Bob suggested I take a sick day tomorrow I am no different than any other suspect that has finally confessed to their heinous crimes, and like them, I will sleep. When I finally get back to my cabin, my legs are so heavy I can barely make the hop to the porch and through my doorway.
As I pick up the phone to call Ferg the next step becomes agonizingly evident; I am holding it in my hand and I wait for the next wave of nausea to take hold. I grip the handset, not wanting to let go as my fingers trace the keys and buttons on the answering machine. I listen one more time, closing my eyes, holding my breath so I can't hear my breathing interrupting her melodic voice, a voice I store in my head and heart, forever.
Reassuring myself, I rummage through the top desk drawer looking for the instruction manual, and convincing myself that this is the next step on my road from perdition. The page is dampened as I read it, but I follow through, my foundational lesson from Bob is to follow through, on everything, so I do. It is the one promise I have to keep for myself.
It takes several tries, you know it is never easy to hear your own voice and hear your pauses and it is complicated because of the reason I am doing this but about the fifth time through I decide less is more, "Leave a message."
Ferg answers the phone, "Ferg, I'm taking a sick day tomorrow but call me if something major comes up."
"Ok, Sheriff." His voice pitches up because his words are a question and not a statement.
The pounding on my front door wakes me from the couch still wearing my clothes from last night only my belt and boots are on the floor. My eyes are voluntarily stuck together because they don't want to open but they do and the sun burns through them and through me as I swing the door open. The tall silhouette stops the pain from the sun and I take in the fullness of my best friend standing on the opposite side of the doorframe.
"Walter. So you are alive."
Stepping aside, Henry follows me into the cabin and I hear Henry in the kitchen as I pee in the bathroom. Washing my hands I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face reflects the anguish, the relief, and the agony of the past day, of the past half-decade.
There is a sense of normalcy with Henry here but it is the new normal that I am trying to reconcile and at this moment I want to retreat, I want to stop feeling but my feelings are swirling on the surface and begin to overflow like refuse mixed with clean pure water making a cloudy mess. Like the overflow, the words cascade out, "I'm sorry."
Henry tilts his head as he swallows his sip of coffee questioning me without saying anything.
"I'm sorry for Denver." Looking down into my cup, the blackness serving as reflection for what happened there .
Our eyes sync, "I'm sorry for pulling you into the hell that came from Denver, from having to rescue me, for Miller Beck, for being in jail, for the Pony, for Deena, I'm sorry for everything Henry."
I take a breath, and Henry waits, "I'm most sorry for taking our friendship and your loyalty for granted because that is my biggest crime. I'm asking for your forgiveness, Henry."
His face is serious; his enigmatic smile does not appear as he sets his coffee on the table and his hesitation sets in momentary panic.
"Walter, you do not need my forgiveness you need your own."
"I need both."
"You have mine. You always have. There should be no question."
I nod, my lips thinly pursed, as understanding passes between us.
"You do not look ill."
"What?"
"I called the station to take you to lunch since I had business in town but Ruby said you called in sick. You have never taken a sick day in your life so I became concerned and came to make sure you were still alive."
"I'm trying to be."
Henry holds his cup in his hands, "Trying to be, what?"
"Trying to be alive."
His eyebrows arch and close ranks, "Something has changed."
I follow with silence, not from an unwillingness to talk, not from a delay in processing my thoughts but my silence serves as respect for the power of the words that follow, "I want to live again and I want it for me."
Henry finishes his coffee and doesn't say another word about it; the man understands me like no other.
"Lunch?"
Looking down at my naked wrist, "What time is it?"
"It is half past twelve."
"Sorry, Henry I have to be somewhere in an hour."
"You slept all night?"
"Yeah, I think so."
Henry's eyes survey the small space of my cabin, "Usually you leave evidence of drunkenness. I do not see beer cans anywhere."
Reminded of my pathetic descent, "I didn't have anything to drink."
He studies my countenance and his warm welcoming smile appears for the first time, "Ok, I will leave you to it."
"Thanks, Henry."
I follow him to the door and his hand finds my shoulder, squeezing firmly, "I will see you later."
"Yup." I look him in the eye reaffirming our conversation.
As I close the door behind Henry, I place my hand on the wooden frame, standing still against the door, steadying myself from the sudden surge of doubt that nearly overwhelms me. The hot shower that ensues begins to calm my nerves but heading to meet Bob at the turnout at mile marker 20 the doubts resurface.
I'm early but he is already there. I pull the Bronco just next to the Tahoe.
"You sleep?"
"Yup"
"Call in?"
"Yup"
"How do you feel?"
"Like hell."
Bob still doesn't smile but his face is a little more relaxed than yesterday.
"Just so you know, that's to be expected, but it will get better. Stick with it."
I nod.
"Did you write down your course of action?"
"Actually, Bob, I didn't." I watch is face for disappointment but the grooves, divots and lines looking back at me don't change expression.
"I changed the answering machine." My fingers re-grip the steering wheel holding it tighter. "But ah Henry, my best friend, came by my cabin. I wasn't expecting him but it went well."
"You want to tell me about it?"
Bob listens intently without interruption as I relay the conversation I had with Henry only minutes ago.
"Walt, I'm glad it went so well, but I caution you not to be overzealous in your attempts with Cady."
There is silence between us as I ponder his words as I am anything but overzealous.
His words have meaning though.
"Have you considered when you will speak with Cady?"
"I have something in mind but I'm working it out, you know, in my head."
He is relentless.
"What about your deputies?"
"No, Bob, I don't know where exactly to begin there."
"May I make a gentle suggestion?"
I look into the steely blue eyes and nod.
"This will take you out of your comfort zone."
"Even more?!" My voice pitches up and I shake my head finding the humor in the situation.
Bob actually smiles back at me, "Yeah. You wanna hear it?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"A group session."
"A group session"
"Yeah, with you included."
I relax my fingers from the wheel and my fingers are ghostly white, I stretch them, and reapply my grip. I want to keep trusting him but the knot in my stomach protests.
"Why?"
"It's not just your grief."
I stare.
"You don't own their grief, Walt. You don't have a right to."
He stares back.
"You can't fix it for them."
I look down at my knuckles, completely without color, and back out over the highway, never loosening my grip. The all too familiar anger begins to swirl in the pit of my stomach.
"Walt, think about it as an option, it's not set in concrete but know that if we do this it will mean you will be exposed. It means the mask, the façade you present, it all comes down."
"So you want my entire Sheriff's staff to take up camp in your office with me being the centerpiece is that what you have in mind?"
"No. More like me coming to your Sheriff's office and you being the team leader."
I know enough to know the reference to tactics is on purpose and despite the swelling anger it is effective.
"I'll think about it."
"Fair enough. Do know the longer you wait the harder it will be to set things right, if at all."
Like the rabid dog he is he won't let go.
"I'll sleep on it."
"Same time tomorrow?"
I release my grip on the steering wheel, tuck my chin down, and look at him acknowledging with a nod.
