Courthouse Coffee sat on the opposite side of the square from the police station and served a very different clientele. During the day lawyers and businesspeople stopped there for lattes and cappuccinos, and at night college students congregated there with their books and laptops. At least once a month, Courthouse Coffee hosted a poetry reading, and a rotation of local artists hung their work on the walls. Because I considered it a student hangout, I didn’t spend much time there, and my awkwardness at entering the coffee shop was exaggerated by the fact that I had no idea how to identify Susan Goff. I had hung up with her without asking how we’d know each other. But as soon as I walked in, I heard my name.
“Dr. Stuart? Tom Stuart?”
I looked around. Most of the tables were occupied, but only one was occupied by a woman who was halfway out of her chair, waving at me. She called my name again and continued to wave, and it felt as though everyone in the room had turned to look at me.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
I crossed to her table and took her in. She wore her gray hair short and a little mannish, and a pair of half-moon glasses sat perched on her nose. She took the glasses off when she stood to shake my hand, and I saw that she was wearing beige cotton pants, white sneakers, and a loose, baggy shirt. Her grip was firm, and her no-nonsense appearance seemed in opposition to the cheeriness of her voice.
“I recognize you from TV,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Lucky me.”
“Do you want a coffee?” she asked. “I love the coffee here.”
“I’m okay,” I said.
We sat on opposite sides of the small table. She maintained a wide yet sympathetic smile, and her gray eyes studied me as though I were the most fascinating person she’d ever met. I placed her age in the midfifties.
“Well,” she said. “You’re on quite a journey.”
“Like I said, Tracy Fairlawn sent me your way.”
“She’s on quite a journey, too.”
“Have you been able to help her?” I asked.
“I listen to Tracy a lot,” Susan said. “I think she needs that.”
“And you think that helps her?” I asked.
“Why don’t I tell you a little more about what I do, and then you’ll understand where I’m coming from,” she said. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not a professional. I’m a volunteer. I’m not a therapist or a licensed counselor. About ten years back, the state realized there were people falling through the cracks. They may have suffered a personal tragedy of some kind, and they may have been reluctant to seek remedies through traditional mental health venues like a therapist or counselor. Volunteer Victim Services was created to fill that gap. It’s just people like me helping people like you. The police or other social service agencies dispatch us if they think there’s a need. We know how to spot larger troubles if they’re there, and we know where to refer people whose problems go beyond the scope of what a volunteer can do. Believe me, we know our limits, and we’re overseen by social workers who know them too. Otherwise, we’re here to listen and help people cope with the transitions tragedy brings to their lives. Does that make sense to you?”
“How did you get involved with this?” I asked.
“My children are grown, and my husband and I split up about five years ago,” she said. “I retired from the school system around the time of the divorce.”
“You were a teacher?” I asked.
“No, a secretary. Sorry, an administrative aide. I worked in the superintendent’s office. When I retired and got divorced, I was looking for something to do, some way I could help people. I didn’t want to just sit around living off my pension and gardening. It sounds really corny and noble, doesn’t it?”
I had to laugh. “It does. It really does.”
“Guilty as charged,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? I was just about to go up for a refill.”
“Okay. Coffee.”
While Susan went up to the counter, I studied the crowd. Normal people having a normal day. I recognized a former student who didn’t look over at me, and a colleague from another department who waved and went back to his laptop. And there I was talking to a complete stranger about the most important thing in my life.
Susan returned and placed a mug before me. “So,” she said, “what’s it been like since you were on TV?”
“Not what I was hoping for,” I said.
She didn’t say anything. She just held that steady, considering gaze on me, the one that said she was ready to hear anything and everything I might have to say. Before I knew it, I was saying more.
“The sketch and the press conference led to a lot of crank calls and not very helpful information. People claiming to see Caitlin’s ghost, or perverts saying they had Caitlin with them right there. I know it’s not unusual for that to happen.”