MATTHEW

You won’t remember the final time you came to visit me in jail, Pete. A few days earlier, out on patrol in the Swangums, you’d heard reports of an illegal campfire via your walkie-talkie. Seeing the smoke, you headed into the woods, dousing the flames when you reached the spot, the culprits already having fled. You hadn’t ever been in that small clearing before, the place where it happened, but after radioing in a report, you looked around, and once you realized the significance of where you were standing, you closed your eyes for a few minutes and prayed for Hannah.

There were tears in your eyes as you told me this. I asked if you prayed for me as well and you shook your head. Not in that place, you said. I’ve prayed for you, Matthew, but not when I came upon that place. You told me that forgiveness was now a matter between me and God, because when you stood in that clearing with your eyes closed, thinking about Hannah, thinking about the pain she must have suffered, you realized that you had to stop visiting me. God might find it in his heart to forgive me but you couldn’t do it anymore. Forgiveness simply wasn’t in your power, you told me.

I wouldn’t see you again for more than two decades.

When I drove up to Roseborn six months ago, hoping to find you still living in your cabin, it was because finally I had met the one person in the world other than you I’ve ever wanted to spend my life with. I was thinking of proposing, marrying him in Massachusetts, and I wanted your blessing—his name is Andrew, I’m sure you’d like him, Pete, he’d make you laugh. However, I think there was another reason I wanted to see you, and possibly I was even deceiving myself about the whole marriage thing, because even more than your blessing, perhaps what I really needed was your forgiveness. Maybe I did eventually come to think of you as a father figure, Pete.

When I pulled up to your home, I saw a FOR SALE sign out front. A neighbor checking his mailbox told me you’d gone to live with your brother, Bob, in New Paltz, and I had my assistant track down the address. When Bob opened the door, I wasn’t sure how he might react. I said that you and I had once been friends, your brother seeming to understand what I meant by this, his reaction not unduly negative. Bob warned me about your condition and invited me in. There was just enough of you left to remember my name, and you smiled when Bob brought me into your room. I would drive up to see you eight or nine times over the next few months. Your brother could tell how happy you were when I visited—and meanwhile, I could see the great strain on Bob’s marriage that caring for you was causing. I think it came as a great relief to your brother when I offered to look after you for the rest of your life.

Now that your mind has slipped almost completely from the world, if you were to tell me you’ve forgiven me, would it even mean anything?

That’s why I wish I’d written this letter twenty-three years ago, and I did think about writing it back then, even drafted a first page several times. But on the one hand, I was angry at you for praying for Hannah and not me, and on the other, I was worried it might hurt you, finding out the whole story. I knew you would feel somehow to blame for everything that happened, guilty for having stopped to talk to me outside the station house, wicked for befriending me, damned for loving me.

Now my confession feels like too little, too late. Although just writing everything down has brought some sort of comfort.

So anyway, this is where it ends, Pete, the final part of a letter I’ll never send.

August 18, 1982. The clearing. The truth.

*   *   *

HANNAH ACTED THE WHOLE TIME like she and I hadn’t recently been sharing all those hours of quiet intimacy in a cave. Not that she would’ve needed to put on much of an act to keep Tricky in the dark, but I played along, anyway.

We plunked some soda cans and inspected the fort, which was in need of repairs, the old fence uprights moldering, Tricky doing his best to act like a girl being around wasn’t weirding him out. After twenty minutes or so, I got rid of him, sending him off to look for deer or something. He seemed relieved.

After Tricky left, Hannah looked nervous at being alone with me, but her edginess just felt like part of the game. I wondered how far I could lead her.

Hey, Hannah, I said, remember I told you about Houdini and you said it sounded like fun?

Mm hmm.

You want to play?

You mean you tie me up and I have to escape?

You don’t have to escape, I said. Only if you want to.

Hannah shrugged sweetly. Sure, she said, but don’t make it too difficult.

I went to fetch the rope from under the tarp. When I returned Hannah was leaning back against the fallen tree, the one where we lined up soda cans whenever we played Rifle Range. First I tied her ankles, then Hannah offered me her wrists. No, put them behind you, I said. I didn’t pull the rope so tight it might hurt, but I made sure the knots were firm.

Now what? she said.

Now you try to escape.

Hannah started to writhe against the fallen trunk, giggling as she struggled, the rope barely coming loose. I remember she was wearing ink-dark jeans and a pink T-shirt with an ice-cream cone on the front. I remember how much it excited me, watching her wriggle around like that.

This is too hard, Matthew, she said after a minute or so. Can you help me?

Sure, I said, I can help. But you know there’s a charge.

What’s the charge? she said in a playful voice.

You have to kiss me.

Hannah rolled her eyes. OK then, she said, her voice not matching the gesture.

I walked toward her, Hannah trying to focus, looking as if she were in the school gym preparing for some kind of difficult gymnastic stunt. When I moved my face close, she shut her eyes.

I kissed Hannah hard.

After a few seconds, she pulled away and I smiled down at her, Hannah blinking back at me. So then I knelt down to loosen the knot at her ankles, but while I was on my knees, I put my hand between Hannah’s legs, quickly stroking the inside of her thigh, her body shivering before I pulled my hand away and stood up. Taking a few steps back, I said to her, That’s all you get for half a kiss. Give it another try, I said, pointing at her feet.

