For eight months, Ruth clung to hope in the face of a despair that might have been debilitating were it not for the support of her community. Every Sunday, without fail, the congregation of Seabold Methodist Church prayed that Karen might return safely to the bosom of her family, that the child would regain her senses and let her family reclaim her, or at the very least call home. But there arrived no letters or postcards, not so much as another phone call from Ruth’s wayward daughter. Karen might have been literally anywhere, or worse, nowhere at all.
Her absence was ubiquitous, an aching hollow in Ruth’s chest every time she passed Karen’s empty bedroom, where Lynyrd Skynyrd soundlessly gathered dust on the turntable. To launder the pair of dirty jeans heaped at the foot of the bed according to protocol, to fold and replace them in the bottom drawer of the dresser, would have been admitting defeat, for as long as they remained there on the floor like unfinished business, Karen’s absence was only temporary. Likewise, Ruth resisted the urge to confiscate the half pack of Kool menthols stashed covertly in the back of the desk drawer—first, there would be a lecture on the perils of smoking.
Ruth felt the sting of Karen’s absence each time she gazed across the dinner table at the vacant seat next to Kyle. Whereas a year ago, Karen’s taciturn presence at the dinner table had seemed a largely futile exercise in civility, now Ruth would have traded anything for Karen’s grudging attendance. Most acutely of all, Ruth felt Karen’s absence in the invisible chasm of culpability that seemed to exist between her and Abe, where all their unresolved arguments finally took shelter and fortified themselves. Still, somehow the household managed to function, if only by avoidance.
Never had Ruth’s faith been so thoroughly tested. It was her dear friend Bess Delory who rode shotgun through the cruel odyssey of Karen’s dereliction, with phone calls daily, lunches twice a week, and whenever possible, a helping hand around the farm, weeding, and feeding, and mowing, her shock of red hair barely contained beneath an old red bandana, her bawdy laughter a salve against the relentless grating of the unknowable. But all the support in the world, all the faith, could only go so far in buffering Ruth from those grim possibilities that comprised the rule of the universe. It was only through the accumulation of days and the architecture of routine that Ruth could even begin to accept the unacceptable. And she knew she must.
Eleven months and twelve days after Karen had left Bainbridge High School following third period, Ruth received the call from the Bernalillo County sheriff’s department shortly before seven p.m. The instant the reluctant messenger identified himself as Lieutenant Frank McCombs, Ruth knew that the news was of the worst possible variety. In an instant, all hope was extinguished.
A demolition contractor had discovered Karen’s body in a residential squat south of the city, lifeless amidst the squalor of a back room in total disarray. The image Ruth conjured was sure to haunt her the rest of her days, a scene as vivid as anything out of her own experience: the stained and mottled mattress in the corner, the cratered plaster walls, the floor riddled with mouse droppings and refuse, a soiled sheet draped over the window to block out the sunlight and the glare of curious eyes.
Numb with disbelief, Ruth lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, gutted, ears ringing as Lieutenant McCombs, probably a father himself, was forced to explain to Ruth that no foul play was suspected in Karen’s loss of life. There was no note to accompany Karen’s demise, and thus no explanation, and her death was ruled accidental pending a toxicology report, but the implication was clear without Lieutenant McCombs’s having to say it: Karen had more than likely taken her own life.
He was so sorry, Lieutenant McCombs, so very sorry to bring her this news.
Ruth clutched the handset until the line began to blare its remonstrance, the shrill, staccato alarm barely penetrating her stupefaction. Neither could Maddie’s insistent tug at the sleeve of her blouse elicit any reaction. Ruth was still clutching the receiver when Abe arrived home an hour later, unaware of his daughter’s passing. To utter the words was unnecessary, for the conclusion was plastered upon Ruth’s stricken face, mouth agape, eyes stunned senseless.
Abe froze in the middle of the kitchen as the blood drained from his own face.
“No,” he said. “There must be some mistake.”
Only then did a lone whimper escape Ruth as she threw her arms around Abe as though she were drowning.
“No,” Abe repeated, this time barely a whisper.
The days that followed were a blur of tortured faces and uneaten tuna casseroles. Were it not for the tasks and endless arrangements set before her, Ruth might have retreated to the bedroom, climbed under the covers, closed her eyes, and never opened them again. But the world demanded her participation.
Worse than the guilt that dogged her every waking moment was the speculation that clung to Ruth like a shadow when she was forced to engage the necessities of the outside world. Though her neighbors and fellow congregants showed her only kindness, Ruth could hear their thoughts, as she would hear them for years to come: What could possibly have been wrong in the Winter household that the poor girl would run off and take her own life? What made it all the worse was that Ruth had no answers.
