Into the Inferno - Earl Emerson [46]
“Want me to tell Morgan to go home?” Britney asked.
“Let’s keep Morgan. I might have to run some errands.”
“Oh, goody. Me and Ally and Morgan and you. This was too much to hope for. It’s going to be like Morgan’s our mommy, isn’t it?”
“Britney? Don’t—” But she was already out of the room.
The razor I shaved with every morning had been my father’s. I hadn’t thought about that in a long while. Yesterday’s visit had shaken loose a lot of ancient feelings.
He’d been a hard disciplinarian in my early years. Punishment had rained down on me willy-nilly, even though as a child I’d bought into the Sixth Element of the Saints of Christ hook, line, and sinker. For years I believed I was headed for heaven and that if I died prematurely, I would meet Jesus Christ at the pearly gates. For years I’d taken a whack on the bottom for every little infraction.
The crack in my faith began the week my mother vanished, the week my father told me it was my fault.
Later, one night on a drive home from a Saints sojourn in Oregon, my mother asleep, my father and me listening to show tunes on some funky Oregon Public Radio channel—I was twelve and my mother had returned by then—I asked about his pronouncement four years earlier that my mother’s departure had been my fault, since by this time she’d confirmed I’d had nothing to do with her leaving.
He swore he’d never said any such thing.
When I insisted he had, that he’d said it more than once, he dismissed my sputtering objections as absurd, yet I knew what he’d said. It hadn’t been out of my mind for a day.
He said I’d been young and emotionally distraught after my mother’s departure and that my memory was a child’s and faulty. I didn’t buy it. I’d memorized thousands of Bible verses without being accused of having a faulty memory. Although we never spoke of it again, his denial haunted me, had in fact been the linchpin in my decision to run away from Six Points.
“Morning, Mr. Swope.”
“Morning, Morgan. I hope you don’t mind; I’m going to be home today, but I’ll be running errands and making phone calls. I would appreciate it if you could be with us while I’m doing that.”
She blushed. “I’d love to.” Britney began bouncing up and down and squealing. Allyson took it a little more calmly, though I saw her exchange a meaningful glance with Morgan.
We had breakfast together, the girls and I. Morgan, who was as skinny as six o’clock, claimed she’d already had breakfast at home, though I doubted she had. The girls babbled, while I pondered the end of my life and, for all intents and purposes, the end of theirs as they knew it.
Before we were done, Mayor Haston phoned. “Jim. The King County Executive wants to have a meeting today at the mayor’s office. Twelve noon. Can you be there?”
“Absolutely.” I was delighted things were moving so quickly. We were going to whip this rabid dog before he bit anyone else.
“I talked to Brashears last night. He’ll be there. And one of McCain’s doctors is coming.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’m worried.”
“Good. I am, too.”
We drove to the fire station, the four of us shoulder-to-shoulder in my pickup. The engine was in, but the medics were out, which left three people on duty. Ben Arden was working in Ian’s spot, along with Karrie and a volunteer. In the event of a fire, more volunteers would pop out of the woodwork to help. At least that was the plan. They were all on pagers.
I went into the office and looked up the fire report Chief Newcastle had written for the truck accident last February. The report said the chicken truck was owned by Alsace Poultry, based in Kent, Washington. I already knew Holly had driven for Continental Freightways Associated, a company out of Seattle.
When I called Continental Freightways, I was connected to a harried-sounding man who answered, “Continental.” After I began to explain who I was and what I wanted, he interrupted.