While the newlyweds were on their honeymoon, we had another one of our kitchen-table board meetings.
“Arlice, we’ve already talked about offering Marcy a permanent job,” Mom said. “I think we should consider hiring Marshall, too.”
“Why? He’s got a good job in Gleason.”
“We need him, Arlice,” Mom said. She sighed and drew imaginary squiggles on the table with her finger. “This business is too big for the three of us.”
I spoke up. “I think it’s a good idea. He could keep the books and continue doing odd jobs for us.”
“If we don’t offer them something here, then someone else will. Marcy’s been too much help to me for us to let her go. And you have to admit that Marshall’s been handy to have around.”
Dad nodded. “Without him, we couldn’t have finished those remodeling projects on time.”
Mom went to the fridge for a ginger ale. “Kevin’s busy with school, and he’ll have more activities. You and I need some time to ourselves so we can get away and not live the business twenty-four-seven. If all Marshall does is handle the bookkeeping, that will take a huge load off our shoulders. It’s a full-time job now to keep the records and pay bills. And I think we’ve established ourselves enough to afford two full-time employees.”
That’s what Mom said. But I could read her eyes, and they said something else: I couldn’t bear to see Marcy go. Please, let’s give her a job so she’ll stay, and Marshall too.
I could read Dad’s eyes too. He understood.
“I make a motion that we hire Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Cartwright,” I said, raising my arm. “Anyone second?”
“Me,” Mom said.
Dad slapped the table. “The motion’s been made and seconded. All in favor?”
“Aye.”
“That does it. The vote is unanimous. We’ll present them an offer when they come back.”
Two weeks later Marcy and Marshall returned from their honeymoon—a fifty-mile canoe trip on the Current River near Eminence, Missouri. Marcy glowed, but Marshall was wiped out. The most primitive place he’d ever slept was a Motel 6, which was still better than sleeping in a tent on a riverbank. And he was no Boy Scout. He’d tried to impress Marcy by climbing a tree, but it happened to be a tree covered in poison oak. When they came home, Marshall was covered in itchy, red blisters. For several days, he had to stay in their apartment because he couldn’t stand anything touching his skin but calamine lotion.
Even in his miserable state, Marshall was thrilled when Dad phoned him with our job offer. He said that he and Marcy had even talked during the trip about how nice it would be if both of them could work for us. So when Marcy left for her finals, it was official—she and Marshall were full-time employees of the Paramount.
We drove back to our old hometown for Marcy’s graduation. We left early in the morning so we could see our old neighborhood. The factory where Dad had once worked was still vacant. We passed my old school and drove down our old street. We even stopped and talked to the couple living in our old house. I got to see my old room, now a nursery for twin baby boys. The Hot Wheels wallpaper that Mom had put up when I was in kindergarten was still there. My old swing set was still in the backyard, too. But everything looked so much smaller than I’d remembered.
The speeches at Marcy’s graduation were boring, but it was fun to see her walk across the stage and get her diploma. She drove back home that night to be with Marshall, but we stayed at the Owl’s Nest Bed and Breakfast until Sunday morning.
As we were driving home Sunday, Marcy called on our cell phone. There had been a call to pick up the body of a nineteen-year-old boy. He’d been drinking, and when a state trooper tried to pull him over, he sped off, forcing the trooper into a high-speed chase. The boy lost control and crashed into an eighteen-wheeler. On Monday morning, the Armadillo Courier’s headline read, DRUNK TEEN DIES IN FATAL CRASH.
There was a photo of the big truck with a tangled heap of metal piled in front. If that had been a car once, you couldn’t tell. I shuddered, thinking about what that boy must have looked like when they found him. I read the report under the photo:
The Arkansas State Police and the Sherman County Sheriff’s office were called to the scene of a tragic accident just past the Armadillo exit on Interstate 55. Last night at 2:14 A.M., Derek Lee Stiller was killed after trying to elude police during a high-speed chase north on the interstate. He lost control of his Camaro and skidded into the southbound lane, colliding head-on with a semi driven by Thomas Howton of Pocahontas, Arkansas, who was not injured. Stiller was killed instantly. Tests by the Armadillo Community Hospital and the State Police determined that Stiller’s blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. Funeral arrangements are pending at Paramount Funeral Home in Armadillo. SEE PAGE A3 FOR COMPLETE OBITUARY.
