I don’t want to sit here and analyze why I’m drinking at a time when I shouldn’t be. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s when I acknowledge the possibility that Tomasetti’s right: I’m too emotionally invested in these kids. I want to think it’s because they’re young and innocent and Amish. But I’ve never been very good at lying to myself. Those kinds of lies make life too easy, and some of us are destined to suffer.
I care about those kids. I think about them too often. I feel connected to them in ways I shouldn’t, because I know sooner or later those emotions are going to come back to bite me. While those feelings extend to all four children, it’s Salome who’s commandeered my heart. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of myself when I was that age—innocent, impressionable, more vulnerable than she could know, and looking for trouble. I know what it’s like to be ravenous for a life you know you can’t ever have, to want with such fierceness that it hurts, to feel the initial slap when fate doles out that first heaping portion of disappointment.
Salome is in for some heartache, and most of it will be her own doing. Some people—and I’m at the top of that list—never learn to settle for less. It’s all or nothing. We continue butting our heads against brick walls, expecting the bricks to crumble, when most often they remain steadfast.
The Amish community as a whole is the same way—a battle-scarred wall that has withstood centuries of assault—yet their way of life has never faltered. They can be unforgiving of transgressions, but they can also be as welcoming as a mother’s embrace. When there is a fall from grace, it’s usually long and arduous, with a lot of emotional cuts and scrapes along the way. My own fall was fatal in many ways. It cost me a lot—my family, my standing in the community. It killed a part of me I’ll never be able to get back, put me on the path of no return. At the same time, it also opened doors that otherwise would have remained closed and locked down tight. I still had my dreams and hope for the future. I had the drive to achieve them. Those things sustained me when nothing else would.
I want to spare Salome the agonies of my own past, save her from making all the same mistakes I did. I want her to be happy and fulfilled. I can’t help but wonder: Will she find those things with the Amish? The question makes me realize just how much empathy I have for her. It makes me see a parallel I don’t want to see, a connection I don’t want to make.
Raising my beer, I make eye contact with McNarie. He gives me a nod, and I know another round of salvation is on the way. But it’s not going to arrive quickly enough to keep me from confronting a part of my past I haven’t yet faced, a demon taunting me with truths I can no longer avoid.
Salome is only a couple of years younger than the child I would have had if I’d decided not to have an abortion after Daniel Lapp raped me.
“Chief Burkholder.”
I’m so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the door opening. I didn’t see Sheriff Rasmussen walk in and head my way. Surprise and discomfort take turns punching me when I look up at him. It’s after hours; I have every right to be here. Still, all I can think is, I’m busted.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” I try to smile, but my cheek muscles feel paralyzed. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”
“Yeah.” Chuckling, he slides onto the seat opposite me. “It’s not nearly as fun as drinking with someone else.”
He smells like cold air and sandalwood. We’re looking at each other, two contenders sizing each other up. He looks comfortable, glad to be here, ready to wind down with a beer. I feel as if I’ve been waylaid.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
Feeling like an idiot, I snuff out the cigarette. “I don’t.”
“Okay.” He says the word as if he understands. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.
McNarie crosses to the booth and, without looking at me, sets two more Killian’s on the table between us, then slides a shot glass in front of me. Eyeing the shot glass, Rasmussen picks up his beer, tips it at me, and then drinks. “Bottoms up.”
Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I down the shot. On the jukebox Led Zeppelin’s “Down by the Seaside” gives way to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” The alcohol chooses that moment to kick in. It makes me feel like a train clattering down rickety tracks, heading toward a ravine without a bridge. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or dinner. Undulating waves of warmth wash over my brain. I go with it, but when I look up at the television above the bar, it dips left and right.
“Been here long?” Rasmussen asks.
“Too long, probably.” I smile, hoping it’s not as crooked as it feels.
“Been there, done that.”
I doubt that, too, but I nod. “Any word on the rifle or the Skoal can?”
“Tomasetti thinks we still might hear something today. He’s been on the phone with the lab up there, pushing them pretty hard.”
“I guess that means we probably shouldn’t drink too much.”
He looks at the three spent shot glasses in front of me and chuckles. “Guess that depends on your definition of ‘too much.’”
“Good point.”