Chapter One |
Jim Richards whispered thoughts of love while he knelt before the television, tracing her delicate features with a sweep of his finger. A wide forehead covered by a mass of curly bangs and a face with blushing cheeks met his gaze. Her eyes were deep-set and dark brown, framed by long, thick eyelashes and eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. When she smiled, her gleaming teeth brightened her entire face. The smile drew forth a similar one on his face. She then waved at him before walking away to take a seat on the sofa, crossing her slender legs clad in pantyhose. How he loved to stare at her legs. The rose print skirt and blush-colored blouse, typical of a teacher's outfit, outlined her trim figure. "Hey, that's enough filming, Jim!" her voice rang out. "Okay, but let me get it from this angle." "Do you have to?" Despite the petulant voice, her face continued to display the award-winning smile that stirred his heart. The camera turned and zoomed in again on her facial features, carefully made up to perfection. She was the neatest, prettiest woman he had ever known. She was perfect in every respect. Just then Taffy, the squirming Scottish Terrier, jumped on her lap and tried to lick her face. "Taffy, down!" she commanded with a girlish giggle. Jim laughed, watching the dog cover her with kisses. Her arms encircled the dog, giving him a hug before scooting him off her lap. When the next scene began to unfold, the muscles in his neck tensed like strings on a guitar. His throat became dry. Jim stretched out a finger, poised to press the stop button on the VCR. "So how far along are you?" asked the cameraman. The beautiful woman before him relaxed against the sofa and patted her stomach. "You know. Three months for this little guy." "And just how do you know it's a boy?" She winked. "I know." The feelings of joy at seeing her beloved face now disintegrated into despair. With a swift thrust of a forefinger, he ejected the tape and turned off the VCR. The familiar cloud of grief engulfed him, like thunderclouds from a gathering storm. Emotion flooded his heart. Stark images rocked his brain. He would never get over this. Everyone said he would get over it with time, but the pain of the loss was too unbearable, even after a year. Jim rose to his feet and walked into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he perused the shelves for a drink to ease the scratchy feeling in his throat. He found little to eat or drink, typical of the last twelve months. Orange juice, a packet of cheese, some luncheon meat, and a squeeze bottle of mustard stared back at him. He thought of the many people who chastised him for eating meals of luncheon meat slapped between two crusts of bread. "It's not healthy," rang the well-meaning voices in his brain. "You must eat better than that." Many offered him their homes for a meal, but he could not bear the thought of spending time with other families. The pain kept him confined in his own home where he tried to occupy his mind by surfing the Internet or reading a book. He would never open up his tortured heart to others. Here at home he felt safe, but continually hounded by the memories. Jim grabbed for the juice and poured out a helping. The huge grandfather clock in the dining room ticked methodically behind him. All was quiet but for a neighborhood dog barking. The stillness of the surroundings was a far cry from a year ago when people from all walks of life swarmed the place. He became smothered in humanity ranging from relatives to strangers off the street who heard the tragic news. Zillions of reporters came with microphones and cameras aimed at his face. He stiffened at the thought of those fancy clad reporters, dressed in their suits and ties, probing into every facet of his life. The front door still displayed the crack from a book he threw at one reporter who hurried out of his home to avoid the missile. After the incident, Jim bolted his doors, took his phone off the hook, and refused all callers. Jim sat down heavily at the kitchen nook to gulp down the orange juice. The liquid relieved his parched throat, but did little to remove the lump of anguish. Of course his actions did not keep out his younger sister, Claire. She found a way to access his house by using the key he kept inside a plastic rock in the garden, labeled Kindness. "I won't leave you alone like this," her voice echoed in his brain, among the many recollections he nursed this day. He permitted Claire her well-meaning visitations until the reporters got wind of the arrangement and began following her around. Eventually everything died down. The reporters went back to other news stories. The neighbors, having christened his home with every pie and casserole imaginable, returned to their everyday lives. He was left alone to pick up the pieces of his broken life, shattered in one horrible day that would remain with him forever. Now through the time of contemplation, he heard the faint chime of the doorbell. Jim rose, put the glass in the sink, and strode to the living room to glance out the window. "Claire," he whispered, relieved by the familiar face before answering the front door. The stout woman with blonde hair immediately threw her arms around him before picking up the two shopping bags resting at her feet. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the bags as she walked into the house. In the living room, she paused before the videocassette lying on the carpet. "Watching home movies again?" He shrugged and helped her carry a bag into the kitchen. "Which one is that?" "The one where Taffy jumps up on Kathy's lap and licks her face." "Oh, that one." Claire moved to the kitchen where she began unpacking the fixings for a salad and packages of chicken breasts, ham, and Swiss cheese. "I'm going to make you a feast. Chicken Cordon Bleu." "Claire, I don't really care about..." "I know, but you have to eat. You can't keep doing this to yourself, Jim. You've got to shake it off and go on. Kathy would want you to go on." Jim opened the refrigerator and began throwing the food carelessly on the shelves. "I don't know what she would have wanted. I never had the chance to tell her good-bye." The tension traveled through his arms to his neck where it collected inside his head. He squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the shudder of pain teasing his temples. Claire came and rubbed his shoulders with her fingers. "C'mon now. You were always good at telling