Ken wants to put a standing order in for Emelina’s cookies. “You can’t,” I tell him. “She only bakes them for charity and to trade at potlucks.”
“Ask her if she needs me to fix anything around her place. I’ll make a sign,” he says. “Will work for chocolate chip cookies.”
“I’ll see her in the morning and ask her.” The daily meditation and yoga are a perfect way to get over mourning not being in the classroom, and I want to make it a habit.
We are on the screened-in porch. He re-tacked the mesh screens, and we light citronella candles for the soft lighting as much as insurance against the maddening mosquitos. I say, “Yvette Strohmeyer said something to me at the funeral reception that got me thinking.”
“She’s way overdue, isn’t she?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Doc Lockhart says she’s doing fine. How do you think Erin and Wes grew up in my shadow as a teacher at Milford Elementary?”
“Can’t say how it affected them. They turned out okay. I’d bet that Erin home-schooling the kids might have something to do with you being her teacher and always being around until eighth grade.”
“What about Wes?”
It is my husband’s turn to shake his head. “I think you have to ask him, Gwen. Going through school a few grades behind Erin made it harder for him. Why do you ask?”
“Yvette said Becky Steele grew up in a fishbowl because Jeremiah is a pastor of a church. She said our kids grew up with eyes on them because I was their teacher.”
“I guess it would be the same as a cop’s kid or the mayor’s kid growing up in a small town,” he says. “Might be tougher for Becky, though.”
“How so?”
“It’s one thing not to break the law. It’s another to reflect badly on your dad when he preaches every Sunday. People would judge Jeremiah if she acted out.”
We talk about some of the kids who have gone sideways. Almost without fail, it had to do with painkillers or heroin. He and I would be in the big box stores outside of town and get stopped by either somebody he worked for or a parent of a child I taught. They would tell us how everything was fine with their Jack or Jill when they went up the hill, but then we’d hear in painful detail how they came tumbling down.
Fights, thievery, cops, drug court, car wrecks, losing good jobs, probation, jail time, rehabs, twelve-step programs. In the beginning of their child’s awful descent, the parents were like deer in the headlights—or full of denial. More often than not, we would hear how their teenager or young adult turned the parent’s marriage upside down. Time away from work, drained life savings, even someone lifting a shirt in the paper goods aisle to show us an ugly bruise.
These folks sought a kind face. Who better than Ken, the friendly handyman, or Gwen, the kindergarten teacher? So, we both smiled and frowned at the right times. There wasn’t much to say. These people didn’t want our advice; they just wanted to be heard.
Then there were the folks who withdrew from life when their kids got addicted or into some other trouble. When they needed people to help share their burden, they turned inwards, and a few even turned suicidal. They needed as much help as their kids in figuring stuff out, but they were too ashamed to ask. We’d hear “everything is fine” or “life couldn’t be better” followed by a tight smile in response to our genuine inquiry. Then they would avoid us in future encounters. There was no shortage of families ripped apart by drugs in our small town. We could have talked about them until midnight, but I had one last item on my agenda.
“Something else I want to talk to you about,” I say.
Ken turns to me in the flickering candlelight.
“You might hear some things in the next couple of weeks about me.” I take a deep breath, hold it for a second and let it whoosh out. “I’ve decided to look into Jake’s death. I need convincing that he did that to himself.”
“Okay, and…” he replies. I like when Ken asks me to explain things. It tells me he has his listening ears on.
“Before I do, I want to get Mabel and Warren’s permission. I know I don’t have to ask Sharon. The gossip mill says that Jake shot himself rather than get married to her. They were supposed to get hitched the following morning.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. If he did, then there has to be more to it,” I say.
“But that’s not exactly what you are telling me, is it, honey?” Sometimes he listens too well. It’s time for me to come out of the shadows, to give myself permission to do this. I slide the candles closer to me to focus more light on the person who wants to do this.
“That’s why I am giving you a heads up. I don’t believe that he wanted to end his life. He had everything to live for. I think somebody else pulled the trigger, and I can figure it out.”
He sits with that. It’s not the first time we’ve talked about solving a murder. Last year, he met the FBI agent who asked for Erin and me to help. The shadows dance over his face. I watch as he weighs things out. Ken bobs his head back and forth like he’s adding coins to a scale. Finally, he offers, “Why not? Is Erin going to help you?”
“I’m planning to run stuff by her and ask her what she thinks, but…”
“You want to figure it out mostly by yourself.”
“Yep.” The die is cast. I don’t know how this is going to work. I wonder what the townsfolk are going to say when their favorite kindergarten teacher starts asking uncomfortable questions? I don’t even have a lesson plan All I know is that I have a burning desire to find out what happened.
“If it helps the Dawsons get closure, why not?” Ken’s question is more of an affirmation.
“And Sharon too. Need to get rid of that awful stigma,” I add.
“Go for it, Gwen.” He rests a hand on my knee.
We blow out the candles and stand facing each other in the dark. The crickets are singing to us. The last of the lemony scent drifts away. My guy moves in and hugs me tightly. I don’t care that he smells of sawdust and Old Spice. We kiss, and it’s more than a comfortable peck. It doesn’t take much to light my flame for him, and we wordlessly make our way upstairs.