this, okay? If it’s solvable, police work will solve it. That’s the way I see it. I’m sorry.”

“If you translate traffic patterns and automaker statistics into a three-dimensional binary grid—I mean, just the fact that the other car was red fills in over half the grid right off the bat.”

“Fine. You’re a math teacher, right? There are forty thousand paint samples on record at the National Automotive Paint File. This shade of red involved in your accident—”

“There are no accidents.”

“—is used by three major makers on eleven models. We’ve looked into this. You know this already. The clear topcoat has been in use since ninety-nine. Do you have any idea how many cars that works out to? Millions. Tens of millions, maybe. Without a witness, we only have the physical evidence. We only
have the pool of matching red cars to direct us. You have any idea how many red cars are on the road at any given time?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, but we are still trying. We are still looking. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s cold now. At least that’s the way I see it. All I can do is be honest with you.”

Poole handed the papers back to Edgar and bid him a good day.

The scenic coastal highway used to calm him, but these days Edgar mostly avoided it whenever he could. His car now sat parked on the shoulder of the highway, engine running, hazard lights blinking. It was dark now. He had been here several hours.

He sat and counted cars.

The paper on his lap was crowded with slash marks. One column, the one designated
All Others
, had hundreds, perhaps a thousand slashes. The column headed
Red
had perhaps an eighth of that number.

Edgar closed his eyes for a moment, and a car passing by pushed rectangles of white light across his face. He could see the light, magnified through his eyeglasses and filtered red through his closed eyelids. Edgar remembered Judy. In the car
with Judy.
Eyes on the road, please
, she had said. He noticed now how the light from the oncoming car was fleshly red, warm and welcoming like Judy, then white and accusatory.

His eyes snapped open as another car passed. He marked it down on his chart.

The old Chevy Malibu sat parked at the far reaches of the parking lot. Two faded and peeling bumper stickers adorned the rust-mottled bumper.
Easy Does It.
And
Let Go and Let God
.

There were two women in the car. Dressed for comfort in a white nylon jogging suit, Martha sat behind the wheel and watched the entrance of the Shoney’s restaurant through a pair of binoculars. These weren’t ordinary binoculars. Martha had paid a considerable amount for them. These were Zeiss FL Victory with Water Proof Roof Prism. The binoculars had an 8.0-degree angle of view. The catalog stated that the Zeiss was ideally suited for stalking and field ornithology. There were no birds out tonight.

“But you’ve only been sober six months now. It’s not a contest,
dear. Besides, for many of us, the ninth step is the hardest one. The eighth and the ninth go hand in hand. Make a list of all the people you’ve harmed and then make amends to those people wherever possible.”

“I’m stuck on the last item on my list,” Helen said.

“The drunk driving accident.”

Martha sat up a little straighter and focused the binoculars. A little potbellied balding man and a teenage boy exited the restaurant. From Martha’s body language, Helen could tell that these were the ones Martha had been waiting on. They looked like any typical father and son to Helen. Out for their big night at Shoney’s. They climbed into a white Chevrolet Equinox and drove away. Martha started her Malibu and followed.

“The accident. The hit-and-run,” Helen said. “And are you ready to tell me what exactly we are doing?”

“I’ll explain later. I want to know what’s eating at you.”

Helen frowned. “I want to work the steps. And I want to work them right. I don’t know how to make amends.”

“Well, what’s the problem, dear? So you bent somebody’s fender. Admit it to them. Pay for the repair work. Tell them you’re sorry. You will be shocked at how forgiving people can be when you’re forthright with them. When you are truly trying to make amends.”

Helen didn’t respond.

“You’re making too big a deal out of it. Building it up in your mind. It’s not like you killed someone.”

Still, Helen remained silent. She would not look at Martha.

“You left something out, didn’t you? When you unburdened yourself to me. The fifth step.”

Helen nodded her head.

