The Accident

Kelly was back at school, where things were much better. The papers and newscasts had a lot to do with that. Once the truth, in particular the fact that Sheila was not responsible in the Wilkinson deaths, came out, the other kids started leaving her alone. And Bonnie Wilkinson had dropped her $15 million lawsuit. Not much of a case anymore. I had Kelly seeing a counselor, to help her with all the tragedy that had happened around her, and so far, it seemed to be helping. Although I was still sleeping on her floor every other night.

Charges were dropped against Doug Pinder, who was back working for me. Betsy stayed in her mother’s house, and Doug found a one-bedroom apartment on Golden Hill. They were heading for divorce, but no nasty fights over property were expected.

I didn’t know whether I’d ever be able to make it right with him. I’d accused him of things he hadn’t done. I hadn’t believed him when he’d professed his innocence. I tried to apologize, in some small part, by paying, from that stash of money in the wall, Edwin Campbell to expedite the process of his release.

What made me feel most guilty was Doug’s forgiving attitude. When I attempted to tell him how bad I felt, he waved his hand and said, “Don’t worry about it, Glenny. Next time you’re in a burning basement, I’ll grab a beer first.”

There were still things to be worked out. I was still battling it out with my insurer over the Wilson house. I was arguing that far from being negligent, I was the victim of a crime. Edwin was hopeful.

Business appeared to be picking up. I’d been out this week giving estimates on three jobs, and I was interviewing for someone to work in the office and keep us organized.

Kelly had been up to the corner and was pedaling back. “Watch!” she said. “No hands!” But she was only able to release her hold on the grips for a second. “Wait, I’m going to do it again.”

A cube van was working its way down the street, slowly, the driver checking addresses. I stood and walked down the steps from the porch, waved and caught his attention.

He stopped out front and slid open the back door before coming across the lawn toward me.

“Nice day,” he said. “But who knows, in a couple of weeks we could have snow.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“All these boxes?” he said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Good to get rid of stuff, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “You clear out the closet, wife’s got room for new stuff, am I right?”

We managed all the boxes in one trip. Setting the last one into his truck, shoving it down next to the other bags and boxes of donations, he said, “This one’s kind of heavy.”

“That’s the one with all the purses,” I said.

He slid the door down, said “Thanks” and “So long,” and got back into his truck. It started up and began to pull away from the curb.

And then I heard her. It wasn’t like the other times, where I could imagine what she might say. This time, I could hear her voice.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“I should have known from the beginning,” I said. “But I blamed you. Doubted you.”

“None of that matters. Just take care of our girl.”

“I miss you,” I said.

“Shhh. Look.”

Kelly flew past on the sidewalk, arms outstretched. “No hands!” she squealed. “For real!”

And then she grabbed the handlebars and brought the bike to an abrupt, skidding halt. She put both feet on the sidewalk and stood there, straddling the bike, her back to me, her head all helmet, and watched the truck go to the end of the street and turn the corner. She kept watching for a good ten seconds after it disappeared, hoping, maybe, like her father, that it would come back, that we could change our minds.