No Hiding in Boise Page 14

  He was sitting in his car and looking at me.

  Cale.

  When he saw me catch him, he looked away quickly.

  It was weird, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. After all, he’d stayed until closing. So what if he lingered in his car for a few minutes? He was probably checking his phone, trying to get ahold of whoever had stood him up. He’d seemed harmless. So harmless that when he showed up again a few nights later, I’d already forgotten about the eerie feeling I’d had in the parking lot. I just got him an IPA, and we chatted again.

  Honestly, I didn’t think anything of it.

  Ryan always says I’m too naïve.

  JOYCE

  TODAY IS THE DAY I say goodbye to my son.

  They say no parent should have to do this, that it’s the worst thing a human being could possibly endure, and I am about to do it.

  Jed is gone. Jed is gone. I say these words with the hope that they will lose their impact, but they do not.

  We named him Jed in an awkward attempt to combine our names—Joyce and Ed. We took the “J” from my name and the “ed” from his. It was silly, I suppose. At the time, it seemed appropriate; we had created the ultimate something together, and we were so awed by that. Jed thought it was cool until he was a teenager. Then he thought it was lame.

  I wish Ed were here. That’s selfish, I know. I wouldn’t want him to suffer this. Misery loves company though, and Ed is the only person who would share my misery. Gary didn’t know Jed like I did; Gary didn’t even like Jed.

  I suppose there is comfort in Ed not being here. There is comfort in knowing he is with Jed, on the other side. I’ve never believed in a conventional heaven, but I do believe in an “other side.” I’m relieved Jed didn’t arrive there alone. I can picture Ed greeting him, his arms stretched out wide. I can picture Jed falling into those arms—father and son reunited. They have each other now.

  I am alone.

  THERE IS A knock at the front door. Gary. He called early this morning, said he was going to pick me up at ten o’clock. He didn’t ask if I wanted him to drive me, which was smart on his part; I would have said no, out of stubbornness. He just said, “I’ll be there,” and I didn’t have it in me to say anything besides, “Okay.”

  I’ve never seen Gary in a suit. He is not a suit-wearing type. Before he retired, he worked in construction his whole life. He’s accustomed to jeans and T-shirts on a daily basis. The Tommy Bahama shirts and khakis are his version of “dressing up.” But today he is wearing a suit, even though he knows I will be the only one to see it; there are not multitudes of guests to dress for. The suit jacket and pants are black. He is wearing a button-down light gray shirt, a black tie.

  “You look nice,” I say.

  It’s probably not the right thing to say to someone going to a funeral, but it is the truth.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  He tugs on the collar of the shirt. I’m sure he is uncomfortable.

  “You look nice too.”

  I’m wearing a black dress that I found at the back of my closet, something I don’t think I’ve worn in at least fifteen years. I’d bought it for a company holiday dinner at Capitol Cellars, one of Boise’s nicer restaurants. I wore it just the one time. Now that I have it on, I remember why—the bottom of the dress, around my calves, is too tight, forcing me to shorten my stride. I wonder what bereaved mothers are supposed to wear to their child’s funeral service. Should I have bought something new? How could I be expected to go dress shopping at a time like this?

  There don’t seem to be any rules for mothers who have lost children. Nobody wants to make rules for such a thing because that would be acknowledging that it happens. Most of us would rather ignore the possibility. We have a term for someone who loses a spouse—a widow or widower. We have a term for a child who loses parents—an orphan. But there is no term for a mother who has lost a child. I guess everyone is in denial of the need for this term.

  CALDWELL ISN’T A great town. It’s kind of a “wrong side of the tracks” town, in my opinion. I saw a report on the news a few months back about how it has one of the top crime rates in our state. Overall, Idaho has low crime rates, so I’m sure it’s not that bad. But, still, it’s worse than Boise.

  I don’t like that this is where I have to come to say goodbye to Jed. It still bothers me that the funeral homes in Boise wanted nothing to do with my son. I feel the same rage I felt when he’d come home in elementary school and tell me about the kids making fun of him for wearing overalls. He had this tan pair that he just loved. I told him kids can be cruel. I never anticipated his retaliating against the world in such a dramatic way. I never anticipated him being the cruel one.

  As we approach the funeral home, I see a small crowd of people outside the gate. At first, I assume they are there for another service. But then it occurs to me that they don’t look to be there for a service; they are wearing jeans, regular clothes, not funereal attire. Then I see the camera propped up on a man’s shoulder and realize the press has found out about Jed’s service.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gary says, coming to the same realization as me.

  As we drive through the gate, they peer at us. I’m sure they recognize me. If they are invested enough in what my son did to come here, they have seen my photo online. I watch as one of them, a girl, points at me and then says something to the guy next to her. All at once, the crowd of them, maybe twelve people, follows the car.

  “What are they doing here?” I ask.

  Gary’s nostrils are flaring. His face is red. I’ve never seen him quite this angry.

  He parks the car in the lot outside the chapel. By the time we open the doors, the crowd of people is waiting for us.

  “Joyce Ketcher?” a girl says. Her tone is harsh.

  Gary tugs on my arm, says, “Come on.”

