In 1969, prevailing wisdom dictated that the way to deal with trauma and grief was to indulge in one good cry and never think about it again. In those days, "put it out of your mind" was a credo inflicted on young and old alike. Dwelling on sorrows was considered an unacceptable self-indulgence. Amnesia was encouraged.
In school, we were not allowed to talk about our feelings. Indeed, we were not supposed to think about the mysteries of Butchie Pendergast's death, the unexplained disappearance of the most popular girl in the school, and the equally unexplained reappearance of the football co-captain.
For a very short time, Mr. Kincaid had allowed students from any grade to come to his room during his free period and talk. The death of a fellow student, even one as unlamented as Butchie, had stirred up a generalized malaise and a heightened awareness of our own mortality. But the administration, backed by worried parents and concerned clergy, forced him to steer conversations with students to less morbid subjects, thinking that surface cheeriness would erase the inner turmoil.
In contrast today, grief, loss, and sorrow are thoroughly acknowledged and dissected. The school system takes its place at the forefront of politically correct caution and concern by engaging counselors and psychologists to console students any time anything untoward happens.
While I understand that denial has a limited clinical appeal, I'm not entirely sure that microscopic attention to every nuance of feeling is any more effective in dealing with the very human bewilderment of sudden loss and irreversible change.
I sat at the Formica table, alone in the trailer kitchen shortly after the end of my shift at the cafe, contemplating another pile of medical bills and the impossibility of ever repairing my credit record, when Presley came in.
He dragged himself into the living room, dropped his books on the floor beside the vinyl couch, flopped onto it, and turned on the TV, without much more than a cursory nod in my direction.
"What are you doing home so early?" I asked, deciding not to think about unpayable bills.
Without looking at me, flipping through the channels, he said, "They had this dorky woman in to talk to the whole school about Coach being, you know, dead. Then they called all of us football players into the locker room and she talked some more. And then she said we could go home, if we were really upset."
"And are you really upset?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Not so upset that I felt like crying in front of the rest of the team like that counselor lady wanted us to. I mean, Coach was a good coach and all, but he was kind of a jerk." He finally looked at me, small, pale, and not nearly as nonchalant as he wanted to be. "You know?"
"Yeah," I said. "You don't have to pretend to like him just because he's dead."
"It's not that," Pres said, looking down again. "I didn't like or not like him. He was the Coach—nothing else mattered. But I didn't want him to be dead. And I didn't want to be the one to find him."
I'm an adult, and the sight of Doug, dead and floating in the river, completely spooked me. How much worse had it been for thirteen-year-old Presley?
Since we were alone, I risked an affront to his dignity and sat next to him on the couch and put an arm around his shoulder. And since we were alone, he risked a little more of his dignity by laying his head on my shoulder.
"I know what you mean, kiddo," I said softly. "Finding a dead body isn't nearly as much fun as people think."
"Everyone kept asking me about it all day. 'Was it cool?' 'Did he have his eyes open?' 'Was he really naked?' 'Were you scared?'" Presley repeated plaintively. "It was awful. I couldn't wait to get out of there."
"I can imagine," I said, tightening my arm a little, "People say really dumb things when they're uncomfortable, and dead bodies make them uncomfortable. Did they at least wait until Cameron was out of earshot before bringing up the subject?"
"That's the worst thing of all," Pres said, genuinely confused. "Cameron cornered me in the bathroom and asked most of that stuff himself."
"Well," I said, wishing I could peek into Rhonda's psych book for backup, "I imagine he can count on you for the truth. No matter how awful their relationship was, Doug was still Cameron's father, and that's the kind of stuff no one else will tell him."
"You think so?" Pres asked, relieved enough to lean down and pick up his stack of books.
I took the hint and removed my arm. "Especially since the last time they saw each other they got into that terrible fight. Sometimes people say horrible things they don't mean, but can't take back." I was thinking of the names Doug called Cameron at the football game.
"Yeah, Cameron probably feels bad for what he said too," Pres said, arranging a geography book on his lap and opening a spiral notebook to a page of notes with the circled words "Be Preparred" written in felt pen across the header.
"What?" I asked, frowning, wondering why that phrase rang a bell.
"After the football game, at the river, before you found us, when we were, you know, kind of drunk," Pres said, skimming a paragraph in the book. "I'm sure Cameron didn't mean it when he said he wanted to kill his dad. That he couldn't wait until his dad was dead."
"He probably feels guilty for even thinking something like that," I said, still wishing for that psych book. "I know none of you like talking to the grief lady the school hired, but maybe Cameron should talk to Mr. Kincaid. He's good guy, he might be able to help."
Pres's lips tightened.
"And even though you're not in high school, I'm sure you could go in and talk to him yourself, if this stuff is still bothering you," I added.
"No, I couldn't," Pres said vehemently. "For crying out loud, Tory, he's dating my mom."
I'd forgotten about that.
"Well, for what it's worth, your mom says they're just friends," I said.
"Yeah, right. Besides, I was drunk and he's a teacher. He'd have to report it. That is if Mom hasn't told him already."
"So far, your mom doesn't know you were at the river," I said. "Or that you were drinking."
"Really?" he said, brightening.
"Don't get your hopes up," I said severely. "She's going to know sooner or later. It would be the mature thing if you told her yourself. Especially since you're studying to be a Boy Scout."
"Huh?" he asked, confused. I pointed at the circled note to himself, smiling a little at his blushing reaction.
The phone rang.
"Got some interesting news," Neil said as a preamble.
I'd have to wait until later to tell him the interesting news I'd just realized about Presley.
"About Doug or Janelle?" I asked. They were the only other interesting subjects in town.
"Neither," he said. "Well, I suppose it's about Janelle too, but mostly it's about her husband."
"Oho, so Benny Nelson is Janelle's husband."
"That's where the 'Nelson' comes from, in the J. Ross," Neil said. "But that's not the interesting part. The interesting part is that they've been divorced for five years now."
"Funny. He never once put an 'ex' in front of the word 'husband'. Not even for the cameras," I said. For the past two days, we had watched Benny's tearful mug, wailing on TV about his missing wife.
"Not only that, but in the divorce proceedings, Janelle alleged that he absconded with several of her millions while acting as her manager. And..." He paused, excited. "Our Mr. Nelson has been such a bother, wanting to renew both the personal and professional relationship with Janelle, that she filed a restraining order against him. Benny Nelson is forbidden to come closer than two hundred feet to his ex-wife."
"So that's why she was anxious to avoid him at the football game. He must have followed her here to Delphi," I said. "How'd you find this out?"
"The tabloid shows are picking up on the story. One of them uncovered the divorce papers and the restraining order. They're starting to hint that Doug's drowning wasn't quite as accidental as it looked. Mr. Nelson has a history of jealous rages. And they're speculating that perhaps Janelle is hiding, in fear of her life, from an abusive ex-husband."
"It makes you wonder if she really is hiding," I said, for the first time seriously beginning to consider that Janelle might be dead.
"You know, the sheriff had already arrived at the river on Saturday," Neil said thoughtfully, "and the boys and I were standing around, waiting to be dismissed, when Mr. Benny drove up and conveniently learned enough to rush back to town and make his announcement at the reunion. Has it occurred to anyone to wonder exactly why he drove out there begin with?"
"It will soon," I said, "or I don't know Delphi."