Abe, for his part, receded still further into a shell of emotional impenetrability, as though constitutionally incapable of accepting Karen’s death. In Ruth’s darkest hour, she found him largely unavailable, unwilling or unable to share her grief. Her own doubt and self-disgust only seemed to alienate him further.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, face puffy, voice hoarse from squalling.
His expression remained impassive, blank as a prairie. Behind his glassed-over eyes, Ruth could see nothing, no suffering in any guise. On those occasions when Abe capitulated, mechanically volunteering a shoulder for Ruth to cry on, he was stiff and immovable as ever.
“Where are you?” Ruth cried, pounding his chest with clenched fists. “What’s wrong with you?”
Abe neither budged nor defended himself against her assault, merely absorbed the blows silently.
Over a hundred people attended Karen’s memorial service on a Saturday afternoon near the end of March: neighbors, friends, congregants, bundled in jackets and scarves, huddled on folding chairs. Though KOMO 4’s resident meteorologist and wiseacre, Ray Ramsey, had promised a “drizmal” day, nobody had expected snow that late in the season, and yet down it came in slurry streaks, wet and windblown, sopping the mossy grounds of Hillcrest Cemetery, the gathered riddling its flat grass expanse with their soggy footprints. Nobody dared to ask why not an indoor service. Instead, they sat in silence, somber and stoic and shivering, the wet snow stinging their faces.
Abe and Ruth were stationed in the front row, Kyle between them, and Anne on the end, their faces ravaged by the biting wind. Kyle held his mother’s hand, while Abe’s hands remained in his own lap, balled into fists. For beneath the numbness of the trauma burned a seething anger lacking any focus—anger at the world and at himself; anger at Karen and every friend who couldn’t save her, every soul who ever rejected or hurt her; anger at the weather he could not control; anger at Ray goddamn Ramsey and his stupid plaid jacket. But most of all, anger at God for not existing, and anger at every gullible fool of every color or persuasion or affiliation who ever deigned to believe in such fairy tales.
The unraveling cotton cuff of Pastor Nordan’s long johns shirt was just visible beneath his wet stole as he cleared his throat and looked kindly upon those gathered before him. In a practiced tone, at once humble and reverent, he addressed the dearly beloved and bereaved, speaking on the brevity of our days on earth and acknowledging the Lord’s blueprint—often inexplicable—for each one of us. He spoke of God’s mercy, and his divine wisdom, as Abe’s fists throbbed restlessly in the frigid air. Where was the mercy? Where was the wisdom in his daughter’s suicide? Any cosmic design that allowed for such a thing was born of depravity; any deity so impotent or inhumane as to permit such a thing was no God at all but a fiend. For what shepherd led his lambs to slaughter?
Still, Nordan, the charlatan, the journeyman on a two-year loan to Seabold from the clergy, the same man who immediately upon his appointment had requested a new refrigerator and Radarange for the parsonage, begged his almighty God not to hinder His children, for they belonged to the kingdom of heaven.
Unable to endure the lies, Abe let the useless words wash past him and gave his eye to wandering. There were Al and Terri Duncan in the second row, next to Thom and Nancy Jacobson. Across the aisle from Anne, one row back, Abe recognized Burt Brainard, to whom he’d sold a ten-thousand-dollar term life plan four years back, though Brainard had never been what Abe would consider a family friend.
Dubious, Abe leaned across Kyle’s lap and whispered to Ruth:
“What the hell is Burt Brainard doing here?”
“Shush,” she scolded.
And there were Jim and Kelly Mathison. Jim was a sometime associate at the chamber, sure, a nice enough guy, but what was he doing at his daughter’s funeral? Abe was about to ask Ruth as much, but before he could she shut him down with a withering look.
As Pastor Nordan waxed on about the glories awaiting Karen in heaven, Abe’s restless eyes continued to appraise the mourners; he now toggled his head unapologetically three and four rows behind him. There were the Bohannon girl and the Dolinger boy. There were Karen’s former drama teacher, Mrs. Nielsen, and Karen’s old Girl Scout leader, Kate Dearsley, and behind her, Ruth’s fellow Methodist congregant and onetime whist partner Jacqueline Hobbs. What were any of them doing here? Were they truly in attendance, suffering this “drizmal” weather to say goodbye to Karen, to support the family, or was their presence at the service more akin to rubbernecking at the scene of a traffic accident? None of them had done a thing to save Karen.
