“If someone wanted him dead, they’d have killed him in the woods instead of going to the trouble of driving him seventeen miles away.”
I sat back against the swing and couldn’t decide if that statement comforted or troubled me.
Uncle Clyde took hold of one of the white posts that supported the porch overhang. “The Adders and I asked the sheriff to make telephone calls to try to find the two of you. He contacted ports at both major rivers. Some other poor body likely washed ashore and made for a terrible coincidence.” He rubbed his left temple, ruffling the short hair that came to a stop above his ear. “I’m sure the mistake is killing the Adders right now.”
“They don’t care about Joe.”
“Don’t make such quick assumptions about what parents feel for their children. Including stepparents.”
I folded my arms over my chest.
“I want you to know,” he said in a voice that quavered with emotion, “that I’ve made a great many sacrifices for your safety, Hanalee. I’ve even sacrificed the safety of others to keep you alive.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Don’t glare at me.” He let go of the post. “Everything I’ve done since the death of your father has been with the primary intention of keeping you and your mother alive and unharmed.”
I blinked at him. “Are you trying to tell me that you married my mother to keep me safe?”
“In some ways, yes. I love your mother dearly, of course, but my reasons for becoming her husband included protecting the two of you.”
I sat there, stiff and silent, while he tucked his thumbs into his coat pockets and seemed to wait for my response.
“Well?” he asked. “Do you have anything to say to that?”
“Yes.” I pushed my feet against the floorboards and rocked myself on the swing. “What—or who, as you put it—did you sacrifice to keep me safe?”
He tapped his fingers against his sides. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
He exhaled a short breath and shifted his face toward the highway. “Because we’re living in corrupt times, Hanalee. Even the best intentions can sound cruel when spoken aloud.”
I kept rocking and glowering.
“If Joe shows up here,” said Uncle Clyde, “if he didn’t actually run off to Washington as you claim, I’d like to tell him that I have a friend in Seattle, an old medical-school classmate of mine, who could use an assistant to help with filing and other organizational tasks in his office.”
I brought the swing to a stop. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I want to help Joe find work. I know his time spent in prison will keep him from acquiring the type of position he once aspired to.” Uncle Clyde removed his spectacles and used the hem of his coat to wipe a smudge from the left lens. “This friend of mine . . . he has a brother who’s like Joe. He’ll be compassionate toward the boy. Joe would be safe and well cared for. There’s some tolerance in my friend’s community.”
“Why?” In spite of myself, I looked toward the opening to the woods between the firs on the edge of our property. “Why do you want to help him?”
A swallow bobbed down Uncle Clyde’s throat. He placed his specs back upon his nose. “To make amends.”
My lips parted, but no words formed.
“If he shows up in this area again . . .” Uncle Clyde wrapped his arms around himself and swiveled in the direction of the woods, as if he, too, sensed Joe’s presence there. “Tell him, if he sets aside his anger toward me, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure no one puts him back in that prison. I’m well aware of the state’s push for sterilization of homosexuals, and I don’t agree with the practice in the slightest.” He swallowed again. “It’ll only cause more anguish.”
“Why do you need to make amends, Uncle Clyde?” I cocked my head at him. My heart pounded, but I kept talking. “What did you do?”
My stepfather returned his gaze to me. “Joe was the sacrifice.”
I gripped the bottom edge of the swing.
He shifted his weight between his legs and failed to elaborate.
“Are you admitting to me,” I asked, my heart thumping faster, my palms slick with sweat, “that you allowed an innocent sixteen-year-old boy to head to prison . . . and not a guilty one?”
“You don’t—”
“Is that what you mean by a ‘sacrifice’?”
“It’s not . . .”
“Not what?” I asked. “Not as bad as it sounds?”
“It’s not what you think,” said Uncle Clyde. “Just . . . just know I’m on Joe’s side. I want him to be all right.”
I stared up at my stepfather without blinking.
He nodded toward the front door. “Now go inside and drink a couple of glasses of water. And eat. You’re probably dehydrated and hungry.”
I refused to tear my eyes away from him.
“Go on now.” He opened the door for me. “I don’t want you getting sick.”