A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

We didn’t learn anything new from Gregg that evening. He was so in the dark, we actually brought him news. I was glad we could lend a little moral support, but that was about all we could do in five minutes. Brower was being a stickler.

Standing outside the jail, Cleva and I decided to go out to dinner. We didn’t have a lot of choices in town, so we ended up at Adam’s Rib. I wasn’t in the mood for the special—baby-back ribs, home fries and beans—and apparently Cleva wasn’t either. We both ordered salads, though Iceberg lettuce and wan hothouse tomatoes weren’t enough to call dinner. We added one order of barbecued chicken.

“Honey, that man looks devastated. I hope he doesn’t have to spend much time in that jail.  Brower must be loving this. He’s always been sorta jealous of Gregg.”

“Jealous? Or just on a power trip?”

“Both, probably. But I think he might be jealous of the way folks naturally enjoy Gregg but not him. People like that are sad—like a kid watching others play but not knowing how to join. They jump in and next thing you know, they’ve started a fight.”

“Well, I don’t care about Brower’s sad upbringing. Like Freud said, sometimes an asshole is just an asshole.”

She chuckled. “Even I know that’s not quite how he put it, but I get your point. Let’s drop that and talk about you. You seem kind of jumpy.”

“Sure, aren’t you? The injustice that Gregg, of all people, would be wrestled out of a meeting and thrown in jail?”

“I don’t mean that. Yep, I’m pissed off about what’s happened to Gregg, but I’ve never seen you so alive. So, so—as the kids say, in a groove.”

I stopped mid-bite and put my drumstick down. I wiped barbecue sauce from my face, more for time to think than good manners. She was right. I was getting to work again at what I’d spent my whole adult life doing: interviewing people, digging deeply into a story, and even sometimes righting injustices. Being a journalist had been exciting, especially in D.C., where the culprits I dealt with were often players in the biggest show in the world.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “This is what I used to do, and it made life interesting.”

“Past tense?”

“Oh, let’s not go there.”

“Okay, but there’s something else. I mean, you seemed kind of jangled. Obsessed even.”

Dammit, Cleva could see through a blackout curtain. I’d recently realized that my dogged search was fueled, in part, by a memory—and a load of guilt—from a tragedy a year earlier. “Well, there is something else,” I said.

After a long silence, Cleva said, “And?”

“Someone killed herself, in front of me. She’d been depressed for a while, and I’d been a pretty loyal neighbor and friend. I didn’t abandon her when she got in dark moods. I stuck around, including some harrowing evenings listening to her rant. But it wasn’t all bad—we’d had some fun times, too. Then one night she had me over for dinner and started telling me what a shit I was. I should have known it was the depression talking, but I decided to try some tough love. I told her she needed to get more help. She’d refused drugs, and for a while, that made sense. I mentioned that she might want to try a prescription, just short term to help her out while she worked on her issues. I added that she couldn’t go on the way she was living. She ran from the living room into her kitchen, dumped the spaghetti sauce and pasta and boiling water on to the floor, grabbed a kitchen knife, and shouted, ‘You’re right. I can’t go on like this.’ The slashes she made were the serious kind, right down both arms. I called 911, but she bled out before they arrived.”

Everything tumbled out so fast, all Cleva could muster was, “Oh, I see.” She sipped her iced tea, gathering her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Honey, that makes sense, what you said about redeeming the past. The way I see it, life’s built on our past, though we can’t stay mired in it. We’ve got to move on. But you couldn’t not have seen that scene in your head. I’m sorry you’ve had that happen—twice.”

“Thanks, Cleva.” I looked around for the waiter; I needed something stronger than tea. After he brought me a beer, I took a drink and went on. “As long as I’m spilling my guts, I want you to know that my interesting life is not past tense. Yes, I’ve had an exciting life, maybe too exciting. I was ready for a change, which is why I moved here. Then along comes something big again, and I’ll admit, it does feel good to be in that groove again. But you know, the store keeps me on my toes, too—ordering and maintaining inventory is a juggling act. And customer service is a new challenge for me.” I tried to chuckle, but it caught in my throat. I drank more beer and continued. “Fortunately, the real jerks in town don’t come in, not even for beer. I think they’re pissed that I won’t sell tobacco, which in North Carolina is worse than burning the flag. But I love folks like you and Abit and Myrtle and Roy and ...”

Cleva interrupted. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“You’re good, Cleva, but this time you’re not one-hundred percent right. Sometimes I do have to give myself a pep talk, but right now, sitting here with you, eating terrific North Carolina barbecue, even the Iceberg lettuce tastes good.”

“Good to hear. I’m feeling mighty fine about your sitting here, too. Now, what kind of pie should we order?”