she broke down for the one and only time during the long ordeal of the trial, lowering her face into her hands, her shoulders trembling as she wept.
It is the curse of memory to dwell on possibility, to consider not only what was, but what might have been. Sometimes in the evening, when I am returning from a patient’s house, and find myself on the road that leads from Choctaw to Collier, I will see the little square lights of Kelli’s house, and suddenly I will be unable to pass by, but will edge my car onto the shoulder of the road, stop and stare for a time at the small glowing windows, the old wooden porch, the unused brick chimney. Sometimes on these occasions, I will see her as she was, rushing down the stairs toward my car with a bundle of schoolbooks in her arms, all youth and energy, with most of the journey still before her. But at other times, I will see her as shemight have become, older and wiser, her hair threaded with gray, her character shaped by a deeper and longer experience of life, moving more slowly toward me, opening her arms, rich and beautiful in the fullness of her womanhood. Then I see her not as she might have become but as she was left that day on Breakheart Hill. I see the devastation that was done to her, see her as Luke did before he raced up the hill for help. I see her blood glistening on my hands as it glistened on his trousers. But I do not dash away as he did. For I know, as Luke could not have known, that there is no help for her, no way to mend her wounds. And so I do the only thing I can. I kneel down beside her, gather her broken life into my arms, and say her name.
“K ELLI,” I SAID, “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS ?”
We were sitting in the little basement office late one afternoon only a week or so after we started working together on the
Wildcat
. She was at her desk, a small wooden one that had been pushed up against the room’s back wall.
I handed her the paper. “It’s one of those gossip things Allison used to put in every issue,” I added. “June Compton gave it to me this morning.”
Kelli took it from me, brought it under the lamp on her desk and read it out loud. “Trouble in paradise. Be on the lookout for a breakup.” She looked at me. “Who’s it about?”
I shrugged. “Some Turtle Grove couple,” I said. “That’s all June knows about, the people out there.”
I was right, as it turned out, and no more than fifteen minutes later Mary Diehl appeared at the door of the basement office. She was wearing a navy blue blouse and a black skirt, and thrown into silhouette by the light from the corridor she looked like a charred figure, motionlessand silent until Kelli finally looked up from her desk and caught her standing there.
“Hi, Kelli,” Mary said softly. Her eyes swept over to me. “Hi, Ben. Ya’ll working on the
Wildcat
?”
“Yes,” I said.
Mary struggled to smile, clinging to that iron charm her mother had taught her to maintain in all circumstances. “Well, I just wanted to ask if June Compton gave you something to put in it.”
“Yeah, she did,” I answered.
“Well, do you think you could give it to me, Ben?” Mary asked. She glanced self-consciously at Kelli, then back to me. “It’s sort of personal, and I don’t want it put in the
Wildcat
.”
For some reason, I hesitated. Perhaps because I wanted, no matter how briefly, to feel a certain delicious power over Mary Diehl, who, under other circumstances, would hardly have noticed me at all. “Well, I’d like to give it to you, Mary, but I should probably read it first.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Ben.” Mary’s voice trembled slightly. “It’s private, you know?”
“I know, Mary,” I said. “But as the editor of the paper I have to …”
I heard Kelli’s chair scrape against the cement floor, then saw her body sweep past my desk.
“Here it is, Mary,” she said, handing her the paper. “June gave it to Ben this morning. We haven’t even had a chance to
It is the curse of memory to dwell on possibility, to consider not only what was, but what might have been. Sometimes in the evening, when I am returning from a patient’s house, and find myself on the road that leads from Choctaw to Collier, I will see the little square lights of Kelli’s house, and suddenly I will be unable to pass by, but will edge my car onto the shoulder of the road, stop and stare for a time at the small glowing windows, the old wooden porch, the unused brick chimney. Sometimes on these occasions, I will see her as she was, rushing down the stairs toward my car with a bundle of schoolbooks in her arms, all youth and energy, with most of the journey still before her. But at other times, I will see her as shemight have become, older and wiser, her hair threaded with gray, her character shaped by a deeper and longer experience of life, moving more slowly toward me, opening her arms, rich and beautiful in the fullness of her womanhood. Then I see her not as she might have become but as she was left that day on Breakheart Hill. I see the devastation that was done to her, see her as Luke did before he raced up the hill for help. I see her blood glistening on my hands as it glistened on his trousers. But I do not dash away as he did. For I know, as Luke could not have known, that there is no help for her, no way to mend her wounds. And so I do the only thing I can. I kneel down beside her, gather her broken life into my arms, and say her name.
“K ELLI,” I SAID, “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS ?”
We were sitting in the little basement office late one afternoon only a week or so after we started working together on the
Wildcat
. She was at her desk, a small wooden one that had been pushed up against the room’s back wall.
I handed her the paper. “It’s one of those gossip things Allison used to put in every issue,” I added. “June Compton gave it to me this morning.”
Kelli took it from me, brought it under the lamp on her desk and read it out loud. “Trouble in paradise. Be on the lookout for a breakup.” She looked at me. “Who’s it about?”
I shrugged. “Some Turtle Grove couple,” I said. “That’s all June knows about, the people out there.”
I was right, as it turned out, and no more than fifteen minutes later Mary Diehl appeared at the door of the basement office. She was wearing a navy blue blouse and a black skirt, and thrown into silhouette by the light from the corridor she looked like a charred figure, motionlessand silent until Kelli finally looked up from her desk and caught her standing there.
“Hi, Kelli,” Mary said softly. Her eyes swept over to me. “Hi, Ben. Ya’ll working on the
Wildcat
?”
“Yes,” I said.
Mary struggled to smile, clinging to that iron charm her mother had taught her to maintain in all circumstances. “Well, I just wanted to ask if June Compton gave you something to put in it.”
“Yeah, she did,” I answered.
“Well, do you think you could give it to me, Ben?” Mary asked. She glanced self-consciously at Kelli, then back to me. “It’s sort of personal, and I don’t want it put in the
Wildcat
.”
For some reason, I hesitated. Perhaps because I wanted, no matter how briefly, to feel a certain delicious power over Mary Diehl, who, under other circumstances, would hardly have noticed me at all. “Well, I’d like to give it to you, Mary, but I should probably read it first.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Ben.” Mary’s voice trembled slightly. “It’s private, you know?”
“I know, Mary,” I said. “But as the editor of the paper I have to …”
I heard Kelli’s chair scrape against the cement floor, then saw her body sweep past my desk.
“Here it is, Mary,” she said, handing her the paper. “June gave it to Ben this morning. We haven’t even had a chance to
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