Charlie cut herself off, but her own words rang in her ears like a warning.
Ben stared at her. His throat moved as he swallowed. “After what?”
Charlie listened to the blood pounding in her ears. She felt jittery, like her toes were dangling over the edge of a bottomless chasm.
Ben’s phone played the opening bars of the COPS theme, the ringtone he’d set for the Pikeville Police Department.
Bad boys, bad boys, whatchu gonna do …
She said, “It’s work. You have to answer.”
“No, I don’t.” He tilted up his chin, waiting.
Bad boys, bad boys …
He said, “Tell me what happened today.”
“You were there when I gave my statement.”
“You ran toward the gunshots. Why? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t run toward gunshots. I ran toward Mrs. Pinkman screaming for help.”
“You mean Heller?”
“That’s exactly the kind of Oprah bullshit a therapist would say.” She had to yell to be heard over his stupid phone. “That I put myself in danger because thirty years ago, when someone really needed me, I ran away.”
“And look what happened!” Ben’s sudden flash of anger reverberated through the quiet.
The ringtone had stopped.
The silence rumbled like thunder.
She said, “What the fuck does that mean?”
Ben’s jaw was clenched so tight she could practically hear his teeth grinding. He grabbed the box off the bed and threw it back into the closet.
“What are you talking about, Ben?” Charlie felt shaky, like something irreparable had torn apart. “Do you mean, look at what happened then, or look at what happened today?”
He shoved boxes around on the shelves.
She stood in the closet doorway, trapping him. “You don’t get to throw shit around and then turn your back on me.”
He said nothing.
Charlie heard the distant ring of her cell phone buried deep in her purse downstairs. She counted out five long rings, holding her breath through the pauses until voicemail picked up.
Ben kept moving boxes around.
The silence began to fester. She was going to start crying again because crying was all that she could do today.
“Ben?” She finally broke, begging, “Please tell me what you meant.”
He took the lid off one of the boxes. He traced his finger along the labeled files. She thought he was going to keep ignoring her, but he said, “Today is the third.”
Charlie looked away. That’s why Ben had called her this morning. It’s why Rusty had hummed “Happy Birthday” while she had stood by like an imbecile asking him again and again to tell her what he knew.
She said, “I saw last week on the calendar, what day it was, but—”
Ben’s phone started ringing again. Not the police this time, but a normal ring. Once. Twice. He answered on the third ring. She heard his curt responses, “When?” then, “How bad is it?” then, his tone deeper, “Did the doctor say …”
Charlie leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. She had heard variations on this call multiple times before. Someone in the Holler had punched his wife too hard or grabbed a knife to end a fight and someone else had grabbed a gun, and now the assistant district attorney had to go to the station and offer a deal to the first person who talked.
“Will he make it?” Ben asked. He started nodding again. “Yeah. I’ll handle it. Thanks.”
Charlie watched him end the call, slip his phone back into his pocket. She said, “Let me guess, a Culpepper got arrested?”
He didn’t turn around. He gripped the edges of the shelf like he needed something to hold onto.
“Ben?” she asked. “What is it?”
Ben sniffed. He wasn’t a complete stoic, but Charlie could count on one hand the times she had seen her husband cry. Except he wasn’t just crying now. His shoulders were shaking. He seemed racked by grief.
Charlie started crying, too. His sisters? His mother? His selfish father who had run off when Ben was six?
She put her hand on his shoulder. He was still shaking. “Babe, what is it? You’re scaring me.”
He wiped his nose. He turned around. Tears streamed from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Ben, what?”
“It’s your dad.” He swallowed back his grief. “They had to life-flight him to the hospital. He—”
Charlie’s knees began to buckle. Ben caught her before she hit the floor.
Will he make it?
“Your neighbor found him,” Ben said. “He was at the end of the driveway.”
Charlie pictured Rusty walking to the mailbox—humming, marching, snapping his fingers—then clutching his heart and falling to the ground.
She said, “He’s so …” Stupid. Willful. Self-destructive. “We were in my office today, and I told him he was going to have another heart attack, and now—”
“It wasn’t his heart.”
“But—”
“Your dad didn’t have a heart attack. Somebody stabbed him.”
Charlie’s mouth moved soundlessly before she could get out the word, “stabbed?” She had to repeat it, because it didn’t make sense. “Stabbed?”
“Chuck, you need to call your sister.”
WHAT HAPPENED TO CHARLOTTE
Charlotte turned to her sister and shouted, “Last word!”
She ran toward the HP before Samantha could think of a good comeback. Red clay swirled up from Charlotte’s feet and gummed onto her sweaty legs. She jumped up the porch steps, kicked off her shoes, peeled off her socks and pushed open the door in time to hear Gamma say, “Fuck!”
Her mother was bent at the waist, one hand braced on the counter, the other at her mouth like she had been coughing.
Charlotte said, “Mom, that’s a bad word.”
Gamma stood up. She used a tissue from her pocket to wipe her mouth. “I said ‘fudge,’ Charlie. What did you think I said?”
“You said—” Charlotte saw the trap. “If I say the bad word, then you’ll know that I know the bad word.”
“Don’t show your work, sweetheart.” She tucked the tissue back into her pocket and headed toward the hall. “Have the table set before I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Undetermined.”
“How will I know how fast to set the table if I don’t know when you’re going to get back?” She listened for an answer.
Gamma’s sharp coughs echoed back.
Charlotte grabbed the paper plates. She dumped the box of plastic forks onto the table. Gamma had bought real silverware and plates at the thrift store, but no one could find the box. Charlotte knew it was in Rusty’s study. They were supposed to unpack the room tomorrow, which meant that somebody would have to wash dishes at the sink tomorrow night.
Samantha slammed the kitchen door closed so hard that the wall shook.
Charlotte didn’t take the bait. She tossed out the paper plates onto the table.
Suddenly, without warning, Samantha threw a fork at her face.
Charlotte was opening her mouth to scream for Gamma when she felt the tines of the fork stab her bottom lip. She instinctively closed her mouth.
The fork stayed, a quivering arrow in a bull’s eye.
Charlotte said, “Holy crap, that was amazing!”
Samantha shrugged, like the hard part wasn’t catching a somersaulting fork between your lips.