the lone branch that cut at a slight angle through his field of vision, and the single leaf that still clung to its very end.
What was difficult to recall, though, were those first few days after Eddie’s death. CJ suspected he was in shock for a while, enough so that he didn’t question anything that happened afterward. He remembered the funeral, of course, and how everyone lamented the hunting accident that had taken the boy. And he remembered Graham, but as a peripheral figure, a specter hovering around the edges of things. His father too was affixed to his memories: the man answering questions, giving the appropriate hugs, and handling the details as any father would have.
And yet the realization that these were not comforting images had always troubled CJ. He was certain that even as a frightened boy, when the solid-oak presence of a father should have given him some stability, he’d viewed the man as an enemy. It had taken him a while—well into adulthood—to figure out why he’d felt that way. The only answer that presented itself was that his father knew; George understood that there had been no accident, and that had colored his every word, his every move—even as they had related to his younger son. Yet could CJ blame his father for protecting Graham? Even though CJ knew that evil had been done, even now he couldn’t fault his father. What wouldn’t a man do for his flesh and blood?
In the end, it was guilt that CJ carried with him. He knew what had happened in the woods, even considering the fog through which he’d navigated in the following days. Yet he’d never said anything. And didn’t that make him as guilty as George—as guilty as Graham?
In writer-speak, the entire event—predominantly the wiping away of the facts of the thing from the town’s collective consciousness—resulted in a disconcerting loss of story. Story was everything to a writer; without it, even the best characters languished. The fact that he’d lost a part of his personal history— his story—was difficult to accept. He knew that was likely the reason his novels tended toward the autobiographical. He might argue that point against the literary community, but he wouldn’t do so against himself. So by crafting fiction around the shell of his own story, maybe he hoped to reveal the missing pieces. It was frightening to consider, though, what the revelation of those pieces might accomplish.
CJ had decided to call it a night, to go back to the apartment that Artie was letting him use, and see to his dog, when the door opened. CJ swiveled on the stool, and it took a few seconds before he recognized his cousin Richard. The cruel one.
CJ hadn’t seen him since the day of Sal’s funeral, but that had been sufficient time to get a feel for what type of man he was. He’d caught a hint or two of conversation that mentioned his wife, Abby, and why she wasn’t there. That the black eye hadn’t healed to the point where she could go out in public.
“Richard,” CJ said as his cousin chose the seat next to him.
“Where have you been hiding?” Richard asked as Rick set a Bud in front of him.
“I haven’t been hiding,” CJ said. “Just busy.”
“Fair enough,” Richard said. He grabbed his bottle of beer and drained half of it in a few quick swallows. When he set the bottle back down, he leaned in closer to CJ, who had to stop himself from pulling back. “It’s just that you haven’t had much time for family since you’ve been back. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
CJ resisted the urge to offer Richard a breath mint.
“Like I said, I’ve been busy.”
Richard nodded and disengaged. He watched the hockey game for a while, during which time CJ fished around in his wallet for enough to cover his tab. He threw a twenty on the bar and stood.
“I’ll see you at six,” he said to Dennis, and the other man nodded.
CJ took a step away from the bar, but Richard’s hand shot out and wrapped around his arm.
“Hey, didn’t you used to date Julie? Ben’s wife?”
The question itself was innocuous enough, though CJ felt his face flush with anger, perhaps because of the nature of the person asking it. Without turning around he said, “That was a long time ago.”
“She still looks good, don’t she?” Richard’s hand tightened on CJ’s arm. “I wouldn’t mind . . .”
Had CJ stuck around