Kester’s a loose cannon.”
“He’s got a record?”
“Felony assault and possession,” he tells me. “Those are the only two convictions I remember off the top of my head. But that guy has a temper. If those two are still together, you might want to keep an eye on him. He likes his meth, hates cops, and he’s got a screw loose to boot.”
“Bad combination,” I tell him.
“Especially if you’re Nick Kester and you think someone fucked you over.”
CHAPTER 7
She still thought of him after all these years. More often than was wise for a woman her age. It usually happened in the course of some menial chore, which seemed to be the lion’s share of her life these days. Sometimes, when she was hanging clothes on the line or washing dishes or pulling weeds in her garden, she still saw him the way he’d been all those years ago. Laughing eyes the color of a robin’s egg. Unkempt hair that was just a little too long. A quicksilver grin that was as contagious as a summer cold. She still remembered the way he’d looked at her. As if she were the only person left on earth. Oh, how the sight of him would make her heart quicken and her palms grow wet with sweat. She knew it was a silly thing—those memories of the frivolous girl she’d been. But a woman never forgot her first love. Even now, a lifetime later, her foolish heart still quivered in her chest when she thought of him.
Feel dumbhaydichkeit . Such foolishness.
She’d lived a lifetime since those days. A good life filled with family and love and God. She had a husband and four grown children now. Her first grandchild on the way. It was sinful to think of a man from her past when she had so much to be thankful for.
Then this morning, after her husband had left the house to feed the livestock, she’d drunk a cup of coffee and skimmed through The Budget before starting breakfast. Usually those pages are reserved for news of marriages and births, deaths and baptisms, with the occasional proverb sprinkled throughout. This morning the front page headline had made something inside her go cold: HUMAN REMAINS UNCOVERED BY TORNADO.
It was the kind of story she usually didn’t devote any time to reading. Why invite bad news into your life? But as she sipped her second cup of coffee, she’d found her eyes skimming, seeking details, looking for things she shouldn’t be looking for. And on page six, where the story continued, she’d read a quote from the English police: “We know very little at this point. The only things we do know are that the bones belong to a male between sixteen and thirty-five years of age, and they’ve been buried in the crawl space of that barn between ten and thirty years. Aside from a few scraps of clothing, the only items found in the vicinity were a metal plate—possibly a medical device for a broken bone—and a woman’s engagement ring.”
The sound she’d heard had been her own quick intake of breath. She’d closed the newspaper and risen so abruptly she’d spilled her coffee. She’d looked down at the newspaper, her eyes drawn once again to the words she wished she hadn’t read.
… a woman’s engagement ring.
… thirty years …
Folding the newspaper, she’d placed it in the paper bag with the rest of the newspapers she’d be using to clean windows later in the week. She was wiping up the coffee spill when her husband came in from the barn.
Brushing bits of alfalfa hay from his coat, he walked to the table and looked down at the stained tablecloth. “Where’s the newspaper?” he asked in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“I spilled coffee on it,” she told him.
It was the first time in thirty years of marriage that she’d lied to her husband.
* * *
I’ve walked this road a hundred times and yet I don’t recognize it. The wind has stripped the leaves from the trees, ripped the cornstalks from the ground, and set the telephone poles at 45-degree angles. The asphalt beneath my feet is covered
“He’s got a record?”
“Felony assault and possession,” he tells me. “Those are the only two convictions I remember off the top of my head. But that guy has a temper. If those two are still together, you might want to keep an eye on him. He likes his meth, hates cops, and he’s got a screw loose to boot.”
“Bad combination,” I tell him.
“Especially if you’re Nick Kester and you think someone fucked you over.”
CHAPTER 7
She still thought of him after all these years. More often than was wise for a woman her age. It usually happened in the course of some menial chore, which seemed to be the lion’s share of her life these days. Sometimes, when she was hanging clothes on the line or washing dishes or pulling weeds in her garden, she still saw him the way he’d been all those years ago. Laughing eyes the color of a robin’s egg. Unkempt hair that was just a little too long. A quicksilver grin that was as contagious as a summer cold. She still remembered the way he’d looked at her. As if she were the only person left on earth. Oh, how the sight of him would make her heart quicken and her palms grow wet with sweat. She knew it was a silly thing—those memories of the frivolous girl she’d been. But a woman never forgot her first love. Even now, a lifetime later, her foolish heart still quivered in her chest when she thought of him.
Feel dumbhaydichkeit . Such foolishness.
She’d lived a lifetime since those days. A good life filled with family and love and God. She had a husband and four grown children now. Her first grandchild on the way. It was sinful to think of a man from her past when she had so much to be thankful for.
Then this morning, after her husband had left the house to feed the livestock, she’d drunk a cup of coffee and skimmed through The Budget before starting breakfast. Usually those pages are reserved for news of marriages and births, deaths and baptisms, with the occasional proverb sprinkled throughout. This morning the front page headline had made something inside her go cold: HUMAN REMAINS UNCOVERED BY TORNADO.
It was the kind of story she usually didn’t devote any time to reading. Why invite bad news into your life? But as she sipped her second cup of coffee, she’d found her eyes skimming, seeking details, looking for things she shouldn’t be looking for. And on page six, where the story continued, she’d read a quote from the English police: “We know very little at this point. The only things we do know are that the bones belong to a male between sixteen and thirty-five years of age, and they’ve been buried in the crawl space of that barn between ten and thirty years. Aside from a few scraps of clothing, the only items found in the vicinity were a metal plate—possibly a medical device for a broken bone—and a woman’s engagement ring.”
The sound she’d heard had been her own quick intake of breath. She’d closed the newspaper and risen so abruptly she’d spilled her coffee. She’d looked down at the newspaper, her eyes drawn once again to the words she wished she hadn’t read.
… a woman’s engagement ring.
… thirty years …
Folding the newspaper, she’d placed it in the paper bag with the rest of the newspapers she’d be using to clean windows later in the week. She was wiping up the coffee spill when her husband came in from the barn.
Brushing bits of alfalfa hay from his coat, he walked to the table and looked down at the stained tablecloth. “Where’s the newspaper?” he asked in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“I spilled coffee on it,” she told him.
It was the first time in thirty years of marriage that she’d lied to her husband.
* * *
I’ve walked this road a hundred times and yet I don’t recognize it. The wind has stripped the leaves from the trees, ripped the cornstalks from the ground, and set the telephone poles at 45-degree angles. The asphalt beneath my feet is covered
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