By the second night in his sister’s house, Joe felt as if he were suffocating. Everywhere he looked he saw glimpses of his old life. He didn’t know how he was going to go forward, but he knew he couldn’t stay here.
He waited until Gina left to go grocery shopping, then crammed his things—including several framed photographs of Diana that he’d taken from the house—into the old backpack and headed for the door. He left a note on the kitchen counter.
Can’t stay here. Sorry. Hurts too much.
I know this is a rough time for you, so
I won’t go far. Will call soon. Love you.
Thank you.
J.
He walked the few miles back to town. By the time he reached Hayden, it felt as if he were slogging through mud. He was tired again, weary.
He didn’t want to run away, didn’t want to hunker down in some shitty little motel room and gnaw on the old guilt.
He looked up and saw a sign for the Mountain View Cemetery. A shiver passed through him. The last time he’d been there it had been pouring rain. There had been two policemen beside him, shadowing his every move. The mourners had kept their distance. He’d felt their condemnation, heard their whispers.
He’d tried to walk away during the ceremony, but the police yanked him back in line. He’d whispered, I can’t watch this in a broken voice. One of his guards had said, Too bad and held him in place.
He should go there now, to the cemetery. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t kneel on the sweet green grass in front of her headstone.
Besides, he wouldn’t find her at the cemetery. There was more of her in his heart than beneath any gray stone.
He skirted town and hiked across an empty field toward the river. The soft, gurgling sounds sparked a dozen memories of their youth. Days they’d picnicked along the water’s edge and nights they’d parked there, making love in the dark interior of the Dodge Charger he’d once owned.
He knelt there.
“Hey, Di.” He squeezed his eyes shut, battling a wave of guilt.
“I’m home. What now?”
No answer came to him on the summer breeze, no scent of Red wafted his way. And yet, he knew. She was glad he’d come back.
He opened his eyes again, stared at the silver caps of the current. “I can’t go to the house.” The thought of it made him almost ill. Three years ago, he’d walked out of their home on Bainbridge Island and never looked back. Her clothes were still in the closet. Her toothbrush was still by the sink.
No way he could go there. His only hope—if there was any hope at all—lay in baby steps. He didn’t have to move toward his old life; he simply had to stop running from it.
“I could get a job in Hayden,” he said after a long silence.
Staying in town would be difficult, he knew. So many people remembered what he’d done. He’d have to endure the looks … the gossip.
“I could try it.”
With that, he found that he could breathe again.
He spent another hour there, kneeling in the grass, remembering. Then, finally, he climbed to his feet and walked back to town.
There were a few people milling around the streets, and more than one face peered frowningly up at him, but no one approached him. He saw when he was recognized, saw the way old friends lurched at the sight of him, drew back. He kept his head down, kept moving. He was about to give up on the whole damn idea of finding a job here when he came to the end of town. He stood across the street from Riverfront Park, staring at a collection of cars, all lined up on a patch of gravel behind a sagging chain-link fence. A metal Quonset hut advertised Smitty’s, The Best Auto Shop in Hayden.
On the chain-link fence was a sign: Help Wanted. Experience requested, but who am I kidding?
Joe crossed the street and headed toward the entrance.
A dog started barking. He noticed the Beware of Dog sign. Seconds later, a miniature white poodle came tearing around the corner.
“Madonna, stop that damn yapping.” An old man stepped out from the shadowed darkness of the Quonset hut. He wore oil-stained overalls and a Mariners baseball cap. A long white beard hid the lower half of his face. “Don’t mind the dog. What can I do ya for?”
“I saw your help-wanted sign.”
“No kiddin’.” The old man slapped his thigh. “That thing’s been up there since Jeremy Forman went off to college. Hell, that’s been pret near on two years now. I—” He paused, stepped forward, frowning slowly. “Joe Wyatt?”
He tensed. “Hey, Smitty.”
Smitty blew out a heavy breath. “I’ll be damned.”
“I’m back. And I need a job. But if it’d cost you customers to hire me, I understand. No hard feelings.”
“You want a job wrenching? But you’re a doctor—”
“That life is over.”
Smitty stared at him a long time, then said, “You remember my son, Phil?”
“He was a lot older than me, but yeah. He used to drive that red Camaro.”
“Vietnam ruined him. Guilt, I think. He did stuff over there.… Anyway, I’ve seen a man run before. It isn’t good. Of course I’ll hire you, Joe. The cabin still comes with the job. You want it?”