“It doesn’t have to be me, you know. You could tell it to a priest. Or a shrink. Or a complete stranger. But you have to admit to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. You can’t cheat the steps.”

Helen said, by rote, “You gotta work it if you want it to work.”

“I’ve taught you well, Grasshopper.”

They drove in silence for a while longer, each of them thinking.

“Maybe, dear, it’s better if I’m not the one you tell. Maybe… Well, the point is, you have to do it. You have to admit to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. I’m not trying to be cruel. The point is that this thing, whatever it is, will prey on your mind.”

“‘You’re only as sick as your secrets.’ I know.”

“You’re putting your sobriety at risk. You have—”

“I did, Martha.”

“You did what?”

“I did kill someone.”

Martha turned her head and stared at Helen, her mouth hanging open. She slammed on the brakes when she almost rear-ended the car she had been following.

“Jesus.”

Martha’s car was in the parking lot of the liquor store where Helen had bought her last bottle of vodka—the radiation-free kind.

The two women leaned against the Malibu with its blistered paint and rust-flecked body. Helen told Martha everything. The whole story. The crime, the cover-up, and how the guilt was blooming inside her like toxic black mold. Helen smoked a cigarette and waited for Martha to respond, but Martha only peered through her binoculars, watching the man from the restaurant walk into the front office of a hotel, a three-level motor court directly across the four-lane.

Martha put the binoculars on the hood of the car and took hold of Helen’s hand.

“I had to tell my brother that I knew, had known all my life, that our father had been molesting him. And I did nothing to stop it. That was my ninth step. I knew about it and kept quiet. Because I was afraid.

“I was afraid that our father would come after me. That he would come to my bed. Or worse, that my father would hate me for telling on him. I loved him. I was his princess. So I had to tell my brother that I could have stopped years of his abuse, but didn’t.

“Derek’s been treated for mental illness most of his adult life. Spent time in jail. And his problems almost certainly stemmed from that abuse. So yes, that was my ninth step. Owning that. How do you make amends for something like that? You can’t. There was nothing that I could actually do to repair the damage I caused. And I had to ask myself if confessing to him would only cause him more pain. We must never unburden ourselves if sharing that knowledge only hurts the other person. If we are only transferring that burden from ourselves to them. In the end, I decided that my admission would give him some kind of validation. Our father never admitted the abuse. So I told him. And it almost killed me. But I did it. And he forgave me. He forgave me, dear. He said that he had felt guilty all of those years. That he thought that I thought the abuse was his fault. That I blamed him for destroying our family.”

Martha retrieved the binoculars and watched the man get back in his car and drive deeper into the motor court parking lot.

“I did it. I made amends. And it worked. If you want it to work, you gotta work the steps. I haven’t had a drink in fourteen years. I’ve done a lot of shitty, despicable things in my life. But my conscience is clear. I’m a good person.”

It was such a painful story that Helen had to look away from Martha. She said, “I had an uncle. He was supposed to be teaching me to swim. But he… he, uh, he would hold me in the water. And he would…”

“I think I get the picture.”

“He would hold my head under the water if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

“Jesus wept.”

Martha watched the man and the boy climb the concrete stairs to the third level of the hotel.

“I told my mother. But she didn’t believe me. Uncle Billy was her brother, so she didn’t believe me. She couldn’t allow herself to believe that about her oldest brother. She kept dropping me off at his house for swimming lessons. Validation. She never believed me. So yes, validation would mean everything. You gave your brother a gift.”

“In a way. Yes. The dirty little things we do to one another.”

“I don’t swim. To this day I’m afraid of the water.”

“I imagine so.”

The man and the boy reached the open balcony of the third level. Martha reached into her backseat and pulled out a sophisticated electronic camera with an imposing telephoto lens.
Helen stared at Martha and gestured at the camera, ready for an explanation.

“I work for an investigator. It’s cheaters mostly.”

The camera clicked and whirred as Martha worked it.

“The dirty little things we do to one another.”

