“There wasn’t much I could do at that point, so I went back inside. About an hour later, Daniel came in to tell me they couldn’t get Rufus down. They’d get the sling on him, but he’d panic at the door. I said I’d be right there, and Daniel ran ahead.
“I was putting on my coat when I saw Jonah and Rufus at the tree-house door. Then Rufus was falling. It had to be a good twelve feet down, so I raced outside.”
I stopped there. Three sets of eyes lifted, waiting for more.
After a few minutes, George said, “I know this isn’t quite in the spirit of this thing, but what in the hell happened?”
“I’ve told you what matters.”
“But was he okay? What’d Daniel say?”
George was right. These weren’t proper questions, but I understood where I’d left them. “Rufus was fine. A little dazed, but he was sitting there wagging his tail. Daniel, though, was a mess. He was crying and laughing and hugging the dog. When he finally calmed down, he said that Rufus had fallen somehow, tumbled in the air. He thought Rufus would die or at least break his legs. But he claimed Rufus landed in a kind of stuntman roll and bounced right back up. He said it was ‘totally awesome.’”
By their faces, I could see they’d gotten distracted by the happy ending, so I added, “Here’s the thing, though. The very next day, Daniel dove from the dining-room table and dislocated his shoulder. He was reenacting the dog’s landing for Jonah.”
George glanced quizzically at the others. After a while, Ralph asked, “And how does this story relate to your struggles?”
I’m sure I sounded frustrated when I pointed out that Jonah had talked Daniel into putting Rufus in danger, then almost certainly pushed our dog out the tree-house door. And if that weren’t enough, he’d convinced Daniel to do something hazardous for his own amusement. Yet despite all the evidence, I’d failed to recognize Jonah’s danger.
“Ah,” Ralph said.
Abigail was particularly quiet during this fourth session. She didn’t ask a single question until the end, when she said, “If you had to describe Jonah in a word, what word would that be?”
She thought I would say “murderer.” I’m sure of it. She was wrong. The word I’d likely have chosen was “troubled.” I didn’t answer her. Back then, I saw the question as a clever trap. A seemingly open question, but one in which Abigail thought she knew my answer. The question wasn’t a question at all but a statement, one that said, You have limited a child of God to one word, a word that reduces an entire life to a single moment, one that ignores that of God in him.
I raised my eyebrows at George, wondering if he would, at last, intervene in these gross breaches of protocol. He watched me placidly. I thanked Abigail for her question and said I’d reflect on it. I requested we spend the remaining time in silence and declined to have any mirroring back.
I was furious at Abigail. The one Friend I was sure I could count on had as much judgment as the rest. What right had she? Had she lost a child? Had that child been murdered by a boy she’d long treated as a son? I fumed until the meeting was over. I thanked them politely for giving so generously of their time and left without further good-byes.
* * *
—
WHEN I GOT HOME AT NINE FIFTEEN, Lorrie was in the kitchen drying a large pot. Since Christmas, she’d been coming over more frequently. The woman used every variety of excuse: delivery of cookies and casseroles, helping Evangeline with school projects, or just chatting with the girl. If she planned to stay more than a few minutes, she’d bring Nells along. More than once, I came home to the three of them working away at the dining-room table. But this was the first time I’d found her alone in my kitchen this late at night. I entered still wearing my coat.
She turned and smiled. “The girls and I cooked up a pretty darn good stew. There’s lots left over if you’re hungry.”
“That was thoughtful of you.”
Though I had spoken gently, her hands stopped drying. She turned her back to me as if this were necessary to set down the pot. Over her shoulder, she said, a tad too cheerfully, “Not so thoughtful. Evangeline did most of the work.” There being no further excuse with the pot, she faced me but kept her gaze down. “I didn’t want to leave a mess behind.”
“Again, very thoughtful of you.”
She lifted her head. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course. I’m just wondering where the girls are.”
“Evangeline’s in her room finishing some schoolwork and Nells headed home a few minutes ago. Why do I have the feeling something is bothering you?”
I was still agitated from the meeting, static roaring in my head, but I would never take my anger out on this poor woman, a woman who had clearly misinterpreted my prior charities. I said with the most benevolent voice I could muster, “I’m worried I’ve somehow misled you.”
She held my gaze. “No. You’ve not misled me in the slightest.” The words arrived under great pressure, and I heard the accusation: Believe me, your lack of generosity could not have been clearer.
“Then I’m confused,” I said, allowing an edge to sharpen my words. I waited a few beats, relishing that moment before the strike. “Why are you here, when your young daughter is all alone at your house?”
* * *
—
DID I UNDERSTAND THEN HOW CRUEL I WAS BEING? I did. I remember a certain pleasure in seeing Lorrie’s face blanch, in the rising and falling of her chest as she regained command of her features, the effort it took for her to fold the dish towel, set it on the counter, and walk out.
She was halfway through the door when she stopped and marched back in. “You think this has been easy? Coming over here? To this house, knowing how you feel?” Her voice was shaking. “It hasn’t been easy. Every time, there’s dread, every time I have to talk myself into it.”
I stood glaring at her, no longer willing to deny my rage. “And do you think it has been easy for me to see you in this house, to come home and find you here, knowing what you did?”
“What did I do, Isaac? Tell me. What have I ever done but shown you kindness?”
Her cheeks were red with anger, and I saw there her face from that September night, the night I saw her at the barrel. It was a few days after Daniel’s disappearance. We didn’t yet know he was dead. I was sitting in the dark of the kitchen around eleven at night, exhausted after a long day’s search. That’s when I noticed the smoke coming from Lorrie’s back lot. A transient had burned down the Wileys’ shed a few months before, so I pulled on a jacket and wandered to the border trees. As I approached, a bizarre thought churned my mind. I would find Daniel at the fire. I was certain. He’d been grievously injured and built the fire as a signal.
But it was Lorrie I saw standing before the blaze. She had started a fire in the old barrel outside our gates. She picked up a soft bundle—it seemed a pillowcase stuffed with other things—and tossed it onto the flames. Next she threw in what appeared to be boots, but that didn’t seem right, because boots wouldn’t burn like that, and whatever this was shot up a flame that nearly lit the trees. In that sudden flash, her face glowed a startling, hideous red. Only for a second, and then the flame collapsed and she fell into darkness.