Hannah started wiggling her legs. The rope was a lot slacker now, but she was struggling to work the back of the loop past the heels of her sneakers. Let me know if you need any more help, I said. Of course, it’ll cost you something more next time.

Not long after that, Hannah looked up and said, OK, then. How much more?

I want to see it, I said.

See what?

You know what, Hannah, I said. Do you want to see mine?

She thought about it a while, and then nodded, hesitantly. OK, she said. But only if you go first.

I unbuttoned, unzipped, and lowered my pants and underwear—not far, but far enough. I enjoyed the look on Hannah’s face as she glanced quickly down and back up again.

Your turn, I said, pulling my pants up and zipping them shut.

Untie me then, she said.

I gave Hannah a disappointed look. You haven’t earned it yet, I said, stepping toward her. Then I reached out slowly, staring at Hannah all the while. I could see she was nervous, so I tried to do everything without any hurry, undoing her dark jeans, exposing her white underwear and then easing the elastic toward me.

After only a moment or two, Hannah said, That’s long enough. I waited another half-second, letting the elastic snap back into place, then rebuttoned her jeans, my blood pumping hard with desire. Kneeling down again, I untied the knot behind her ankles and threw the rope to one side. Then I stood up, our bodies just a few inches apart. Would you like me to untie your hands? I said, whispering the words into Hannah’s ear.

Yes, she said softly.

But there’s one more thing I want to do first. Is that OK?

Hannah didn’t say anything.

I whispered again. You know what I mean by that, Hannah, right?

Yes, she said.

Yes? I said.

Hannah nodded.

I felt a surge of lust and a taste in my mouth like I’d eaten something sweet. As I pulled my pants and underwear halfway down my thighs, Hannah looked down and swallowed. Then, just as before, without moving too fast, I reached out to unbutton Hannah’s jeans, her breath starting to quicken.

My fingers were just an inch away when Hannah spoke again. Wait, she said, firmly—and then louder as I grasped the button on her waistband. Wait, Matthew, no!

It’s OK, Hannah, I said, pulling my hands away. I promise I’ll be gentle.

No, she said, I can’t do it.

Why? I said.

I thought I could but I can’t, I just can’t.

Why not?

The next few seconds moved slowly. The air was so hot that day it clung to me like damp tissue paper, all the hair at the back of my neck wet through, and after her efforts to free herself from the ropes, Hannah’s pink T-shirt was damp with sweat as well, almost crimson in places. I noticed how there seemed to be a dark smile at her belly, two eyes over her barely formed breasts. I remember thinking how cute she looked in that moment, the ice-cream cone forming a nose.

I cocked my head, confused for a moment, but then something about the expression on Hannah’s face made me ask her again, my tone becoming more insistent. Wait, I said. Come on, why not?

Hannah looked like she was trying to find the right words, her tongue wetting her lips, her eyes scanning something within, and then she said, as if it were a statement so obvious it made her angry even having to say it. Because … she said, hesitating as she screwed up her face with a sense of distaste … Because you’re a faggot, she said.

I could almost hear the snapping of leather in the air as that final word hit me hard as a belt buckle. It might have been Hannah calling me faggot but it was my daddy’s voice I heard saying the word.

What did you call me? I said.

Wait, I’m sorry, she said.

No, what did you call me? I repeated, spitting the words out so loud it made Hannah jump.

I’m sorry, it’s just the word.

Just the word? I said. Say it again.

I can’t, Hannah whimpered, I’m sorry.

You’re a liar, I yelled.

But I saw you with that man, said Hannah, half turning away from me, as if she thought I was going to hit her.

I looked down, noticing my hands were clenched into fists.

Liar! I said, my voice flashing with rage. Nothing happened, Hannah, I said, the rage making me shake now, my anger so blinding, I’m not even sure who I thought I was yelling at, Hannah or my daddy. You’re plenty brave for a faggot, boy.

Hannah’s hands were still tied behind her. I don’t remember pulling her over to that tree, finding more rope, tying more knots. You need to be punished—that’s something my daddy used to tell me, and I could still hear him saying it. I think at some point I probably even shouted the same words at Hannah.

What was I planning to do? I don’t know. Wasn’t punishing Hannah going to be something like my daddy teaching me a lesson with his belt? You feel the sting, you endure, and finally it ends. I’m not sure I was thinking of this being more than that, because I’ve never been afraid of anything in life. I understand danger, but I don’t think about consequences. How could I imagine what Hannah might feel?

I could hear my daddy just like he was in the clearing, standing right behind me. Is that girl a goddam liar or are you a faggot? Hell, hadn’t I saved her? Wait, more than that, hadn’t everything happened only because of Hannah? And now I was the one being accused of something? Now I was the one being despised, labeled, betrayed? Faggot? When I looked down at her, I thought I saw Hannah’s eyes ablaze with that word, condemning me over and over again.

I don’t remember her putting up much of a fight. I suppose she thought that by complying, by playing along, she might bring me down from my rage.

I know how that goes, I’ve been in that dark place myself, but there was no bringing me down, my daddy somewhere nearby, whispering in my ear, whipping my rage ever higher.

Are you … an old man … cocksuckin … faggot?

How dare Hannah condemn me. How dare she betray me with my daddy’s own words.

You ain’t got the balls to push me off this cliff, faggot.

He was an evil son of a bitch. Maybe killing my daddy once hadn’t been enough.

I picked up the BB gun.