I hated him for saying that about Lincoln, who’d been dead six months.
“I came here as a concerned citizen. As an ally. But since you won’t have any of that, now I’ll speak to you as the father of a young woman who is on the path to being happy and successful. Let me be clear on this: I don’t want you anywhere near Cynthia. You were never good enough for her. She knows that. You know it, too. Everyone does. And now not only are you not good enough, but you’re also dangerous. And everyone knows that, too, so don’t expect any sympathy from all the people in town who used to see you as a hero.”
Remember what I said about Judge being able to change all of a sudden, shift into something utterly different, like a chameleon? Well. That’s what had happened. An ugly miracle, right there in the sun and heat. Kind and concerned Judge was gone, and now the real Judge was here, cold and vicious.
Something mean and dark began to weave inside me. I felt the sweat begin to spill down my face, felt my fists clench. “She’s an adult,” I told him. “She can make her own decisions.” I said it strong, like I was spitting at him, like he hadn’t gotten under my skin, but inside, I was feeling the stab of his cruel words, the truth of them. Cindy was too good for me, and everybody knew it, especially me.
Judge stepped closer, skipped all three steps and was up on the porch right next to me, so close I could smell the lunch on his breath. Pickles. Now, mind you: I’m a hair over six foot, but Judge, he was taller, and he positioned himself so that I could sense the height he had on me, so he was looking down on me. “You come anywhere near her. You so much as look at her. I will ruin your pathetic little life. We clear on that?”
I held his eyes but didn’t answer him. I could sweep the legs from beneath him and take him to the ground before he even blinked. The truth is, I hated him and always had and who did Judge think he was, telling me I was worthless and pathetic? After everything I’d been through. All those years away, I’d been dreaming of Cindy, hoping for something more between us, and the possibility of it—well, it had kept me alive. And aside from all of that, what Judge didn’t know was that my pathetic life, it was already ruined.
I turned away from Judge. Left him standing on the porch with his nice black suit. Unharmed, by the way. I’m fairly sure he hollered something after me about not walking away from him, but I went into the house and let the screen door slam shut. I think he knew better than to follow me. Through the screens I could hear the wind chimes jangling their songs. After a while Judge turned and walked away. He kicked the witch ball hard before he got in his Lexus and drove off, shattered it all over the yard. Now a thousand pieces of iridescent glass in the yard to clean up as well, but when I peered out the window, it looked like a pool of water there, shimmering in the sun, shiny and beautiful and bright.
* * *
I never could bring myself to go back to the diner, and I missed the Reuben sandwiches and french fries and pickles. Kelly, too, her chatter about the chickens and kids and her husband’s motorcycle. There was something comfortable and reassuring about all of it. I kept on working at the lumberyard, kept whittling away at the junk out at Lincoln’s. The hard labor, the pull and strain but also the chance to see that I was actually accomplishing something—that was good for me. Lincoln’s place was still a wreck but I was making progress, and I had a good vision for how nice it could be, once everything was cleaned up and repaired. The land was beautiful: a small valley cleared of trees, the creek that cut right through the middle of it. Truth is, even then, even before Cindy was pregnant, I was picturing a life out there, with her.
I didn’t have another episode like that, where I was seeing people who weren’t really there. Which trust me: that was a relief. But still. You can see why, when Child Protective Services showed up after Cindy passed, when my friend Don leaned in and advised me to let Finch go without a fuss, you can see how after what unfolded at the diner—me wielding a weapon and everyone ducking under tables and screaming—you can see how Finch and me had to come out here. You can see we had no choice.
TWENTY-TWO
Marie brought boots and a coat, but no snow pants, so I tell her she can use mine. She puts up a fuss about that, saying she doesn’t need them, she’ll be fine, but I point to the thermometer on the porch and tell her it’s nineteen degrees outside, and she gives in. Waddles out from the bedroom in the insulated camouflage pants that are six inches too long and also too big at the waist and falling down. She holds them up with one hand, the extra fabric balled in her fist.