  I keep my head down as we try to walk toward the funeral home. I just stare at my feet, trusting that Gary is leading me.

  “Your son killed my brother,” the girl says.

  She is clearly the leader of this group.

  “Jason Maguire,” she says. “And his wife, Leigh.”

  Without thinking of it, I put my hands over my ears.

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear it?” she says. “You don’t want to hear that he killed people who had a child at home? Well, we have to live it. His family has to live it.”

  They had a child.

  Jed created an orphan.

  I glance up, in an attempt to make eye contact with this person. But I don’t see her. The camera is in my face. I look down again.

  Gary pulls me inside what must be the administrative office, the place visitors go to discuss the cost of cremation and whatnot. He locks the door behind him, shutting out the angry mob. I hear a woman’s heels clicking down the hallway and look to see a woman wearing a black pantsuit, which must be the uniform in a business like this. Her hair is pulled up in a tight bun.

  “What the hell is going on?” Gary shouts at her.

  “I’m sorry, Mister … ?”

  “McKee. Gary McKee. I don’t know how many times I told you the importance of this service being private.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McKee. I can assure you—”

  “You already assured me. You assured me it would be private, that your employees were—what did you say?—‘respectful professionals.’ Clearly, someone spilled the damn beans.”

  The woman is looking out the window, at the people waiting at the door. She’s flustered now.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Right. You don’t know,” Gary snaps. “Can you please get someone in security to escort these people off the premises?”

  She looks behind her, to the left and right, as if in search of security personnel who I am sure do not exist.

  I tap Gary on the elbow, gently. “Gary, it’s okay. Let’s just go. We’ll have our ceremony in the chapel. They’ll leave us alone.”

  He looks at me
as if I am one of the intruders, his eyes so wide that I can see the whites all the way around the pupils.

  “You think they’ll leave us alone? Isn’t it clear they have no intention of doing that?”

  He waves his hand toward the door, toward the group of people still standing there.

  “Let’s just go,” I say.

  I give the woman a conciliatory smile, and she gives me one in return.

  “Our director, Marcus, is presiding over your service today, Mr. McKee,” the woman says. “He’s ready in the chapel.”

  It is time to say goodbye to my son.

  WHEN WE OPEN the door to go back outside, I keep my head up.

  “Do you have anything to say for your son?” a man says. He has a microphone. He is a reporter.

  Gary’s hand is on my back, urging me forward, but I resist. I stop. I think of Jed in those tan overalls, think of how they were just a bit too short for him. I look at the man with the microphone. I stare into the camera wielded by his colleague.

  “I am sorry for what he did. I am ashamed of what he did. But please, let me say goodbye to my child.”

  I take a step forward, and the man with the camera backs up. This is a victory.

  I reach back for Gary’s hand, grabbing at the air until he gets the hint. He presses his palm against mine as I march toward the chapel. I don’t hear footsteps behind us. They are not following. That’s all they wanted from me—an apology, an admission that my son did something horrific, a confirmation that I am human … not a monster like him.

  I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until we enter the chapel and I crouch, gasping for air. Gary is still holding my hand.

  “Joyce?” I hear a voice say.

  I look up to see Tessa. I’m surprised she’s here, even though she said she would be. I am embarrassed of the angry mob. She must know now who Jed was.

  When I stand, I see they have the photos I selected of Jed displayed—three enlarged and on easels, ten others in a framed collage. The urn is at the front of the room, looking small and almost silly. The bouquet of lilies towers over the urn. Still, Gary has done a good job. When I look at him—his face now a normal color, the rage gone—I love him a little.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say to Tessa. “Tessa, this is Gary. Gary, Tessa.”

  They shake hands.

  I know Gary thinks it’s strange, my budding relationship with a woman who was almost killed by Jed. I don’t think it’s strange though. I think it’s right. In a way, Tessa and I have something in common—we both survived Jed.

  “I was just looking at the photos,” Tessa says.

  This is her way of telling me she knows. This and the redness of her eyes, the puffiness, the evidence of her crying.

  I nod.

  “His eyes … he looks like he felt everything,” she says. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

  “It does,” I tell her.

  The funeral director walks from the front of the room to greet us. He introduces himself as Marcus, says he’s ready to get started whenever we are. I’m not ready to get started, but I walk to the front of the room anyway. The first pew has a placard that says Reserved for Family on it, as if they expected a room full of people, like any other funeral. Tessa sits in the second row, in accordance with the placard, pretending along with the funeral home staff that social norms still apply, even though what Jed did violated every norm.

  Marcus doesn’t read passages from the Bible. Gary must have told him I’m not religious (and Jed certainly wasn’t). He reads from a sheet of paper, something he must keep in a file titled “Agnostic Ceremonies.” It’s all generic stuff; he didn’t know Jed, after all, and I’m sure whatever Gary told him didn’t elicit much compassion. If I close my eyes, I can imagine Jed next to me, slouched against the pew, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. He wouldn’t enjoy this service. I imagine him rolling his eyes, sighing as the funeral director speaks.

  Mom, was this really necessary?

  Yes, Jed. This is about me too, remember?

  Marcus starts to read from that famous poem—“Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep.” I can hear Jed groan.

