When I came to admit that I was powerless over—well, everything—and that my life had become unmanageable I took my first step toward having a better life. And it wasn’t something I did just once, but over and over again.
It’s a few days later.
I’m parked across the street from the old Episcopal Church in Pottersville.
On the seat next to me is a copy of the complaint I was served earlier today notifying me that Derek Burrell’s family is suing me for the wrongful death of their son.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking over the past few days. I’ve done little else. Thinking about our world and my future and a million trillion other things. I’ve thought about how I’m going to take D-Bop off the street again—even as I’ve wondered who the second set of kids were he sold the other rifle to. I’ve thought about all the victims, all the survivors, all the damage done. I’ve thought about my girls and how to best protect them. I’ve thought about how much pain people are in and what can be done about it. But mostly I’ve thought about the kid I killed.
I have just come from officiating Kim’s funeral, where much of our graduating class got to hear one child killer eulogize another.
In addition to containing ample evidence against her, Kim’s home revealed the sad, lonely life of a troubled woman who felt passed by and picked over, disrespected and wronged.
Following the interment, with Merrill keeping watch for his family, I visited Derek’s graveside, kneeling down next to the fresh earth and funeral flowers to tell him how sorry I was for what I had done and to ask his forgiveness.
Anna and Merrill and Reggie and LeAnn and Dad and nearly everyone I know keep telling me the same thing—it was just a horrible accident, that Derek is Kim’s victim not mine, that he shot first, and on and on, but nothing can mitigate the guilt and sorrow and remorse I feel.
When I had climbed up off my knees, which still had light, sandy North Florida soil on them, LeAnn was waiting for me.
“You did a good job with her funeral,” she says. “No one could’ve done it better. You’re good at what you do—both things you do.”
I hug her.
“How could I have missed all the signs?” she says. “Looking back now I can see them so clearly—the way she was with men, her relationship with her crazy mother and her many boyfriends, the juvenile way she was with Ace, their lack of sex or anything serious and on and on and on—but I didn’t see it, didn’t put it together in the way I should have. I’m a licensed mental health counselor for fuck sake.”
“The two people we often have the hardest time seeing clearly,” I say. “Ourselves and those closest to us. You were a good friend to her. She was lucky to—”
“I failed her,” she says. “And by doing so failed the school, the students . . . none of this would’ve happened if I had just done my damn job.”
“The mental health of the school resource officer is not the responsibility of the guidance counselor.”
“She was my closest friend. I was—”
She breaks down and begins to cry.
I hug her again.
“I miss her murderous ass so fuckin’ much,” she says. “I still can’t believe she . . . that she . . . that any of this happened.”
“Me either.”
“What’re we gonna do?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”
She frowns and nods and says, “I keep thinking about what you said about your faith embracing chaos, about it being trust and practice more than belief and . . . it’s helping me.”
When I reached my car, Frannie Schultz had been getting out of hers with a sad little bouquet of grocery store flowers.
“For Derek’s . . .” she says, nodding at the flowers, then to his grave.
“Been thinkin’ about all that happened,” she says. “Can’t imagine what . . . what you must be carrying around.”
I don’t say anything but my expression is a mixture of acknowledgment and sadness.
“I begged him not to do it,” she says. “Pleaded. He had no business out in that hallway. Big dumb goof. But he’s my hero.”
“As he should be.”
“You’re my hero too,” she says. “I know it’s corny and . . . it’s embarrassing, but . . . it’s true. What you did for us, what people like you do all the time to help to keep us safe.”
My weary, bloodshot eyes begin to sting again and I blink back tears.
“Just wanted you to know that,” she says. “And that we don’t blame you and you shouldn’t blame yourself—not for some dumb, random, tragic accident.”
Even now sitting in my car outside the small, antiquated Episcopal church in Pottersville her words provide some semblance of something like comfort.
Next to the copy of the complaint on the seat is a bottle of Absolut, its seal, for the moment, still intact.
I watch as slowly one by one the disparate, downtrodden men and women who number themselves among the countless friends of Bill W arrive and make their way around to the musty old Sunday School room in the back.
Most of the faces are familiar, but the few new ones mixed in have the same unsure but resolute look, the same hesitant but determined carriage.
I stare after them with respect and admiration and on more than one occasion grab my door handle to go and join them, but long after the last one enters the safe, sacred space, I’m still out here alone with my regrets, only the complaint and the Absolut to keep them company.
Eventually, I get out of the car, but instead of joining my anonymous friends, I enter the empty sanctuary to mourn the boy who would never become a man, the heroic teenager who just wanted to be helpful who I had robbed of his first date with Frannie Schultz and everything he could’ve fit into the lifetime still due him.
Also by Michael Lister
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Books by Michael Lister
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(John Jordan Novels)
Power in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
(Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)
The Body and the Blood
Double Exposure
Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood
Innocent Blood
(Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Money Blood Moon
Thunder Beach
Blood Cries
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Work
Cold Blood
Blood Betrayal
Blood Shot
Blood Ties
Blood Stone
Blood Trail
(Jimmy Riley Novels)
The Girl Who Said Goodbye
The Girl in the Grave
The Girl at the End of the Long Dark Night
The Girl Who Cried Blood Tears
The Girl Who Blew Up the World
(Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)
Thunder Beach
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Shot
(Remington James Novels)
Double Exposure
(includes intro by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Shot
(Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)
Burnt Offerings
Blood Oath
Cold Blood
Blood Shot
(Love Stories)
Carrie’s Gift
(Short Story Collections)
North Florida Noir
Florida Heat Wave
Delta Blues
Another Quiet Night in Desperation
(The Meaning Series)
Meaning Every Moment
T
he Meaning of Life in Movies