“Usually on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
As Miles tried to work it out, Sarah seemed to come to a decision.
“Now, I don’t usually do this, but I’ll make a deal with you,” she said slowly.
“If it’s okay with you, of course.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll work with Jonah after school the other three days a week if you promise to do the same on the two days you’re off.”
He couldn’t hide the surprise in his expression. “You’d do that?” “Not for every student, no. But as I said, Jonah’s sweet, and he’s had a rough time the last couple of years. I’d be glad to help.”
“Really?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Most teachers are pretty dedicated to their work. Besides, I’m usually here until four o’clock anyway, so it won’t be much trouble at all.”
When Miles didn’t answer right away, Sarah fell silent.
“I’m only going to offer this once, so take it or leave it,” she finally said. Miles looked almost embarrassed. “Thank you,” he said seriously. “I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“My pleasure. There’s one thing that I’m going to need, though, so I can do this right. Think of it as my fee.”
“What’s that?”
“A fan-and make it a good one.” She nodded toward the school. “It’s like an oven in there.”
“You got yourself a deal.”
***
Twenty minutes later, after she and Miles had said good-bye, Sarah was back in the classroom. As she was collecting her things, she found herself thinking about Jonah and how best to help him. It was a good thing that she’d made the offer, she told herself. It would keep her more attuned to his abilities in class, and she’d be able to better guide Miles when he was working with his son. True, it was a little extra work, but it was the best thing for Jonah, even if she hadn’t planned on it. And she hadn’t-not until she’d said the words. She was still trying to figure out why she’d done that.
Despite herself, she was also thinking about Miles. He wasn’t what she’d expected, that’s for sure. When Brenda had told her that he was a sheriff, she’d immediately pictured a caricature of southern law enforcement: overweight, pants hanging too low, small mirrored sunglasses, a mouth full of chewing tobacco. She’d imagined him swaggering into her classroom, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and drawling,Now, just what did you want to talk to me about, little lady? But Miles was none of these things.
He was attractive, too. Not as Michael had been-dark and glamorous, everything always perfectly in place-but appealing in a natural, more rugged way. His face had a roughness to it, as if he’d spent many hours in the sun as a boy. But contrary to what she’d said, he didn’t look forty, and that had surprised her. It shouldn’t have. After all, Jonah was only seven, and she knew Missy Ryan had died young. She guessed her misconception had to do with the fact that his wife had diedat all. She couldn’t imagine that happening to someone her age. It wasn’t right; it seemed out of sync with the natural order of the world. Sarah was still musing over this as she glanced around the room one last time, making sure she had everything she needed. She removed her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, slipped it over her shoulder, put everything else under her other arm, and then turned off the lights on her way out. As she walked to her car, she felt a pang of disappointment when she saw that Miles had already left. Chiding herself for her thoughts, she reminded herself that a widower like Miles would hardly be entertaining similar thoughts about his young son’s schoolteacher.
Sarah Andrews had no idea how wrong she was.
Chapter 4
By the dim light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then.
There are some simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town, where everyone seems to know each other.
When Missy Ryan died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens
throughout New Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was
a major article and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution. A month or so after the event, another article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page, repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there wasn’t anything at all.
The articles had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in 1986, Missy Ryan-high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one son-went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened.
Those hours, I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk, just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked up around the kitchen, spent some time with Jonah, and finally put him to bed. Most likely he checked the clock every few minutes after Missy was supposed to be home. At first, he might have suspected that Missy had stopped to visit with someone she’d seen on her job, something she sometimes did, and he probably chided himself for imagining the worst.
The minutes turned into an hour, then became two, and Missy still hadn’t returned. By then, Miles was worried enough to place a call to Charlie. He asked him to check out the usual route Missy jogged, since Jonah was already asleep and he didn’t want to leave him alone unless he had to. Charlie said he’d be glad to do it.
An hour later-during which Miles seemed to be getting the runaround from everyone he called for updates-Charlie was at the door. He’d brought his wife, Brenda, so she could watch Jonah, and she was standing behind him, her eyes red. “You’d better come,” Charlie said softly. “There’s been an accident.” From the expression on his face, I’m sure that Miles knew exactly what Charlie was trying to tell him. The rest of the night was a terrible blur. What neither Miles nor Charlie knew then, and what the investigation would later reveal, was that there were no witnesses to the hit-and-run that had taken Missy’s life. Nor would anyone come forward with a confession. Over the next month, the highway patrol interviewed everyone in the area; they searched for any evidence that might provide a lead, poking through bushes, evaluating the evidence at the scene, visiting local bars and restaurants, asking if any customers had seemed intoxicated and had left around that time. In the end, the case file was thick and heavy, chronicling everything they had learned-which in the end was essentially nothing more than what Miles knew the moment he’d pushed open the door and seen Charlie standing on the porch. Miles Ryan had become a widower at the age of thirty.
