Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [88]
And I do. It’s like some Jack Kerouac stream of consciousness that has me divulging everything that’s happened since I took this job: the exhilarating finds, the mounting bodies, the flights from one continent to another. Through it all, Jim listens, and I’m not looking at him to gauge his reaction, even though the portion connecting my present circumstances with the events at KV65 must have hit him hard. My eyes stay on the calm water. I’m not sure how long I speak, or if my story makes any sense. Yet it doesn’t really matter because it’s another much-needed catharsis. If the trip out here proves to be nothing more than a visit to a comfortable confessional, it will have been worth it, even accepting the fact that I’m not Catholic.
After I’ve finished, when I’ve reached empty, Jim is quiet. I look over at him and see him mulling over everything I’ve said. The afternoon is beginning to cross into early evening, not noticeable so much by any change in the light as by a certain feel in the air.
“Do you believe the bones are real?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s an important detail. Whether you’re a skeptic or a believer speaks volumes about where you go from here.”
“You mean whether to continue the search or go home?”
“In a nutshell.” He takes a long, thoughtful draw on his pipe. A moment later he pulls it away from his mouth and releases a cloud of gray smoke, then points the pipe at me. “If you don’t believe the bones exist, then you’re putting your own life—not to mention the lives of your loved ones—in jeopardy for no reason. If, on the other hand, you firmly believe they exist, and that they possess the power that Reese and the biblical record claim, then you’re making a conscious decision to value this magnificent artifact above your own well-being.”
I’m bothered by my friend’s nutshell, because I’m not sure the Occam’s razor principle works here. It’s not an either/or, a belief or a rejection of belief. There’s room for something else. Manheim’s actions—and Reese’s to a lesser extent—have woven me into the fabric of the unfinished narrative. I’m still here to dig into what was behind Will’s death, and I want to see Manheim pay for what he did. For now, I can tell myself that the bones are incidental.
“What about Will?” I ask.
A cloud drops over Jim, and it’s not something I’m happy about. I don’t know what Jim has carried with him over the last five years, or what he’s feeling now that I’ve told him what I know. He is quiet for a long time, until I’m not sure he’s going to answer. But then his face gives way to a sad smile and he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t do more to find out what happened to Will.”
I start to protest but he waves me silent.
“I knew that what happened was no accident. Everyone knew it.”
I’m gathered up in that sentence. I’ve always known, yet I ran away.
“I should have pressed for an investigation,” Jim says. “Instead, I packed up and went home. And I let you do the same.”
There’s nothing I can say in response to this candid admission, except to be grateful that he’s made the gesture. Sitting in silence with him is my forgiveness.
I ponder his words while whatever passes for the Australian equivalent of an erne makes a dive toward the still water. There is the barest hint of a splash before the bird beats its wings furiously to rise back up into the air. I think its talons are empty, although I can’t be sure.
“Dinner’s ready,” Meredith calls from the doorway.
I grind my cigar in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the chair until the glowing tip dies and then I slip it into my breast pocket. As Jim gets up and starts for the door, I gesture that I’ll follow in a minute. Once the door swings shut behind him, I pull out my phone and, after a brief hesitation, dial the one number I haven’t wanted to call.
“Jack.”
“Hello, Mr. Reese.”
Neither of us speaks for a time and I imagine it’s because we both know how much water has passed under the bridge.
He’s the first to break