TODDY’S HOSPITAL BEDSIDE table looked like the shrine of Fatima. Every good Christian in town had taken the opportunity to try to win his simple heart for the Lord. I sat next to his bed in an armchair. The TV was on, but I had turned the radio off. Todd was playing some kind of electronic baseball game, holding it in his hands and bumping his thumbs around on buttons. He had four cans of juice on his table and a bucket of ice. Sitting on an extra TV stand was his fish tank. The killifish bumped against the glass and under the arches of a plastic castle. The fish tank had a large and stately presence in the room, like a national park.
“Cecil, are they going to arrest you for killing Mr. Robbins?” He did not look up.
“I told you. The police said they wanted to investigate thoroughly and they might take it to the grand jury, but they just didn’t know. They’re still going over the scene. Emma and the ‘kids’ went out to the house in Tee Harbor to wait.”
“Didn’t you tell the police what really happened?”
I strained in my chair and thought about asking him to put down the game if he wanted to talk about my participation in a killing. But I didn’t.
“Yes, I told them what happened. I went out to the Oso and used the radio to call the Coast Guard and the troopers. They came out by helicopter and fished Emma and Lance out of the water. I gave a statement that night, and the troopers patched up my arm.”
“Did Emma tell them what happened?”
“Well, Todd, I think she did. But I think she told them that I killed Walt and then tried to murder her family.”
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Yeah, a little. But I gave them the rifle and that should help. And I also have some insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“You know how sometimes I run my tape recorder without telling people?”
“I know.” And here he looked up from his game. “That’s not really fair is it, Cecil?”
“Well, it’s not illegal. And I made a pretty good tape of the whole scene down by the cabin.”
“Did you give it to the police?”
“Not yet. I want Emma to commit to her story. I want her to swear under oath and tell the world that she is absolutely sure that I threatened to shoot Walt unless he paid me to keep quiet about his murdering Louis. I want her to be frank and believable with an angelic look on her face—and then I’ll give them the tape. But I’m going to wait and see. I’m going to give them the tape sometime. I just don’t know when.”
Toddy put his game down on the bed in the valley between his knees. He was tired and had been awake longer than he should have been. I had my jacket off and he looked at my arm where it was bandaged. He looked worried now, and his eyebrows knitted together in a long-held thought. He propped his glasses up off the bridge of his nose.
“There sure has been a lot of shooting.”
“Yeah.”
“And a lot of people killed. Why do you think that is, Cecil? I mean, we didn’t do anything to anybody, did we?” Toddy doesn’t cry when he is unhappy but he clenches his fists and starts to hyperventilate. He knotted his sheet in his fists.
“What’s wrong, buddy? Do you need something?” I almost rang for the nurse.
“Cecil. One of those ladies who came and brought me these books about the Bible and all of this stuff … you know? Well, she said that I got shot because God knew that I was a strong person. She said that I got shot because God loved me and was giving me a test that he knew I was strong enough to pass.”
He took his glasses off and looked at me with the dim sniffing gaze of someone who can’t see a thing without his glasses.
“That seems crazy to me, Cecil.”
“Me too, buddy.” I leaned over and cradled his bristly head in my arms and hugged him. “That’s crazy,” I whispered.
“I immediately thought that, when she said that stuff.” He leaned back and put his glasses on and smiled up at me with a bobbing, red-faced grin.
I leaned over his table and looked at some of the gifts on his bedside shrine.
“Speaking of good things. Did Hannah send you this?”
I picked up ajar of jam. I looked at the label taped on top of the gold lid. It read: “For Toddy—Salmonberry jam, Sitka. Picked by Hannah Elder and C. W. Younger/ ‘By sweetness alone it survives.’”
On my way to the hospital I had stopped by the bench in front of the home and the book was there. Someone had wrapped it in plastic, knowing it would be missed. The cover was limber with moisture, the paper almost pulp again. I had it tucked in my pocket next to my tape recorder.
“She said when I got out of the hospital she was coming to visit.”
“She did? You think I could have a taste?”
I started to twist off the lid, and then stopped to hear what he would say.
“Okay … I guess.”
He was smiling but his eyebrows were twitching and I knew he wanted the first taste. I dug around on his lunch tray, then spooned up as much as I could balance on a little plastic spoon and held it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said and swallowed, then closed his eyes in a reverential grin of appreciation. “Ummmmm.”
I smelled it first as if it were an old bottle of wine. I thought of the warm, bitter taste in my mouth as Hannah and I had walked back from the graveyard. I thought of that summer and how far off it seemed, how long the winter would be. But then I tasted how sweet the berries were.
“Are you crying?” Todd looked up at me with that quizzical expression of a dog watching you undress. “Cecil?”
“It’s just very good jam, buddy. It’s nice to taste it.”
Todd was still a little feverish. He lay back in his bed and I cranked the head of it down and turned off the light. “I’ll be back tonight,” I said.
I eased my jacket on over my sore arm and walked out the door of the hospital. I had to go down to the home and give Mrs. Victor my final report. She already knew the facts. I’d spoken to her over the phone and she’d thanked me and asked me to help her find a good attorney for her grandchildren if they were going to have to stand trial. I thought that was funny, seeing as how it was her grandchild who pulled the trigger on her son. She said she understood that but she still wanted to help. She said it was never about blame, it was about making things right. She was a Christian and she knew about making the world right… but she still needed a lawyer. I told her to call Dickie Stein.
I asked Mrs. Victor over the phone how she knew that I was telling the truth and she told me that it just made sense. The police reports didn’t make sense, but my story did.
We didn’t mention the woman who had married a bear, and I didn’t ask her if it was a true story. I didn’t even ask her if she had just told it that way to ease me along the path of her own suspicions. I kept my peace. Most old stories don’t have anything to do with facts; they’re the box that all the facts came in.
It was an early snow for October and I knew it would turn to rain. My feet got soaked as I walked toward the cathedral. A raven circled from over the landfill and flapped the dense, snowy air above me. He landed on the stop sign in the main intersection in town. He had a red thread wrapped around his foot. Apparently, there was a kid who was desperate to trap a raven and was not going to be dissuaded.
I knew that the cathedral was locked and no one was there, but I also knew if I gave ten bucks to the right person after the bars closed, I could get in and stay there until they threw me out in the morning.