me what to do when we were kids. Now I'm telling you. It's time to eat and get on with your life." She turned him slowly around. "Just look at you. You're so skinny, I'll bet you fit into a size 28." "For your information, I'm still a 32," he retorted. "Well look at me." She twirled around like a ballerina. "Size 18 and I love every bit of myself. Besides I know you can eat way more than I can. So I'm going to cook this meal and you're going to eat it, or rather, we're going to eat it." "Suit yourself." He strode out to the porch where the evening paper lay. His gaze immediately fell on the front headline. One Year After A Deadly School Shooting, A Community Is Still Reeling In Shock. He noted the reporter's name. Leah Hamilton. "Must be they hired a new one for the Gazette after last year's fiasco." He settled down on the sofa in the living room to read the article. It began as they all began, recounting the events of that dreadful day a year ago. His hands trembled as the memories swept over him. Children were playing peacefully on the swing sets or dangling from monkey bars when a shot suddenly rang out. In only a matter of moments, the children's third grade teacher lay dying from a bullet wound to the chest, fired by an unknown sniper in a tree just beyond the school playground. Twenty-six-year-old Kathy Richards died later that afternoon at the county medical center. Jim chewed on his lower lip. He recalled in vivid detail the news clips that ran on the television, showing the stretcher that bore his bleeding wife as she was rushed to the hospital. He was away at a conference, talking up a new computer program he had invented, only to return that afternoon after receiving a frantic call from the emergency personnel. When he arrived at the hospital, Kathy had already died in the operating room. He placed the paper down on his lap. The evening before her death, Kathy had diligently pressed his shirts for the conference, accompanied by her usual warning not to get them mussed up during the trip. She even packed the travel iron after instructing him on how to use it. "I want you looking your best when you give your speech," she told him. "Don't forget to polish your shoes and take your toiletry kit. And please wear your nice aftershave." He recalled his vexation at all her orders that reminded him of a doting mother. Guilt washed over him for not thanking her instead. That morning he whispered a quick, "I love you," and deposited a careless kiss on her lips before running to his car for the long, three hour trip. How he wished he had known the future...if there was some way he could have known...he would have spent time talking to her...holding her...whispering in her ear until she giggledtelling her how much he loved her. He would have forsaken the whole conference and whisked her away on a second honeymoon, away from the violence and hatred in the world. Jim dropped his head and closed his eyes. No, he had left her alone that terrible day. He had assumed it would be a day like any other day. He thought he would be a father in less than four months...until everything ended in one horrific blast from a murderer's weapon. He choked. A tear drifted down one cheek, which he swiped away with an angry flick of his finger. He rattled the paper, searching the paragraph to resume reading the article. The police continue to follow leads in the case, but have made no arrests. Cries for justice echo all around the community of Bakersville. Families have joined together to offer a reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible. Taylor Elementary has stepped up security and a police officer has been on duty full time since the beginning of the school year. "Where was this police officer a year ago?" Jim grumbled. "Why does someone have to die before they start doing what's right? It's the same thing with traffic lights. They will install them at an intersection only after someone is killed...like the action can bring back the dead. Well, it can't. Nothing can." "What are you muttering about?" asked Claire who came out of the kitchen, clad in his chef's apron with a huge lobster printed on front. Kathy gave him the apron after an excursion to Maine. Another memory flashed before his eyes - of ocean waves pounding the rocky shores, of Kathy's huge smile and dancing eyes as they ate lobster, and an evening stroll where they observed the flicker of lights from distant ports of call. The mere sight of the apron stabbed him with more pain. "Oh, you're reading the paper." Jim rattled the paper to emphasize his distress. "Yeah, they got some new dame working on the news staff. She paints the killing like it's an anniversary celebration or something. Let's bake a cake and blow up balloons while we're at it." Jim dashed the section of newspaper to the floor in frustration. "Reporters love gory stuff. They eat it up like its candy. I'll bet they go to bed at night praying that someone gets raped, maimed, or gutted by gunfire. It makes their day and their paycheck. They live for the news while others die to make the news." "Now Jim...," Claire began. "No, I mean it. And I'll bet they're glad the police haven't solved this. What would they have to report? No one really cares what's going on. Everyone has decided this thing will remain unsolved, no matter what. I hear how the trail has gone dry. The longer the police wait, the more time that animal has to run. This will never be solved. Never." "Jim, c'mon and help me cut up the ham and Swiss cheese," Claire coaxed. "You can't keep tormenting yourself like this." Jim ignored her request and swiped up the sports section. "I'm reading the baseball stats," he informed her before peering over the top page to watch her disappear into the kitchen. Immediately he regretted his selfish attitude. Claire was only trying to help. At this point in his life, Jim didn't want help. No one could help him, not the investigators, family, or his well-meaning neighbors, the Hansons. Even God had abandoned him, taking from him those most precious in his life - his wife and his unborn child. There was nothing left in this world. Perhaps he would do better to seek a final solution to the pain, but cast the idea aside in an instant. If Claire ever caught wind of what was circulating in his brain, she would call a shrink and have him locked up. Suicide was not the answer, but what was? What could he do to change his circumstances? Copyright, 2001 Barbour Publishing. All rights reserved. |
