Rapid Falls(35)

“Cara, we were just goofing around,” said Jesse. “It’s a beautiful day. Let it go.” His eyes sparkled at me, but it wasn’t enough to dissolve the icy churning of my stomach. I fought the urge to tell him to shut up. Anna looked at me smugly, and I wanted to smear the expression off her face.



Now Jesse was dead. I wondered if his mom had received his acceptance letter this week, if it had broken her heart to read about the future Jesse would never have. The future that had been denied to us both: Jesse running his own practice in Fraser City while I ran for office, the child I had always dreamed of, the big house and the elegant life. The sound of a truck drowned out the waterfall and brought me back to the task at hand. Wade had arrived.

“Hey, girl,” he called as he climbed out of the cab. Wade’s dog, Skoal, was a yellow blur as she shot out of the truck toward me. I laughed as she barreled into my legs, then bolted toward the woods. Wade was a big guy, rawboned but solid. Guys like him used to be cowboys. I nodded and smiled. I knew I could count on him. The Turners were solid Rapid Falls residents. His mom was a perpetual volunteer at the school for any activity that involved one of her four children. His dad led the volunteer firefighters’ squad and had cooked for its annual fundraising pancake breakfast for over twenty years. I had never seen them turn away a kid who needed help. I hoped I wouldn’t be the first. Wade’s voice held no trace of the confusion that had marked his mom’s face yesterday when she saw me at the funeral.

“Hey,” I said. I hoped Wade’s honesty and goodness wouldn’t make it harder for him to accept what I needed him to do.

“You look like you could use a wine cooler,” he said, reaching into a box at the back of the truck.

I smiled. The expression felt unfamiliar. I had been worried that Wade would act as cold as his mother had at the funeral, but I should have known better. He grabbed a beer for himself and headed toward me with the wine cooler outstretched. The bottle felt wet, cold, and welcome in my hand.

“I’m . . . uh, sorry, Cara. Jesse was . . .” His voice broke and he took a long gulp of beer. “I can’t believe it.” He looked at the waterfall instead of meeting my eyes. In Rapid Falls, we drank when we were happy and when we were sad. Wade would never think it odd to pay tribute to Jesse with a drink, despite the manner of his death.

“Me either.” I didn’t know what else to say. Wade cleared his throat and took another swig of beer. I looked over and he nodded, swiping his eyes quickly with the back of his hand.

“He was a good friend,” Wade said.

“I know.” My throat was tight, and the words came out quiet.

“I, uh, got a call from Sergeant Turd a couple of days ago.” That was what Wade always called Sergeant Murphy.

“Oh yeah?” I tried to keep my voice casual, hoping to conceal that was the reason I wanted to meet in the first place. About two years ago, Wade and Sergeant Murphy had a run-in when Wade got in trouble with a bunch of farm boys who’d found their dads’ stash of high-powered explosives.

The gang, as it were, was talked about in coffee shops all over town. Fathers and mothers scowled as they discussed the booms and bangs that had woken them in the middle of the night and knocked glasses from their shelves. No one issued any formal reports and Sergeant Murphy had turned a blind eye until one Saturday evening when the group had stuffed an abandoned car with so much powder that every horse for miles around knocked down its fence in blind panic. Wade and the rest of the boys had been charged with mischief, which amounted to little more than a meager fine, but the incident had left Wade with a deep grudge against Sergeant Murphy. It gave me hope my plan would work.

“Yeah.” Wade crushed his beer can in his hand. “Another one?”

I shook my head no. Wade nodded but headed to the truck to grab another for himself.

“You know what? Grab me one too,” I called.

“Sergeant Murphy is a dick,” I said when Wade returned. I thought Wade and the other guys were insane for playing with explosives, but I needed him on my side.

Wade nodded and stared at his boots. “He asked me a lot of questions about the ride up to the Field. And about pregaming at my place.”

“Really?” I tried to sound unfazed.

“He wanted to know if Anna was drinking.”

“What did you say?” There was something frantic and unmasked in my voice. Wade looked at me sideways.

“I asked him why the fuck it mattered. That really got his blood pressure up.” His grin was wolfish as he chuckled at his revenge.

“Thanks.” I breathed out the word.

“I’m not helping Sergeant Turd.” He smiled again, and then a shadow crossed his face as he remembered why the cop was talking to him in the first place.

“He doesn’t know that Jesse and I were fighting,” I said. My voice caught on the words and I coughed, but it sounded more like a sob. Wade slid his boot across the dirt to knock against my sneaker.

“So you fought with Jesse? So what? He was a little drunk. Don’t blame yourself. I didn’t tell him what you guys were up to.” He nodded to underscore his words. His eyes were blurred with tears. “It’s not your fault, Cara.”

I took a deep swallow of my wine cooler, pacing myself, trying to sound natural.

“Did you tell him about Jesse passing out?” I asked. In English this year, we had to read a poem about a wheelbarrow. I thought it was stupid, but one line still sticks with me. So much depended on Wade’s one small answer.