People often asked Kurt when his next book of poetry would be published. It was a question he loathed. Was he supposed to tell the truth, that he’d never wanted his work published in the first place? It was ultimately his choice, he supposed, but the journey that got him there hadn’t been.
Without ever mentioning it to Kurt, a friend had sent a cobbled-together manuscript of some of his poems to a small press. An acceptance letter was delivered to this friend several months later. Assuming that Kurt would be thrilled, the friend had stopped by to deliver the good news.
At first, Kurt was nonplussed. The man had no right to do it, but now that a press was on board, how could he say no? He was ashamed to admit that he’d been swayed by the stardust his new editor blew his way. And thus, the volume came out a year later.
Initially, Kurt enjoyed doing readings, meeting people to talk about the beauty of language, the importance of image and introspection. But over time, he found that the whole experience left him feeling exposed. He stopped writing. Stopped doing readings. He eventually moved beyond this “oversensitivity,” as he began to think of it, but his writing never fully recovered. The book hadn’t sold well. Even so, people continued to view him as a man with a certain status, a published writer, as if the two hundred lost souls who’d actually shelled out good money for the book meant anything at all. Why would someone want to know when the next book would be out if they hadn’t read the first? It all began to feel not only meaningless, but squalid, which was why he wished he’d turned his back on the contract and walked away.
Kurt sat at the table in his dining room, a glass of iced tea next to him, and tapped a pencil against an empty page in a wire-bound notebook. Emma had asked him to write a few lines about Sam for the reunion memorial, which was easier asked for than accomplished. Words still felt slippery to him, as if meaning itself was an unreliable concept.
So, instead of concentrating on the task at hand, Kurt kept stealing glances at an envelope addressed to his son which had come in the mail that day. He was dying to know what was in it. Danny wouldn’t be home from work for a while, and even when he did come home, there was no guarantee that he’d tell Kurt what it was about. It was probably nothing, but because Kurt was already worried about so much else, he figured he might as well add the letter to the list. He wasn’t in a good mood and didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Hearing the doorbell, he pushed away from the table and padded in his stocking feet to the door. Emma was outside, looking windblown and lovely. “Hey, come in,” he said, brightening just a little.
“What are you cooking out there on your porch?” she asked, sniffing the air. “Is that a roaster oven?”
“It’s actually a smoker,” said Kurt, inviting her into the dining room. “Can I get you something to drink? I’m having iced tea.”
“No,” she said. “I can’t stay.”
“To answer your question, I’m smoking a pork shoulder. Brought one home from the shop at lunchtime and got it going. That Oster is ridiculously easy to use. It doesn’t turn out the same kind of smoked meat as a real smoker, but it’s pretty close. Danny and I both love it. You’re welcome to come for dinner. We’ll pull a section of the roast, add some barbecue sauce, and pile it on some buns. There’s plenty to go around.”
“That sounds so tempting, but I’m afraid I’ve already got an engagement.”
“With Mr. X? The guy who has no name?”
She laughed. “Yeah, with him.”
“When am I going to meet this dude?”
“Probably never. It’s nothing serious. I’ll be leaving next week to go back home. I really miss my daughter.”
The thought of her leaving filled him with sadness. “I knew that was coming. I’ll miss you.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss you.”
The comment warmed him more than he could say. They remained silent for a few seconds.
“What are you working on?” she asked, nodding at the notebook.
“My comments for Sam’s memorial.”
She fidgeted with the clasp on her purse before finally opening it, removing a folded piece of paper. “Here’s mine. I thought you should read it, tell me what you think.” She waited while he scanned the page. “I’m hoping Ted will read the class memorials. There are only three. I’m afraid if I tried, I’d start crying.”
Kurt felt the same way. “This is beautiful.”
“You think so?”
“It’s perfect.” His phone rang. Removing it from his back pocket, he saw that it was Dave Tamborsky. “Oh, jeez. I need to take this. Can you stay just a little while longer? This should only take a second.”
“Sure,” she said, sitting down on his chair. “No worries.”
Walking into the kitchen, Kurt said hello.
“I need to give you a heads-up,” came Dave’s voice. “Some idiot sent a note to the police department saying he had information about Sam’s death but couldn’t come forward because he feared for his safety. He listed four names, people who might know something.”
“Like who?”
“You, Jim Hughes, Darius Pollard, and Scott Romilly. Here’s the deal: None of them know squat. The only one who does is you. Just stick to the story and we’re home free, okay? There’s zero way anybody can know what happened unless someone who was there talks. So be careful, man. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” said Kurt.
“Text me when you get the call to come down to the station.”
“Won’t you be doing the interview?”
“Bobby Saltus will.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Looks like Justin Bieber?”
“Oh,” said Kurt, groaning. “Him.”
“Just be your usual, casual, earnest self. You’ll be fine. Peace, man.”
“Peace,” repeated Kurt, feeling like a speeding train was headed straight for him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Emma as Kurt dragged himself back into the dining room.
“Nothing.”
She studied him. “I don’t believe you.”
“Emma, I can’t get into it right now. But don’t you ever feel overwhelmed?”
“Frequently.” She sat for a moment more. “I’m here for you, Kurt.”
She wouldn’t be if she knew the truth.
“If you ever need to talk—”
“Thanks.”
“Well,” she said, rising from the chair, “I’ll catch you later. Oh, don’t forget the reunion meeting on Thursday night.”
“I’ll be there.” If I’m not in jail, he thought grimly.
“If you talk to Ted, remind him about the meeting tonight. He said he’d come. And enjoy your pulled pork sandwiches.”
“Oh, we will.”
As she crossed to the front door, Danny breezed in.
“Hey, Emma.”
She gave him a quick hug on her way out.
Danny dropped his backpack next to the couch. “There’s a guy outside hiding behind a tree on the other side of the street.”
“Really? A cop?”
“No, a guy in a three-piece suit. Should I go chase him away?”
Kurt glanced at the envelope with his son’s name on it. “You got something in the mail today.”
“I did?” He took it and studied the return address. “Cool. I gotta call Tanya.”
“But…” said Kurt, watching his son charge up the stairs to his bedroom. How was he ever going to initiate a conversation with Danny about the elephant in the room—or, as he’d begun to think of it, the herd assembling near the couch.