At first, Abe did not recognize the young man standing off to the side, slightly back from the assembly, medium hair, thinning on top but a bit shaggy over the ears, no jacket, no hat, no scarf, just shirtsleeves and aviator sunglasses despite the dreary winter light. He was a few years too old to be a friend of Karen’s and too young to be a teacher. It was only after the service, as the last of the mourners were fanning out, when Abe paused halfway to the car to wait for Ruth, Kyle, and Anne, that Abe recognized the boy.
Before he even knew what he was doing, Abe had the boy around the neck as Anne and Ruth both tried desperately to pull Abe off of him, even as other mourners came hurrying to intervene, their dress shoes squelching across the muddy lawn at a trot.
“You sonofabitch!” Abe screamed, throttling the boy. “You did this!”
The slick ground beneath Abe’s feet gave way, and in an instant, he was weightless and plummeting backward, the winter sky pressing down on him as the back of his skull was rocked by a violent impact with the ground, a collision that arrived like a lightning bolt.
Abe was seeing stars when he regained consciousness surrounded by a murmuring throng. Of all people, Jim Mathison was down on one knee, consoling Abe, wife Kelly flanking his right shoulder, and Burt Brainard beside her.
“You’re okay, big guy,” said Jim. “Just take a minute.”
Jim helped Abe to his feet, standing with him as Abe gathered his bearings while the others began to disperse, whispering among themselves. Abe was too far removed from the situation to be embarrassed. Even the anger had left him by the time he shook off his overcoat and wiped the mud from his hair. Canvassing the area, Abe saw no sign of Royce Holiday, who had no doubt taken flight. Neither was there any sign of Ruth or Anne, who had also fled the shameful exhibition.
Now that Burt Brainard had established there was no further assistance to be offered, only Kyle remained, standing there bewildered beside Jim and Kelly Mathison, whose pitying expressions served only to heighten Abe’s shame.
“Everything is gonna be okay,” Jim told Abe, kneading his shoulder.
“Thanks,” said Abe.
“You need a ride?” Jim asked.
“No,” said Abe. “Thank you.”
“Look, if there’s anything Kelly and I can do, anything at all…”
“Appreciate that, Jim. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Ruth did not return home after the service. Only later would Abe learn that she’d accompanied Bess Delory to her house off Manzanita, where she would stay for the next two nights. Nor did Anne return to the farm after the fiasco at the cemetery but retreated to her old friend Lynn Bryndleson’s house in Port Madison before driving back to Bellingham the following morning.
Abe drove Kyle home through the sleet, the squeaking of the windshield wipers the only sound penetrating the silence. Clearly, the boy needed to hear something, some assurance or explanation, but Abe had nothing to offer him.
Finally, it was Kyle who interrupted the stillness as they rounded the head of the bay.
“Geez, Dad, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Abe, even as a pinching in his chest caused him to grimace. “How about you, kiddo?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda. I mean, I guess so.”
Abe stared into the near distance beyond the windshield, a slurry wash of green coming at him at forty miles per hour.
“You’re a good boy,” Abe observed flatly.
“Okay,” said Kyle.
That was the last they spoke until they pulled up in front of the darkened house at four in the afternoon, where two of the hens were huddling for warmth beneath the front porch, runoff pouring down the rain gutters in sheets not two feet from them. Abe and Kyle sat in the car for a moment, the sleet slapping the windshield like guano, the motor still idling.
God, how Abe wished he felt something, or knew what to say, or what to do next.
Abe finally turned off the ignition, and they both remained seated. After ten seconds of deafening silence, Kyle piled out of the passenger seat, and Abe followed the boy’s cue, trailing him up the steps into the house. As Kyle shuffled listlessly up the stairs to his bedroom, Abe knew he ought to do something, cook the boy some dinner, at least call out to him, remind him once again that he was a good boy. But he didn’t, because somehow, he couldn’t.
Everything Abe had ever thought he knew no longer mattered; everything he had once believed—all the principles he’d adhered to throughout his life, all the tools he’d spent decades devising, all the ways and means that had formed his master plan for life—was meaningless and could do nothing to serve him in this hour of need.
When he heard Kyle’s door close upstairs, Abe gravitated to the kitchen and turned on the light before realizing he had no purpose there, no appetite, no desire or motivation to clear the dirty dishes piled in the sink. He turned off the light and stepped back out of the kitchen into the darkened hallway, where he stood for a moment, not knowing which direction to turn, nor how to proceed. Without even knowing how he got there, he found himself standing in Karen’s bedroom in the dim light before dusk, bereft, numb to the world, but somewhere deep within him achingly, unrelentingly alive, and wishing it weren’t so.