  “Do not stand at my grave and weep,” Marcus begins. “I am not there, I do not sleep.”

  Jed chuckles. Oh, no, I am there. And I do sleep.

  I shush him. I don’t realize I do it out loud until Gary turns and whispers, “You okay?”

  I open my eyes, see Jed is not next to me. I nod at Gary.

  I DON’T LISTEN to much of what Marcus says after the poem. It’s a short service, a half hour or so. At the end, organ music starts playing—not from an actual organ, but from a recording over speakers. Gary must not have requested a live performance. I’m glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t want yet another person who didn’t know Jed in this room.

  Marcus places the urn in my hands. It’s heavier than I expect. I remember this about Ed’s too. Gary helps me stand and we file out of the chapel, Tessa in our wake, a three-person procession. As we approach the double doors leading outside, I look up and see a woman standing there. She is familiar, but I can’t place her. She is wearing a flowy black dress, hoop earrings.

  As I come closer, I realize who it is.

  “Lindsey?” I say.

  Lindsey Benton. Jed’s friend—or girlfriend, it was never really clear—from high school.

  Gary and Tessa stop when I do. I can tell they are unsure if they should proceed outside or if they should wait, eavesdrop on my conversation with this woman they don’t know.

  “Hi, Ms. Ketcher,” she says.

  I always loved Lindsey, secretly hoped she and Jed would get married. They were just kids, of course. I think I was more brokenhearted when they went their separate ways than Jed was.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this,” she says.

  “Oh, you don’t have to apologize. Thank you for coming.”

  Just as I’m wondering how she found out about the service, she says, “I saw the funeral information online.”

  The message board, most likely. I should have known.

  Gary leans in to me, says, “We’ll be outside.”

  He and Tessa walk out into the sunlight. Just the sliver of it through the doors is blinding. It seems like it should be dark. It seems like it should always be dark now.

  “We’re just going to lunch, if you’d like to join,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to impose. I just … I wanted to be here. And I wanted to talk with you.”

  “Talk with me?”

  Her eyes are on the urn. When she looks up, I see they are glassy, wet.

  “About Jed,” she says.

  I was not under the impression that Lindsey and Jed were in touch after high school. He hadn’t mentioned her in years. I know she meant a lot to him. I’m sure he thought of her as “the one that got away.” But he never said as much.

  “I talked to Jed the night he died,” she says, the words coming out fast and furious, like they’ve been restrained too long, like bulls charging against a closed gate.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. To tell you,” she says.

  The urgency in her tone scares me.

  “Okay,” I say. “Now?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bombarding you with this. I just … Sorry.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  Of course, I want to know what she has to tell me. I want to know now. I feel self-conscious of my eagerness, afraid I might be foaming at the mouth, salivating like a hungry dog staring down a bone.

  “Can I come over tomorrow?” she asks me in a small voice. It’s like she is fifteen years old again: Can I come by tomorrow, Ms. Ketcher?

  “Sure,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

  I know I will not be able to sleep tonight. Not that I’ve been sleeping much anyway. But now I won’t even try. I will just pace the
room, talking to my urns.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join us for lunch?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes,” she says. “I have to get home. I just had a baby a few weeks ago.”

  She glances down at her chest, gives a shrug. She’s breastfeeding, that’s what she’s telling me. Lindsey Benton has a child. She probably has the life I always wanted for Jed— something boring and domestic.

  “Congratulations,” I tell her, though I hate her now, just a little, for having what Jed never will.

  She thanks me. We exchange phone numbers. She says she will call me in the morning. Then she is gone, and I do what I must do—I walk toward the doors, push them open, wince at the light.

  RICK REED

  VICTIM #4

  I’M GOING TO MISS the guys when we move. I need to tell them soon—tonight, maybe. Sherry and I met with our Realtor today. We’re ready to pull the trigger, put the house on the market. We’ve owned it outright for twenty years, and the housing market in Boise has gone bananas, so we should make a few hundred grand on the sale. That will be enough for a shack in California. I suppose that’s all we need.

  Sherry’s had this dream of retiring in California for as long as I’ve known her. I thought it would vanish, like so many dreams do over the years, but it hasn’t. I don’t really want to move. I’ve always lived in Boise. But I owe it to her. She’s been good to me all these years. When we got my Parkinson’s diagnosis, she didn’t flinch. She just said, “Okay, what do we need to do?” She knows all about the latest clinical studies, the latest medications. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  It makes sense to move now. The kids are both out of state. It still baffles me that they are functioning adults with jobs and spouses. We raised them right, all the while feeling like we had no idea what we were doing. What a relief it would have been to have a Magic 8 Ball during all those years when we lost sleep wondering what mistakes we were making.

  Now I lose sleep about different things. The Parkinson’s, how much time I have left. Nobody knows for sure. It depends on how fast the disease progresses. Sherry says California will be good for me—winters won’t be as cold, summers won’t be as hot. She wants to make it a goal to put our feet in the ocean every day. She has visions of eating healthier food, laughing more. We’re going to rent a condo in San Clemente. We already have a complex picked out, about a mile from the beach. Then we’ll see about buying that shack.