I can never say it enough..but I love you guys! You. complete. me. LOL. Thank you so much for reviewing!
To answer some questions...
Jenny7: The "L" word will become an issue in the future. ;) Right now, I think they're probably both in denial..after all, they're so good at lying to other people that they can probably fool themselves as well.
CorruptPunkPrincess (Katie): I emailed you at your Hotmail account. ;)
musicbrat: The "entirely different reason" was just a reference to the fact that they were gettin' busy on the Monopoly board (instead of Kate kicking it trying to get away from Sawyer's kiss, like the first time.)
Chapter Nineteen
Kate sat at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of iced tea and staring at the photograph she'd found buried deep inside the closet of the downstairs bedroom - the room that had once been Sawyer's. She'd been examining it for about twenty minutes now, but it hadn't lost her interest yet.
Not that there was anything particularly notable about the picture itself. It was a standard-issue school photo; a kid seated on a stool in front of one of those bland, undistinguished dark blue backdrops that school photographers the world over seem to prefer. Judging from the retro brown-and-white striped shirt the boy wore, it appeared to have been taken in the mid-seventies. But it wasn't the shirt that had caught her attention when she'd pulled the 5 x 7 print out of a pile of old birthday cards and newspaper clippings. It was the look in the little boy's eyes - a look she knew all too well.
He stared at the camera defiantly, fiercely, without a trace of a smile, as if this was something he was being made to do against his will. She could imagine the anxious, frazzled teacher standing off to the side watching this procedure, tensed and ready to drag the kid back to the stool if he tried to make a run for it. Kate almost smiled at the thought of the torment he must have been to his teachers. He had the tousled, scuffed look of a boy who, no matter how recently he'd been groomed and scrubbed, would manage to look like he'd been fighting in the dirt a mere ten minutes later.
In this photograph, he was tanned, as if it had been taken right at the beginning of a school year, after a long summer spent outside in the sun. His dark blonde hair was flecked with lighter gold, and it badly needed a trim. His eyes were a clear, startling blue, the color of the lake when the light hit it in just the right way. But what Kate had noticed immediately upon glancing at the photograph was the expression that lurked in those eyes behind the indignation. It was a fearful, haunted look...the look of a boy already searching for something that he was destined never to find.
Scrawled hurriedly, distractedly across the back in a woman's hand were the words "James - 2nd Grade." Nothing more. No last name, no year, no age, no dedication to a friend or relative. Just the barest minimum of description, as if the woman had suspected even then that nobody was ever likely to care what James had looked like in the second grade, so why waste time with the details? Kate wondered if his mother had written this, maybe when she'd already commenced her affair with the man who would ultimately be the cause of her death. Or had this picture been taken after that tragic night, the words written by a distant aunt or cousin who'd been saddled with the responsibility for an angry, wounded little boy she didn't know how to deal with?
While she was still weighing these possibilities, Kate heard footsteps on the back porch. She tensed, surprised that she hadn't heard any car door slam. She'd apparently been looking at the photograph so intently that she'd blocked out background noises. Waiting apprehensively for the sound of knocking, she was relieved to hear instead Sawyer's keys jingling in the lock.
It took him awhile, as it always did. He was having trouble getting used to the new locks. With amusement, she heard the key chain drop to the porch, followed by his muttered, "God damn it." She considered getting up and unlocking it from the inside, but she knew that would piss him off. He hated any gesture that implied he needed help. So she just sat there, waiting.
Finally, he managed to stick the key in and turn it at the right angle, pushing the door open. She turned around to face him, smiling a little. She was still surprised by how glad she was to see him when he returned from one of his outings. It was good to be alone for awhile, but it was even better when he came back.
"Brought Chinese," he said by way of greeting, dropping some bags on the countertop.
"Sounds good," she replied. She took another drink of the iced tea as he came around behind her, leaning down to brush his lips against her neck. Setting the glass down, she said, "Look what I found."
But he'd already seen. Even as she spoke, she could feel him tense up behind her, drawing back a little at the same time.
"Where the hell'd you get that?" He spoke flatly, almost emotionlessly.
"In the closet in the downstairs bedroom."
"What were you in there for?"
"I was cleaning." She turned around a little to face him, disturbed by the tone of his voice.
"Cleaning," he echoed. "Kind of becoming the all-purpose excuse for pokin' around in shit that don't belong to you, isn't it?"
Surprised and hurt, she couldn't even answer him for a second. "I told you I was gonna clean in there before you left. You didn't say anything. Were you even listening to me?"
Not responding, he tore his eyes away from the picture and moved over to the refrigerator. Taking out a can of beer, he drank about half of it in one swig.
She watched him, confused, trying to understand. "It's just an old school picture, Sawyer. What's the big deal?"
He turned toward her, and she could tell he was making an effort to control his temper. "What's the big deal?" he echoed. "Maybe the big deal is that I don't wanna see the damn thing. Did you think of that? It ever occur to you when you dragged it out that maybe it's not somethin' I'd enjoy lookin' at?"
"There's no reason to get this upset," she said.
He shook his head in contempt. "No.. 'Course not," he said sarcastically. "Wonder how you'd like it if I waltzed in here with a little memento from the good ol' Iowa days...asked you to take a look?"
