The Unwilling(56)

With that thought in my head, and nowhere I had to be, I decided to find Becky Collins. On her street, I passed a shattered tree and a hollow-eyed woman who watched me roll by. When I reached the right house, Becky was in the yard as if she’d known I was coming. I was afraid the unannounced visit might make her angry, but that’s not how it played. She waved broadly, and smiled as I parked.

“This is a nice surprise.”

“Chance thought you’d be upset with me if I showed up uninvited.”

“Chance is an idiot. Can you stay?” I said I could, and she took my hand to pull me from the car. “Come with me, then.”

She led me into the backyard, then into a stand of trees, and down a red-clay bank rutted out by heavy rains. At the bottom, we picked our way into deeper forest and along a footpath to a creek that gurgled among the stones.

“I found this place when I was six.”

Becky spoke over her shoulder as she led me deeper, parting a tangle of vines so I could follow her into a clearing where the creek spilled into a basin dappled with light, its loveliness so unexpected and complete it startled me.

“Isn’t it something? Sit here.” She gestured at a mossy spot near the water’s edge. “Give me a second, okay?”

I watched her gather bits of trash washed in by the creek, making a neat pile of it beside the trail.

“I have to stay on top of this, especially after it rains.” She dropped a final bit of plastic, then sat beside me with her knees up and her arms crossed to make a place for her chin. “So,” she said. “Gibby French.”

“Becky Collins.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“Whatever it is I see down in the bottom of those pretty green eyes.”

I didn’t want to talk about Jason or Tyra, so I changed the subject. “This place is pretty amazing. How’d you find it?”

“Any kid would have.”

“Have others?” I asked. “Found it, I mean.”

“Not for a while, I guess. I don’t see people here. There are houses that way—a whole other street—but there are brambles and kudzu. The drop is steeper.”

“Do you ever swim?”

She raised one eyebrow into a perfect arch. “Do you want to?”

I did want to. It was the coolness and the depth, the vines that made a curtain, and the stillness of the deep, green shade.

“I’m not taking off my clothes,” she said.

“Me, either.”

“Underwear, then?” I looked for the joke, but there was no such thing in her eyes. “You first,” she said, and then watched as I took off my shoes, stood awkwardly, and fumbled at my belt. “Do you want me to turn around?” I nodded stupidly, surprised when she closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. “How about this instead?”

I took off my shirt and pants, realizing then that her fingers were spread and she was grinning as she watched. I said, “Cheater,” then stepped into the pool, which was deeper than I’d thought. I moved to the middle and sank to my chin.

Becky stripped as if the act were devoid of sexuality. Tossed shoes. A quick roll onto her back to pull off the jeans. She stood to remove her shirt, and I looked away because her sexuality was obvious, whether she meant it to be or not. In the water, she said, “This is nice,” then went under and rose, dripping. The pool made her eyes look something other than blue, and the water made the bra translucent. “Do you want to talk about it, now?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure if she was teasing or not, but words had never been hard for me. I spoke of my father, who thought Jason might be guilty, and of my mother, manic in the kitchen. That led to Chance and prison and the question of college versus war. When I reached the place that hurt the most, I looked away and shared my thoughts on brothers and death and the guilt I harbored for my easy life. When the words ran out, I found Becky close in the water, not touching me, but nearly so.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She stared for a handful of seconds, still silvery-eyed and lovely. “I think you have troubles, and that none of them are bigger than you.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“With your life? I can’t answer that question.”

“What about now? Today?”

“Be there for your brother. Let him know he’s not alone.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough,” she said; but the words, in my ears, were strange.

Be a man, I heard.

For once in your sheltered life.



* * *



Ripley returned at ten minutes before five, and Jason considered how strange it was to walk the prison halls in loafers and jeans. He’d served twenty-seven months behind these walls, a full twelve of them before he’d met X.

But those last months …

He’d fought and bled, and been brought back to fight again. Fifteen months. A blur of pain, blood, and bandages. No one had fought X so many times or come so close to beating him. For a time, the guards had wagered in secret on the conflicts, but X didn’t fight for sport—not that kind—and two days after he’d learned of the wagers, one guard lost an ear in an unprovoked bar fight, and another, his home to fire.