I didn’t realize he was related to Chuck Stiller until I turned the page and saw his picture. He had the same smirk, the same sandy blond hair, and the same close-set eyes as the Stiller who’d tormented me for so many months.
I read the obituary carefully. Derek Lee Stiller was survived by his father, Stan, and his brother, Charles. So this guy was Stiller’s older brother. He was preceded in death by his mother, Anna Leigh Stiller. There was no mention of a stepmother or grandparents. There were uncles, but all from out of state.
Stiller’s mother had been dead for over ten years. When she died, Chuck was just a baby. Chuck Stiller had never even known his mother.
I was reading the obituary in the guest kitchen when Marcy came in for some bottled water. She sat down beside me and motioned to the paper. “It was a pretty ugly scene, Kev.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“I remember when that boy’s mother died,” Marcy said. “That was pretty ugly too.”
“How’s that?”
“Anna Stiller’s body was found in the White River. She’d been missing for several days. At first they thought she’d been murdered, then they found she’d taken a whole bottle of sleeping pills. The police ruled it a suicide, but a lot of people in town didn’t believe it. Some think her husband had something to do with it, whether he drove her to do it or if he did it to her on purpose. He has a higher opinion of himself than most people have of him.”
I remembered Dani’s words at lunch the day of our first argument. Maybe he has a problem. I got a sick feeling deep in my stomach.
At school, I looked for Dani. She was finishing an essay for English. I scooted my chair close to hers. “Did you hear about Chuck’s brother?”
Her eyes were sad, and my heart melted. No wonder I liked her so much. She was so compassionate. “Wasn’t that terrible?”
“Marcy told me about Chuck’s mother and how she died. That sure explains a lot about him.”
Her response was quick and clipped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Afraid that I hadn’t said what I meant to say, I thought for a second before I answered.
“What I mean is, Stiller’s had a difficult life. He never knew his mom. And with all the talk about what happened to her, he’s probably confused. I feel sorry for him.”
I put my hand in my pocket. The worm was there as usual. I continued. “You were right, Dani. He does have problems. I’m glad I left him alone.” And when I said that, I meant it. I was glad Dani didn’t back off from what she believed was right. Real friends aren’t afraid to be honest, even when they’re telling you something they know you don’t want to hear.
I couldn’t deny I’d heard the words Walk away the first time Chuck wanted to fight. Cletus McCulley had something to do with that. And I was glad he didn’t back off, either.
Who’d have thought a person could have friends who were living and dead?
The afternoon of Derek Stiller’s visitation, I put on my black suit and the orange tie with the pinto bean dots. Mom asked me to help with the flowers, so I ran down to the front entrance and met the driver as she was going back to her van for more arrangements. I followed her outside. A black Corvette was sitting at the edge of the parking lot. A man inside rolled the window down and threw a bottle into the culvert on the side of the road. I grabbed two pots of ivy and headed back inside.
At the front of the chapel, a lone figure sat lifeless in the first pew, his head against the wall. It was Stiller. I walked up and set the ivy on the stands on either side of the closed casket. Derek’s body was so busted up during the crash that his casket wouldn’t be opened. But his senior portrait was on an easel in front of the casket. He’d been a nice-looking guy.
I sat down beside Stiller. His eyes were red and puffy. The rest of him was clean for a change. “Hey, Chuck.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” I said, hoping he’d realize I was sincere. The next thing I knew, his fist cracked my jaw. The blow stunned me, knocking me off the pew and onto the floor. I stood up and rubbed my cheek.
“Get away from me, Kevin,” he scowled. Snot started running from his nose, and his eyes were glassy and unresponsive. “Get away from me.” He slumped his head back against the wall and rubbed his fist across his eyes. “Please, just get away from me.”
I didn’t want to argue with Chuck. I didn’t want to hit him back. And believe it or not, I wasn’t even mad that he’d hit me. I looked back at him as I left the chapel. He was cowered in the corner of the pew like an injured dog—afraid of the pain, afraid of where he was, and afraid of the circumstances that had put him there. And it was only natural for him to lash out at what he didn’t understand.