Page 42 of The River We Remember

He put his guitar away and picked up the book he’d read for the Prairie Blooms, Catcher in the Rye. It was about a kid named Holden Caulfield who’d lost his way in life pretty early. Holden didn’t think much of the adults he knew. In his daydreaming, he imagined himself standing at the edge of a great cliff where a field of rye grew. There were children playing in the rye field, and it was his responsibility to keep them from falling off the cliff. Brody didn’t much like the book, but one thing he understood well was Holden Caulfield’s desire to protect the innocent. In a way, that’s how he saw himself now. And at heart, it was the reason for the part he was playing in the death of Jimmy Quinn, something he hated himself for even as he moved ahead with it. He put the novel aside and got ready for bed. But sleep eluded him. He lay for a while thinking about the pill bottle in the evidence locker downstairs and wondering if anyone would notice a couple more capsules of Seconal missing. Eventually he fell asleep on his own. Then he dreamed.

He’d thought the nightmares from the war were behind him. It had been years since the screams of the burning men had jarred him awake. But they returned that night and woke him with a cry that leapt from his own throat. He lay in sheets damp with sweat, breathing hard and fast, staring up at the ceiling. Along with the screams and the nightmares of war, he could still see the ghost of the man he’d murdered. He sat up and swung his feet off the bed, so twisted up inside he was afraid that he might puke.

Graff had been right. Jimmy Quinn’s death would make his life hell and sleep impossible. What he feared wasn’t the return of the nightmares. It was the knowledge, always there like a knife in his heart, that he was not what he seemed, not what people thought, not at all the man he wanted to be. Brody understood that the life he lived was nothing but a rickety framework of lies. As he sat sweating on that warm summer night, sick to his stomach, he knew he wasn’t just a liar but a coward, too. Worst of all, a murderer. And what had awakened him wasn’t just the ghost of the man he’d killed or the nightmare of the other terrible things he’d been a part of. It was the nightmare of that moment yet to come when all his cobbled-together lies would fall apart.

THE WAGON WHEEL was closed. Angie Madison had long ago tallied the day’s take. In the house behind the café, Scott and Ida had finished their game of cribbage or hand and foot or some other card game they played together in the evenings and had gone to bed while Angie completed the business of the day. She sat at the counter, in the light of a single overhead lamp, a little pool of illumination. She was smoking the rare cigarette she allowed herself. It was a habit she’d picked up in Madame Justine’s house in Houston. As with so much of her life there, she’d been able to put it behind her. Or almost. Like the single cigarette, she held on to certain things as reminders of a past she’d escaped. She knew she was one of the lucky ones, and she didn’t ever want to lose that sense of blessedness. What did she do to deserve a second chance? Nothing. It came to her in the form of a kid who was not really a kid, but who wasn’t a man yet either. What he offered her was a different way of seeing herself. What he offered her, in all her brokenness, was hope.

She was remembering her dead husband, Christian Madison, as she often did at night, alone like this. But she was also thinking about someone else: Brody Dern. He’d returned to the café that afternoon and had taken a seat at the counter. He’d confessed that he still hadn’t eaten lunch and had asked was there any meat loaf left. She’d poured him coffee and had started away to get the food, but he’d called her back. In an odd and rather flustered rush, he’d explained about the Prairie Blooms and the dinner at the Wicklows’ and needing to be dressed nice and that he’d be happy to give her a lift. If she’d like, he’d finished, and didn’t quite look at her. She’d been asked out before by men in Jewel who were widowed or still bachelors, and they’d often approached her in this same stumbling way. She had never accepted their offers. Her life was all about Scott. And in truth, none of the men who’d asked had interested her. But this offer from Brody Dern, which was really just the offer of a ride but felt like much more, intrigued her. She’d told him very simply and without any real thought, “Of course.”

She’d been busy after that with the usual Saturday rush, and she’d had no time to think about what had occurred with Brody Dern. But now she thought about the exchange and wondered if it really meant anything at all, beyond Brody’s polite offer of transportation and her polite acceptance. And to her own pleasant surprise, she found herself hoping that it did.

She was taken from her reverie by a tap at the diner door. The face of Felix Klein gazed at her through the glass. She put her cigarette down in the little saucer she used as an ashtray, went to the door, and opened up. The smell of bourbon came in with the night air.

Felix looked at her, shame in his bloodshot eyes, need in his voice. “I saw the light, Angie. Wondered if you might have some coffee. And maybe a bite to eat. I’m a little… uh…”

“Yes, you are, Felix.” She shook her head, but not in judgment. “Come on in. I’m sure I can rustle up something.”

She took his arm and gently guided him to the counter, to the stool next to her own. He had trouble walking, not just because of his inebriation, she knew, but also because of those toes that had been amputated.

She helped him get seated. “A little late for an evening stroll, isn’t it?”

He took a deep breath, let out a heavy, liquor-scented sigh. “It’s my birthday today.”

“I didn’t know that, Felix. Well, happy birthday. And I can see that you’ve been celebrating.”

“I thought I’d try.” He shook his head and looked miserable. “But I walk in that house and it’s like walking in a museum. Everywhere I look, there’s Hannah. You must know what I mean.” He looked into her eyes for understanding. “You lost a husband.”

Not really, she thought. What she’d lost was a friend who’d never had much opportunity to be a husband to her. But for Felix’s sake, she said, “I understand. I’ll heat up some water and make you a little Nescafé, And I think I’ve got some sliced turkey for a sandwich. How does that sound?”

“You’re an angel, Angie.”

She went to the kitchen, ran water into a pot, turned on a burner of the big stove, and set the pot over the flame. By the time she’d finished making the sandwich, the water was hot, and she stirred in the coffee crystals. Finally, she cut a slice of carrot cake and put a small lit candle atop. When she returned to the café counter, Felix sat slumped forward, his head cradled on his arms on the countertop.

She woke him gently. “Dinnertime.”

Felix came up as if from a depth of water. He looked around, got his bearings, smelled the coffee, spied the sandwich and the cake with the candle, and smiled.

“Happy birthday,” Angie said.

He ate greedily. He closed his eyes while he drank the instant coffee and said, “Ambrosia.” Then he added, “Jimmy Quinn.”

“My coffee reminds you of Jimmy Quinn?”

“It’s just I’ve been thinking.” Felix turned his face from her and went quiet, staring at his reflection in the glass of the diner window.

“Thinking what?” she finally prompted.

“Jimmy Quinn. There was one unhappy man.”

Which was one of the most generous assessments of James Quinn that Evangeline Madison had ever heard. The thing was, she happened to agree.

“People who make other people unhappy are generally pretty unhappy themselves,” she said.

He gave a small nod of agreement, then turned to her. “What about people who make other people happy? That’s you, Angie.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.”

“Why?” he asked.