Chapter 5
In the car, the memories of the day Missy died came back to Miles in bits and pieces, just as they had earlier when he’d driven along Madame Moore’s Lane before his lunch with Charlie. Now, though, instead of running endlessly in the same loop, from his day spent fishing to the argument with Missy to all that followed, they were displaced by his thoughts of Jonah, and Sarah Andrews. With his mind occupied, he didn’t know how long they had driven in silence, but it was long enough to finally make Jonah nervous. As Jonah waited for his father to speak, his mind began focusing on the possible punishments his father might inflict, each of them worse than the last. He kept zipping and unzipping his backpack until Miles finally reached over and rested his hand on top of his son’s to stop him. Still, his father said nothing, and after finally gathering his courage, Jonah looked toward Miles with wide eyes that were nearly brimming with tears.
“Am I in trouble, Dad?”
“No.”
“You talked to Miss Andrews for a long time.”
“We had a lot to talk about.”
Jonah swallowed. “Did you talk about school?”
Miles nodded and Jonah looked toward his backpack again, feeling sick to his stomach and wishing he could keep his hands occupied again. “I’m inbig trouble,” he mumbled.
***
A few minutes later, sitting on a bench outside the Dairy Queen, Jonah was finishing an ice-cream cone, his father’s arm around him. They’d been talking for ten minutes, and at least as far as Jonah was concerned, it wasn’t half as bad as he’d thought it would be. His father hadn’t yelled, he hadn’t threatened him, and best of all, he hadn’t been grounded. Instead, Miles had simply asked Jonah about his previous teachers and what they had-and hadn’t-made him do;
Jonah explained honestly that once he’d fallen behind, he was too embarrassed to ask for help. They’d talked about the things Jonah was having trouble with-as Sarah had said, it was practically everything-and Jonah promised that he’d do his best from now on. Miles, too, said that he’d help Jonah and that if everything went well, he’d be caught up in no time. All in all, Jonah considered himself lucky.
What he didn’t realize was that his father wasn’t finished yet. “But because you’re so far behind,” Miles went on calmly, “you’re going to have to stay after school a few days a week, so Miss Andrews can help you out.” It took a moment for the words to register, and then Jonah looked up at his father.
“After school?”
Miles nodded. “She said you’d catch up faster that way.”
“I thought you said that you were going to help me.”
“I am, but I can’t do it every day. I have to work, so Miss Andrews said she’d help, too.”
“But after school?” he asked again, a note of pleading in his voice.
“Three days a week.”
“But… Dad…” He tossed the rest of the ice-cream cone into the garbage.
“I don’t want to stay after school.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. And besides, you could have told me you were having trouble before. If you’d done that, you might have been able to avoid something like this.”
Jonah furrowed his brow. “But, Dad…”
“Listen, I know there’s a million things you’d rather do, but you’re gonna do this for a while. You don’t have a choice, and just think, it could be worse.” “Howww?” he asked, sort of singing the last syllable, the way he always did when he didn’t want to believe what Miles was telling him.
“Well, she could have wanted to work with you on the weekends, too. If that had happened, you wouldn’t have been able to play soccer.” Jonah leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. “All right,” he finally said with a sigh, looking glum. “I’ll do it.”
Miles smiled, thinking, You didn’t have a choice.
“I appreciate that, champ.”
***
Later that night, Miles was leaning over Jonah’s bed, pulling up the covers. Jonah’s eyes were heavy, and Miles ran his hand through his son’s hair before kissing his cheek.
“It’s late. Get some sleep.”
He looked so small in his bed, so content. Miles made sure that Jonah’s night-light was on, then reached for the lamp by the bed. Jonah forced his eyes open, though one look said they wouldn’t stay that way for long. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not being too mad at me today.”
Miles smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“And Dad?”
“Yeah?”
Jonah reached up to wipe his nose. Next to his pillow was a teddy bear Missy had given him when he’d turned three. He still slept with it every night. “I’m glad Miss Andrews wants to help me.”
“You are?” he asked, surprised.
“She’s nice.”
Miles turned out the light. “I thought so, too. Now get some sleep, okay?”
“Okay. And Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Miles felt a tightness in his throat. “I love you, too, Jonah.”
***
Hours later, just before fourA.M., Jonah’s nightmares returned. Like the wail of someone plunging off a cliff, Jonah’s screaming immediately jolted Miles awake. He staggered half-blindly from his bedroom, nearly tripping over a toy in the process, and was still trying to focus when he scooped the still-sleeping boy into his arms. He began whispering to him as he carried him to the back porch. It was, he’d learned, the only thing that would ever calm him down. Within moments the sobbing dropped to a whimper, and Miles was thankful not only for the fact that his home sat on an acre of land, but that his nearest neighbor-Mrs. Knowlson-was hard of hearing.
In the hazy humid air, Miles rocked Jonah back and forth, continuing to whisper in his ear. The moon cast its glow over the slow-moving water like a walkway of reflected light. With low-slung oak trees and the whitewashed trunks of cypress trees lining the banks, the view was soothing, ageless in beauty. The draping veils of Spanish moss only added to the feeling that this part of the world hadn’t changed in the last thousand years.