THE NEXT DAY I had to get up early to work the nine-to-six shift at the hardware store. Business was slow, though, and my boss ended up letting me go at five. I had my bike and was on my way home when on the spur of the moment I decided to swing by the town cemetery. From talk I knew that Mrs. Nancy Billard always visited her child’s grave Sunday evenings. I had no desire to intrude but Aja’s remark about their encounter over the summer at the cemetery gnawed at me.
Billard was sitting on a bench not far from her boy’s tombstone, a bundle of fresh flowers in her hands. Elder was too small a town to have many secrets. I knew what most people knew about the child’s death. It was a brutal tale, and far too common.
A decade ago, two-year-old Barney Billard had been playing in the family living room under the less-than-watchful eye of his father, Stan Billard. The story went that Stan had gone outside to collect firewood, but had left the front door ajar when he came back inside. It was a freezing February morning and all of Elder was buried under four feet of snow. Back in the house, Stan stoked the fireplace with fresh lumber and stretched out on the couch and dozed off. Barney, seeing that the door was unlocked and slightly open, did what most boys his age would’ve done—especially when they’ve been locked up in the house for most of the winter.
Barney went outside. A neighbor said she saw him making snowballs and throwing them at a bunch of birds, laughing delightfully. The neighbor hurried to scoop him up and take him back inside but before she could reach him the boy wandered into the street. As fate would have it a car came by at that exact instant. The driver—a salesman from out of town—slammed on his brakes but that was probably the worst thing he could have done. The road was icy; the car went into an uncontrollable spin. Barney was crushed, dead before the ambulance could arrive.
The driver was arrested but soon released. It had been an accident, the police said, nothing more. Mr. and Mrs. Billard separated soon after, with Stan moving to Florida. Perhaps he couldn’t bear the stares he’d get when he walked down the street. Everyone blamed the poor guy for his carelessness, although, over the years, I came to understand that his wife wasn’t one of them. The fact they broke up so soon after Barney’s death made me assume I had a less-than-complete picture of what had gone on in their house after the death of their only child.
Billard looked up as I approached. The sun hung low in the west, coloring the white carnations she held a haunting red. Despite the warm evening air, she wore a gray sweater. I was relieved she took my sudden appearance in stride.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” I said.
“Not at all.” She gestured to a spot on the bench beside her. “Have a seat. It’s not often I have company when I visit my son.”
Leaning my bike against a nearby tree, I sat beside her and stared uneasily at Barney’s tombstone, particularly at the stone cross set atop the heavy block of granite. Unlike Aja, I never visited the cemetery, probably because when it came to the “Big Questions” about life and death, I had no answers. Or perhaps I should say I had no faith in the answers I’d been fed.
Both my parents were Catholic and I’d been raised in the faith. From as far back as I could recall, I’d gone to church every Sunday; made my first communion when I was in third grade, and my confirmation when I was in seventh. Up until then I assumed the local priest and nuns had the inside track on getting into heaven and I didn’t give much thought to my immortal soul.
Come my freshman year in high school, however, the foundation of my beliefs began to trouble me and I spent serious time reading the Bible—a practice that wasn’t, ironically, encouraged by most Catholics. For me, it was a real eye-opener.
Because the Old Testament came first, I started there and by the time I got to Noah and his ark and two of every living creature on earth, I knew either my faith was as shallow as my trust in Santa Claus or else the book I was holding in my hand conflicted with every scientific concept I knew. Frankly, because I’d devoured at least a couple of sci-fi novels a week since the time I was ten, I knew more chemistry, biology, and physics than probably any kid in town.
It was probably unfair to Jesus Christ and his Gospels, but by the time I reached the New Testament I was 99 percent certain the whole Bible was nothing but fiction. Granted, parts of it were inspiring—I really enjoyed reading the Psalms—but as a so-called manual given by God to mankind to help him understand his place in the universe . . . well, I felt a lot safer in the hands of Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke—famous science-fiction authors that I worshipped.
What I mean is, I lost all faith in the supernatural. Reading the holy books of other religions did nothing to change that loss. When it came to the topic of religion, I now felt as Janet did. That “faith” was a code word for a circular form of logic. To put it more bluntly, “faith,” to me, now meant “Believing in something you had no logical reason to believe in.”
That’s why staring at the cross atop Barney’s tombstone made me uneasy. I feared in the next few minutes I’d be comforting Mrs. Billard, and that I’d have to say something like, “He’s at peace now,” or, “You’ll see him soon in heaven,” when I knew damn well I’d be lying. It had been a terrible tragedy but Barney was gone.
Yet Billard surprised me with her first words.
“You don’t go to church anymore, do you, Fred?” she said.
“No, ma’am.”
“Is it because you no longer believe or because you can’t stand the fact that Father Mackey is a senile old drunk and Sister Josephine took a vow of celibacy because the poor woman couldn’t bear to tell her parents that she’s a lesbian?”
