hadn’t seen each other in years. But if not
Charlie, then who? Who else believed that Slim Jim was innocent
and why would they wait until now to share this belief? And why in this manner? In addition to the weight of
certainty, that one word carried the burden of secrecy. Inked by someone
who felt compelled to speak out, yet frightened to step forward. And
understandably so, I suppose. They would have a lot to explain.
Probably more than they would be able to. For starters, how could you
explain waiting twenty years? This was a real Pontius Pilate move. I’ve told you he’s innocent, now it’s up to you. Then launching this letter into the world and
washing their hands of the matter. All I knew for sure was that after all
of these years of thinking that some random hobo had murdered Katie Cooper
there were now two people declaring his innocence. Moose and Charlie had
sworn each other to secrecy and assuming they kept that promise, the
letter-writing candidates seemed pretty limited. It could have been some
random prankster, but that seemed pointless. It could have been w someone
who - for whatever reason – believed that Slim Jim was innocent. Yet still
the question remained – why now? Perhaps the author of the letter had
been afraid to come forward back then. Perhaps the real killer was still
alive. Or perhaps the author himself was the real killer.
As perplexing as it was, it was a nice distraction,
this Slim Jim mystery. Same with the grave letters. They gave my mind a place
to walk that didn’t lead to Ethan – at least not directly. I could get
consumed by the intrigue and the unknown for a while.
Sometimes I wonder if maybe I made a deal with God
that I have forgotten. That I agreed to lose Ethan to
gain that thing which I can’t recall. Or perhaps it was because of
some fire of evil inside my heart and God knew that the giving and taking away
of Ethan was the only way for it to be extinguished. A burning black rock
plucked out of my chest by the hand of an unsympathetic Holy Ghost.
I don’t go to church regularly, but I do have a
personal relationship with God. As my personal advisor, He has shaped me
into a critical thinker who is equal parts faith and doubt, believer and
skeptic. A believer whose faith has been strengthened as much by what is
found outside the church as what is found inside of it: the expanse of
the universe, how the eyeball works, the migration patterns of the monarch
butterfly, the moon and the tide. Everything has been so carefully
choreographed, has it not? For this reason, I dismiss almost
nothing. I would not be surprised to someday find that my personal
advisor leaves hints inside of, say, horoscopes for instance. Reincarnation? Numerolgy ? Tarot Cards? Weeping
statues of the Virgin Mary? Why not?
Looking for such hints one evening in the days after
losing Ethan, I found an anagram generator on the internet one night and so I
typed in Ethan Merrill . I filtered through dozens of nonsensical
returns.
Neither all mr
Hearten ill mr
Lean mr Hitler
Lather Merlin
Thrill near me
Then I came across one that brought the burn of bile
to the back of my throat. It was the message I was seeking and it read
like the voice of God in my head, though my heart told me it was Satan. I
stared at my burning bush and read it again. And again.
It did not change. I scratched it out on a piece of paper in front of me
and crossed off each letter in my son’s name until I was sure it matched.
Then I did the opposite and wrote my son’s name on the piece of paper and moved
his letters until they formed the words in my anagram omen.
He’ll err in Tam
It’s almost enough to make a man believe in something.
When
One Child Dies
In my back pocket was the poem I had written for Katie
the night before. The thought of giving it to her made my knees wobble,
so I promised myself I would do it
Charlie, then who? Who else believed that Slim Jim was innocent
and why would they wait until now to share this belief? And why in this manner? In addition to the weight of
certainty, that one word carried the burden of secrecy. Inked by someone
who felt compelled to speak out, yet frightened to step forward. And
understandably so, I suppose. They would have a lot to explain.
Probably more than they would be able to. For starters, how could you
explain waiting twenty years? This was a real Pontius Pilate move. I’ve told you he’s innocent, now it’s up to you. Then launching this letter into the world and
washing their hands of the matter. All I knew for sure was that after all
of these years of thinking that some random hobo had murdered Katie Cooper
there were now two people declaring his innocence. Moose and Charlie had
sworn each other to secrecy and assuming they kept that promise, the
letter-writing candidates seemed pretty limited. It could have been some
random prankster, but that seemed pointless. It could have been w someone
who - for whatever reason – believed that Slim Jim was innocent. Yet still
the question remained – why now? Perhaps the author of the letter had
been afraid to come forward back then. Perhaps the real killer was still
alive. Or perhaps the author himself was the real killer.
As perplexing as it was, it was a nice distraction,
this Slim Jim mystery. Same with the grave letters. They gave my mind a place
to walk that didn’t lead to Ethan – at least not directly. I could get
consumed by the intrigue and the unknown for a while.
Sometimes I wonder if maybe I made a deal with God
that I have forgotten. That I agreed to lose Ethan to
gain that thing which I can’t recall. Or perhaps it was because of
some fire of evil inside my heart and God knew that the giving and taking away
of Ethan was the only way for it to be extinguished. A burning black rock
plucked out of my chest by the hand of an unsympathetic Holy Ghost.
I don’t go to church regularly, but I do have a
personal relationship with God. As my personal advisor, He has shaped me
into a critical thinker who is equal parts faith and doubt, believer and
skeptic. A believer whose faith has been strengthened as much by what is
found outside the church as what is found inside of it: the expanse of
the universe, how the eyeball works, the migration patterns of the monarch
butterfly, the moon and the tide. Everything has been so carefully
choreographed, has it not? For this reason, I dismiss almost
nothing. I would not be surprised to someday find that my personal
advisor leaves hints inside of, say, horoscopes for instance. Reincarnation? Numerolgy ? Tarot Cards? Weeping
statues of the Virgin Mary? Why not?
Looking for such hints one evening in the days after
losing Ethan, I found an anagram generator on the internet one night and so I
typed in Ethan Merrill . I filtered through dozens of nonsensical
returns.
Neither all mr
Hearten ill mr
Lean mr Hitler
Lather Merlin
Thrill near me
Then I came across one that brought the burn of bile
to the back of my throat. It was the message I was seeking and it read
like the voice of God in my head, though my heart told me it was Satan. I
stared at my burning bush and read it again. And again.
It did not change. I scratched it out on a piece of paper in front of me
and crossed off each letter in my son’s name until I was sure it matched.
Then I did the opposite and wrote my son’s name on the piece of paper and moved
his letters until they formed the words in my anagram omen.
He’ll err in Tam
It’s almost enough to make a man believe in something.
When
One Child Dies
In my back pocket was the poem I had written for Katie
the night before. The thought of giving it to her made my knees wobble,
so I promised myself I would do it
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