Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [131]
He stood up and walked out.
TWO DAYS LATER, he returned. This time alone. No tape recorder, no tie, a blue sport coat unbuttoned and a PVC tube tucked under his arm.
He sat down, slowly folding, unfolding and refolding his handkerchief. Finally, he spoke. A painful admission. “I’ve doubted you for a long time. The…” He shrugged. “The discovery at Mayo…cemented in my mind your betrayal of Abigail Grace.”
“Sir, her name is Abbie. And no matter how it looked when you walked in, I never betrayed her.”
He nodded slowly. “Your friend, the flying priest, came to see me. Shared with me your confession.”
“Is that what he called it?”
“He did.”
“Whatever happened to confidentiality?”
“He said that since he’d been defrocked, that no longer pertained to him.”
“Funny, he didn’t say that to me.”
He tapped the table with his fingers. “I thought I could make…Abbie…see, but she knew you better than me.”
He set the tube on the table. “We found your canoe. This was wedged beneath the seat.” He unscrewed the cap and rolled the canvas across the table. He stared at the drawing several seconds. “I always thought she’d beat it.” He let go and it curled itself into a loose scroll. He shook his head. “No man is good enough for another man’s daughter.” Staring at the ceiling, a single tear cascaded off his cheek. “After I lost her mother, I decided no man would ever be. Then she met you. And you were…” He laughed, shrugging. “Not what I had in mind.”
“Sir, may I ask you a question?” He raised an eyebrow. “What’d I ever do to you? I mean, just what did I do to hack you off?”
He wiped his eyes. “You gave Abbie what I never did. You gave her yourself.”
“Yes, sir. Every day.” For the first time ever, I saw him as a man. Even a father. “Sir, with all due respect, the fact that her second transplant didn’t take had nothing to do with you. You did what you could.”
He glanced at me and almost nodded. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed a number from memory and waited until somebody picked up on the other end. He cleared his throat and said, “You sign it?” He nodded, waiting. “I’d be obliged if you faxed it to me at this number.” He gave the number and hung up. A few minutes later, a guard walked in, laid a single sheet in his hands and walked out. The senator read it, placed it on the table and stood. “The murder charges have been dropped. I can’t do much about the narcotics charges, but if you plead guilty, we can get your sentence reduced to probation. Maybe some community service. Like…teaching old, stubborn politicians how to paint.” He stood—his back to me—pulled a wrinkled letter from his coat pocket and laid it gently on the table. His fingertips slowly skimmed the surface of the letter like a blind man reading braille. He swallowed, managing a whisper. “You’re free to go.”
He walked out, slowly, almost limping. I unfolded the letter. Her New York perfume flowered into the room and laid across me like a blanket.
May 30th
Dear Dad,
It’s late and my morphine is wearing off, which is both good and bad. Hospice is downstairs, shuffling around. Doss is up in the crow’s nest. I can hear it creaking under his weight.
In the last several years, I’ve learned to listen to my body. Right now, it’s telling me that by the time you get this, I’ll be gone. Whatever cancer is going to do to me, it’s done it. New treatments, specialists, opinions, and medications along with all the power of the Senate won’t change that. Only one thing remains. Don’t cry. Pressed between the memory of Mom and now the thought of me, I can see those big broad shoulders beginning to shake. Crocodile tears welling up. Dad, don’t hold it back. Even senators cry. As for me—I’m a big girl now. Of course, it’s not my choosing. If I had anything to do with it, I’d stick around another fifty or sixty years, learn to cook like Rosalia and run my fingers through Doss’s handsome gray hair. I’d like to have seen that. I think he will age well.
If you’re