Once the hotel room door was closed, Martha put the camera back in the car.

“The question,” Helen said, “is how do you make amends for taking someone’s life?”

“Maybe, dear, you don’t. You’re willing to make amends, that’s clear; that’s step eight. But step nine, it says, ‘made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.’”

Martha took Helen’s hand and squeezed it firmly. “‘Except when to do so would injure them or others.’”

“I could turn myself in to the police.”

“That’s true dear, you could. And you would probably go to jail. And your conscience would be clear. But what about your
little vet clinic? I suppose it would close. And the people who work for you? I suppose they would be unemployed. And the animals you shelter? Euthanized, I imagine. You might feel less guilty, but the people and things that depend on you…”

“It feels wrong.”

“In the end, nothing you do will bring that poor woman back. She’s beyond your help. Ultimately, what we are talking about is you—your sobriety. And honestly, I can’t think of anything you could do that wouldn’t hurt you or others. You’ve admitted it. You’ve owned it. Ask God for forgiveness. Do good things in your life. And don’t pick up a drink.”

“I can’t bring her back, you’re right. But what about the man whose wife I took away? I should make amends to him. He’s the one I should—”

“Stop and think. Just stop and think. Will that help or hurt this person? Will knowing who is responsible help or hurt him? He’s likely made his own peace with what happened. If you approach him, that could very well disturb his mind. You do not ease your own burden by transferring it to others to carry. That strikes to the very heart of the ninth step. First, do no harm. If you entered this man’s life, would it help or hurt him?”

“I just don’t know.”

“Then find out, dear. Before you go messing around in people’s lives, find out. Or take my advice and simply leave it alone.”

Edgar sat at his desk between the foyer and the living room. Directly behind him was the glass display case that held his puzzle box collection. Most of the puzzles that weren’t traditional Japanese boxes had come from Judy as gifts over the years. She had never been able to find one he couldn’t solve. But it was fun trying.

Edgar’s desk was a marvel of organization. Nothing out of place. And a sleek black computer sat antiseptically on top. He took a stack of flyers from his leather satchel and placed them in the filing cabinet. They were leftovers. He had spent the day placing them under the wiper blades of cars parked at local businesses. The handbills were simple things—stating the date, time,
and location of the accident, along with Edgar’s name, phone number, e-mail, and street address.
Please, if you have any information, no matter how small, contact me.

Next, he went to work on a stack of mail, methodically opening each envelope, slitting it neatly with a silver letter opener. Should any bits of paper or dust fall onto the desktop during this process, he would promptly scoop the offending mess into a small trash can.

Most of the mail was bills. He promptly paid these online. No convenience of fully automated payments in the Woolrich household. And he insisted on hard copies of all statements. Edgar felt it best to review each bill in both its printed and electronic formats before clicking the “transfer funds” button. Like many who were not born into the online generation, Edgar relied on the Internet, yet harbored a vestigial distrust of it, particularly when it came to matters of finance. So he exercised caution. Kept a close watch. The road to hell, he believed, was likely paved with autopay errors.

The remainder of the stack consisted mostly of advertisements. One was a piece of junk mail addressed to Judy Woolrich. It was going on seven months now and still she got mail. Edgar opened it and retrieved the reply envelope from inside. He then opened his file drawer and extracted a form letter—of which he had printed twenty copies. It read:
Mrs. Judy Woolrich is deceased. Please remove her name from your database.

Edgar signed the letter, folded it into a razor-edged triptych, and sealed it in the envelope.

After that, he got up and went to the kitchen, where he placed one of Jane’s frozen dinners in the microwave and set it to cook for ten minutes.

Back at his desk, he looked up at the state map that was mounted to the wall there. Neatly drawn concentric circles rippled out from the area of origination—which was labeled
Crash Site
. Each circle was dotted with numbers and letters. The numbers corresponded with car dealerships, the letters to automotive repair shops.