three of us,” Virgil went on. “Sometimes Oliver would say it was his fault for agreeing to let Ben Roland take the shotgun, but most of the time it was Ben Roland blaming himself. I seldom said anything, but God only knows how many times I’d lie away at night thinking if I hadn’t screamed like a baby none of that would have happened and we could have gone on living in Barrettsville.”
“Didn’t you ever think that if you hadn’t screamed, Daddy might have come upstairs and shot us all?”
“He couldn’t have,” Virgil said. “He didn’t have a gun.”
“You can’t say for sure.”
“Yes, I can. We were hoping the body wouldn’t be identified too quickly, so we emptied out his pockets before the older boys took him to the river. All he had were some keys, a few loose bills, and an envelope full of money.”
Margaret drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Maybe if all of us were around to help share the weight of what you were dealing with…”
Virgil shook his head. “That’s not how it works. Guilt is a burden that can only be carried by those who own it. In time, Oliver and I learned to live with ours. Ben Roland never did. He went through life believing he deserved to be punished for what he’d done. I think that’s why he worked in the mine. He never complained about it, but Oliver and I knew it was the hell he’d chosen for himself.”
They sat and talked until the sun had fallen to the edge of the horizon and Margaret came to realize that although the siblings had been broken apart, each of them had forever carried a piece of the others in their hearts.
That night when Margaret was alone in her room, she prayed. She asked forgiveness for Ben Roland saying he’d suffered enough during his years on earth and had only done what any of them would have done in the same circumstances. She also prayed that one day they would all be together again.
“Everyone,” she said. “Oliver, Ben Roland, Mama…”
As she went through the list of names, there was no mention of her daddy.
Return to Heatherwood
ON THE TRIP HOME TOM drove for six hours straight, stopping once to fill the gas tank and for lunch at a roadside stand. It rained for much of the drive, a sad steady drizzle.
“Gloomy day, isn’t it?” he said.
Margaret nodded. “Very.”
For a while she’d followed their route on the Alabama road map, but as soon as they crossed into Georgia she folded the map and stuck it back in the glove compartment. As they talked about the trip he asked what hotels and sites she’d enjoyed most, but Margaret found herself hard-pressed to give an answer.
She’d loved every minute of the time they’d spent together and on several occasions wished it would go on forever, but it was not going to. In a matter of hours it would be over, and she would have to face the reality of returning home. Home to a house filled with reminders of Albert and friends who just a few months earlier had attended his funeral. They were people who liked and respected Albert. Men who envied his success and women who admired him. More than once one of her friends had commented on how fortunate she was to have such a husband. Natalie Biddle had even suggested she’d trade her Donald for Albert any day of the week. She’d said it in a lighthearted way, but Margaret knew there was more than a grain of truth in what she said.
Just last Christmas, Josie had said Albert was the most generous man she’d ever worked for; one in a million, she’d called him. And in the days following his death, when Margaret was powerless to stop the tears, Josie had listened patiently, nodding her agreement to every good and admirable trait mentioned.
“There will never be another Albert,” she said, “but at least you’ve got your memories.”
Memories were not the same as being with someone who made you laugh and feel alive again.