I smiled. “Father Mackey and Sister Josephine have nothing to do with my crisis of faith. I can only blame myself.” I added, “But it’s not something I lose any sleep over.”
Billard nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “I used to feel the same way, when I was young. I figured I’d grow old and die and that would be the end of it. But I did use to hope I’d go before Stan. I didn’t want to face losing him.” She stopped and stared at Barney’s tombstone. “Then I lost more than I dreamed possible.”
I was afraid to ask but the question seemed to hang in the air.
“Did losing your son rekindle your faith?”
Billard shrugged. “I thought so at first. The day after we buried Barney, I began reading tons of spiritual books. They didn’t have to be Christian. I read about near-death experiences; books on miracles. I watched videos of séances, and all those characters on TV who say they get messages from the dead. I drowned myself in New Age literature. I even went to see several channelers. Let me tell you those people weren’t cheap. Still, I got to the point where I was pretty sure there was enough evidence to believe in life after death.” She stopped and brushed away a tear that had crept over her cheek. “But then I realized something was missing.”
“What?” I asked.
“Proof. Hard-core proof.’ ”
“It’s a pain in the ass that it all has to come back to that.”
She looked at me. “But then I was given proof. The one thing I had prayed for since Barney wandered out our front door to play in the snow. I was given it this summer, sitting exactly where you are right now. All the proof I could ever have asked for. And it . . . it tore me apart.”
“I don’t understand?”
Billard reached out and took my hand. “It was Aja.”
“Huh?”
“She came here one day in July when I was . . . visiting my son. Or else, I don’t know, maybe she was here before me. It’s strange but I can’t remember which one of us got here first. All I know is when I saw her I felt annoyed. Like she was intruding on my space—on Barney’s little area. I wanted her to leave. I snapped at her, I think, told her she had no business disturbing the dead.” She paused. “But Aja didn’t leave, at least not right away.”
“What happened?”
Billard’s hand slipped from mine like it had lost all strength to hold on. Her face was suddenly stricken. “She said something, something she couldn’t have known.”
I waited. I waited without speaking; it felt wrong to press her.
Billard lowered her head. “It was just one sentence. I don’t know why it shook me so deeply. No, I’m sorry, that’s not true. I do know why. Part of it was the way she said it. Like she knew what she was telling me was absolutely true.”
“Tell me.”
Billard quoted, “ ‘Your son doesn’t blame you any more than your husband does.’ ”
“Wait. From what I heard, your husband, Stan, it was his fault. He left the door open and your boy wandered . . .” I didn’t finish.
“I never told anybody this except Stan and Mrs. Green, the florist. But I trust you, Fred. It was my fault the door was left open. I came downstairs after Stan had fetched the firewood. He was dozing on the couch and Barney was playing with his Legos. It was a Sunday morning. As usual, Stan had forgotten to bring in the paper. I went outside to get it. It was snowing lightly and there were five sparrows walking over a nearby snowdrift. They looked like a family—there were two big ones and three baby ones. I remember how I wished Barney could see them. Maybe he did. Our neighbor, Margaret, said she saw him playing with some birds before he stepped into the road.”
Billard stopped talking and once again I waited. The woman rubbed her hands together as if they were cold, like she was back on that frosty morning. She continued:
“I came back inside and took the paper upstairs to our room, where I spread it on our bed so I could clip the coupons I wanted to save. I have no recollection of not shutting the door all the way but it had to have been my fault. The door automatically locked when it was closed. Plus the handle was old and rusty. There was no way Barney could have opened it without help if I’d shut it properly.” She paused. “I was upstairs when I heard the squeal of the car’s brakes.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“You’re too kind. What you really want to say is why didn’t you tell your husband that it was your fault and not his? Why did you let the entire town think that Stan had been responsible for his son’s death?” She paused. “The truth is—I don’t know. Maybe I needed someone to blame. Somehow it was easier to keep silent and let Stan take the heat. Of course it tore him apart. Until one day—it must have been two months after the funeral—he found the pile of coupons I’d cut out of the paper that Sunday morning. A few were dated and right then he put two and two together and he knew.”
“Did he blame you?” I asked.
“No. He was too good a man. Too good for me, that’s for sure. That’s one of the reasons I begged him to leave.”
“So it wasn’t guilt?”
“It wasn’t his guilt, it was mine. He didn’t want to leave but the way people kept staring at him—I don’t know if he had a choice. Not unless I owned up to what I had done.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Billard shook her head. “Stan said what was done was done. He was a long-distance truck driver. He was gone a lot. I taught in our only high school. Everyone in town knew me. Not many people talked to Stan. He said if my lie came out I might lose my teaching job. We talked about it a lot—his leaving. He was positive it was the right thing to do.” Another tear rolled over her cheek and she wiped it away. “But I’ve always wondered if deep down inside he wanted to get away from me. That he did in fact blame me for Barney’s death.” She stopped and looked me in the eye. “That doubt went away when Aja said what she said.”
