IT WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN a long walk up to the Wickens place, but with Dad on crutches, it wasn’t hard to talk him into letting me drive us up there. I got him into the passenger seat of my Virtue, the hybrid car I’d bought at an auction some months ago, and even though we weren’t traveling more than a couple of hundred yards on a gravel driveway, and wouldn’t even get anywhere near the main road, Dad buckled his seatbelt.
“Are you kidding me?” I said.
“It doesn’t seem to offer the same kind of protection as my truck,” he said.
“Your tractor can outrun a Porsche and it doesn’t have a seatbelt.”
When we got to the gate of warning signs, I got out and waved at the Wickens house, figuring someone would probably be watching for us. One of the Wickens boys came running down and unlocked the gate, blond-haired, shorter than the one I’d seen when I’d walked up here with Orville and Bob.
“Wendell,” Dad said. “The less stupid one.”
As we pulled in, Dad cast a disapproving eye at the abandoned appliances, bits of furniture, bits and pieces of junk. “If I ever get them out of this house, there’s going to be one hell of a cleanup to do.” I glanced over to make sure his window was up, not eager for any of the Wickenses to hear that kind of talk.
Timmy strode out onto the porch, took the two steps down, and opened the car door for Dad, even reaching into the backseat to grab his crutches. Dad handed him a six-pack of Bud we’d brought along as a gift.
“That was a nasty fall you must of took,” Wickens said, handing Dad his crutches.
“Yeah, it was pretty stupid,” Dad said. I came around, took Wickens’s hand when he extended it. He introduced me to the boy—not a boy really, but a young man in his twenties—who’d opened the gate for us. He was broad shouldered, with blunt, angular facial features. “This is Wendell. His brother, Dougie, is around here somewhere.”
I shook Wendell’s hand, which, while huge, was strangely limp and doughy in mine, like he couldn’t be bothered to squeeze. “Hi,” I said. Wendell only nodded.
Timmy led us inside. I was looking around nervously beyond the open door, and Timmy sensed something was troubling me. “What’s the problem?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m just a little worried about the dogs.”
“Gristle and Bone?” Timmy grinned. “They’re just playful, is all. They’re in the kitchen. They spend most of their time in there, waiting for scraps when they’re not snoozing.”
I laughed nervously. “They, uh, gave me a bit of a scare yesterday.”
“Tell ya what,” Timmy said. “I want you to be able to relax, so I’ll have the dogs put out in the barn.”
“I’d be most grateful,” I said.
“Wendell,” Timmy said, “take the pups out, okay?”
“Sure thing, Timmy,” he said, and disappeared toward the back of the house.
A heavyset woman, about Timmy’s age I guessed, appeared. She was dressed in a dark T-shirt and stretch slacks, her graying hair pulled back with pins. Her neck was jowly, her nose red and splotchy. “I’m Timmy’s wife, Charlene,” she said, motioning for us to take a seat in the living room, which was littered with mismatched chairs, plaid couches, coffee and end tables buried in car and sporting and gun magazines.
Dad settled into a chair and I was about to take a spot on the couch when I was distracted by something.
Hanging above the fireplace mantel, slipped into a cheap black frame, was a military dress photograph of Timothy McVeigh. The Oklahoma City bomber. The man convicted, and ultimately put to death, for murdering 168 people when his rental truck, loaded with explosives, destroyed one side of a federal government building on April 19, 1995. I instantly recalled that less formal shot of McVeigh, in his orange prison jumpsuit, being paraded before the press on his way to a police van while an angry mob screamed out what they wanted to do with him.
The very idea that someone would frame that man’s picture and put it on a wall left me numb.
For a moment, I didn’t realize Timmy was attempting to make another introduction. “I want you to meet May,” Timmy said, and I turned around to see, standing shyly next to him, the young woman who’d fallen, weeping, into his arms the day before. If it weren’t for her tired and vacant look, she would have been a lovely woman. Her dirty blonde hair half hung over her eyes, which probably suited her at that moment, since she didn’t seem to want to look me or Dad in the eye. She tried to force a smile as she was introduced.
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I understand you and Mr. Dewart were close. He was your boyfriend?”
Her smile cracked. “We were friends,” she said.
“Awful, awful thing,” said Charlene, and Timmy nodded along with her. “Just awful. Terrible for his family.”