I was confused. “Did she say anything else?”
“Just those eleven words. I swear to you, Fred, everything that mattered was contained in those eleven simple words.”
I gestured. “She must have heard the story about what happened to you. She was probably trying to comfort you. It doesn’t mean—”
“I checked,” Billard interrupted. “Aja had gotten off her plane from Brazil that same morning. She didn’t know a soul in town. I doubt she had talked to anyone in Elder before we met. And yet she came straight here, at the exact time I’d be here, and said one line that freed me from a burden I’d carried for a decade.”
“Then why weren’t you . . .” I didn’t want to say it.
“Grateful? I was grateful. My gratitude knew no limits. My heart swelled with such relief it burst in my chest. I went home that night and wept myself to sleep. With tears of joy. Tears of gratitude.”
“Then?” I said.
Billard shook her head. “Then the monster in me awakened. The same monster that had so casually put the blame of my son’s death on my husband when it was my fault. That creature came back to life and said no, it’s too good to be true. It’s a miracle and there are no miracles, and besides, Aja’s just a pretty girl from Brazil. She’s no angel. I convinced myself that somehow she had heard about my past, and had gone to the cemetery that day to play a cruel trick on me.”
“But no one knew, except Stan, that you left the door open?”
Billard nodded. “That’s right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do, Fred. Aja showed up here from halfway around the world and immediately—with eleven ordinary words—healed a wound that could not be healed. Not only did she absolve me of my guilt over what I’d done to Stan, she reassured me that, yes, a part of Barney was still alive and that that part forgave me for leaving the front door open and depriving him of his mortal life.”
“Hold on. Aja never said she spoke to Barney’s soul.”
Billard grabbed my hand tightly. “You weren’t here! You didn’t hear the certainty in her voice when she spoke. I did and I believed her.”
“Then why do you hate her?”
“You know why!” Billard cried.
I sat silent for a whole minute before I realized the truth. “Because it’s easier to hate her than to keep on believing her,” I said.
Billard nodded weakly. “Easier and less terrifying.”
I remembered what Aja had told me in Rapid City.
“I can’t understand why Billard hates you.”
“She doesn’t hate me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s afraid of me.”
“It scared you having her in your class,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You made up that story about her cheating.”
“Yes.”
“Did she really give the exact answer that was in the book?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Billard smiled. “She’s quite amazing, that one.”
“Did you see her again—between when you met her here and when she walked into your class?”
“No.”
“You hadn’t talked to her on the phone?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you want her to explain her remark?”
“No.”
I felt like I’d hit a wall. “Are you still afraid of her?”
Billard hesitated. “Sure. But I’m . . . I’m mostly grateful to her.”
I shook my head. “This is weird.”
“I hear the two of you are dating.”
“Who told you that?”
“You know Elder. Word gets around.”
“What you told me just now, I won’t repeat it to another soul.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m worried about your reaction to her remark.”
“The weight I give it?” Billard sighed. “I suppose it’s possible she had heard about my history, although I don’t see how. Or else she could have seen me sitting here mourning over Barney’s tombstone and made a wild guess about what had happened and just ran with it. Believe me, I’ve gone over every angle in my mind—again and again. But I keep coming back to how I felt when she spoke. The way her voice touched me like some kind of magical key that unlocked not only my deepest secret, my deepest pain, but my deepest doubt.”
“I’m not following you.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Fred. You never do. You understand everything I’m saying.”
I stood up; I felt I had to move. Yet I couldn’t very well walk away.
“There’s no reason for you to say Aja restored your faith.”
Billard nodded. “I agree, it’s not logical. It’s certainly not scientific. It just happens to be true.”
“But she didn’t do anything!” I protested.
Billard also stood and stepped to her son’s tombstone. There she knelt and lovingly placed her flowers so the petals touched the name of her boy. She had more tears now but for some reason they didn’t seem so sad.
“I saw the video about Aja on YouTube,” she said as she stood back up and wiped her face. “What it showed didn’t surprise me. In fact, it reminded me of when Aja was here with me and Barney.”
“You honestly believe she was aware of your son’s feelings?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. But I do know this. Aja is no ordinary girl. I don’t know if I’m telling you that because I want to warn you or because I want to congratulate you. I just know it’s true.”
I shook my head. “You’re acting like she’s some kind of saint.”
Billard studied me. “You wouldn’t be reacting the way you are unless she had touched you as well. Touched you in some way you can’t explain.”
“That’s not true. I hardly know her.”
“You sound almost as scared of her as I am.” She offered me her arm. “Do me a favor and walk me back to my car. This whole ‘confession’ has left me feeling exhausted.”
I escorted Mrs. Billard to the parking lot, before returning to collect my bike. But I didn’t leave the cemetery right away. For a while I stared at Barney’s tombstone and thought of all the scriptures I had laughed at a few years ago.