She lowered her eyes to the floor, a vague sense of recognition finally dawning. She realized that she'd made a mistake.
"But that'd be different, right?" he went on, bitterly. "Because then it'd be you."
She sighed deeply. Everything had been going so well lately; almost too well. But she'd counted on it being him who'd finally screw things up, not her. Now she felt terrible. She also couldn't believe that she hadn't predicted this, considering the way he generally reacted to anything related to his history. And she should have used for a guide the way she felt about her own past, like he'd just pointed out. But that had never been a useful tactic before, since nobody besides him had had anything remotely in common with her. She kept forgetting how similar the two of them were.
"If I'd have known it would bother you like this, I wouldn't have brought it in here," she said quietly. "I wasn't thinking. Okay?"
He took another drink, not meeting her eyes. "Get rid of it," he muttered.
She nodded, standing up. "I'll put it back."
"No," he said. "Throw it out."
"Sawyer," she said, sounding disappointed in him. "You don't really want to do that."
"Oh, so you're gonna tell me what I want to do? Seems like maybe you're not the best one to predict that, sweetheart, seein' as how you thought bringin' it in here would be a nice little surprise for me."
He still hadn't lost the edge of contempt in his voice. She was trying her best not to respond to it.
"Throw it out," he repeated, with emphasis.
In a calm voice, she attempted to reason with him. "You might regret it someday. You think you won't now, but eventually, you'll wish you still had it."
Setting the beer can on the counter, he walked over to her and firmly yanked the photograph out of her hand. Before she could even say anything, he'd ripped it in half, angrily.
Kate swallowed, fighting back tears. It was strangely painful to watch the destruction of that defiant little second-grader, even if was only a piece of paper.
After tearing it in half, he put the two halves together and ripped it yet again, and then methodically did the same with the resulting four pieces. She watched him mutilate it into ever smaller and smaller squares with a sad, guilty look on her face. He put the pieces in the sink, and then reached into his pocket, withdrawing a lighter. He flicked it a couple of times, but nothing happened. There was no flame. Frustrated, he kept trying.
As she watched him, she was struck by the eerie parallel between the expression on his face now and the expression on the face of the child in the picture. With a stab at her heart, she noticed for the first time how much he did look like a little boy. He'd made it to the age of thirty-five with only a few external changes. For all intents and purposes, he was still the eight-year-old from the photograph - insecure, tormented, and full of rage. She almost couldn't bear the sight of how strangely vulnerable he looked trying to get the lighter to work.
Wordlessly, she moved over to a drawer by the sink and took out a box of matches. She pulled one out and struck it against the side of the box, holding it out to him. He looked at her, finally meeting her eyes. The match started to burn down towards her fingers. "Take it," she urged.
Reaching out, he pinched the bottom of the wooden stick and quickly dropped it into the sink onto the shreds of paper lying there. One caught the flame, then transferred it to the rest. Swirls of smoke began to rise toward the ceiling.
After a minute or so, there was nothing left but ashy, almost transparent fragments of black paper. He turned on the faucet and washed the mess down the drain.
She waited until he finally turned back to her. They stared at each other for a few seconds, warily.
"I'm sorry," Kate said.
He turned away, leaning back against the counter, and looked out at the room. He still had a stormy expression, and she knew instinctively that he wasn't going to answer her. She could tell he just wanted her to get the hell out of his way, but she wasn't going to give in and let him brood.
Stepping in front of him, she put her arms around his neck, tightly, refusing to move until he showed some sign of responding. "I said I'm sorry," she whispered close to his ear.
He finally heaved a deep sigh, and she felt him relax a little bit. He brought his arms up around her, encircling her shoulders.
"Let's eat," he said, sounding tired.
She pulled back and looked at him, as if to check that he was certain he didn't want to talk about it. But his face made it blatantly obvious. She should have expected that.
"All right," she agreed, resigned to his way of dealing with emotional issues by not dealing with them.
She went to set the table.
When she woke up at about three in the morning, she knew almost instinctively that he wasn't in the bed, even before she opened her eyes. It just felt different, somehow. Reaching over to confirm her suspicions, her hand touched the blanket and then the pillow, but there was nothing else there.
She waited a few minutes, thinking he might just be in the bathroom, but deep down she didn't really believe that. Even while asleep, she must have had some awareness that he was absent, and that he'd been gone for awhile. That was what had awakened her - the sense that something was missing.
He'd been distant and withdrawn all evening, she reflected, even though she had to give him credit for trying to pretend that nothing had happened. He'd made an effort, at least. He hadn't sulked, something she was strangely proud of him for. But he wasn't a good enough actor to be able to seem completely natural, and ever since dinner she'd been burdened with guilt about taking the stupid picture out of the closet.
What the hell had she been thinking? It wasn't like she had the excuse that she couldn't understand where he was coming from. She knew all too well what it was like to be confronted with the ghosts of the past. Torturing herself with these and similar thoughts, she'd tried to make it up to him in bed, but even there, she could tell his mind wasn't really focused. And when Sawyer wasn't interested in sex, it was clear that there was a problem.
When it became obvious, after a few minutes, that he wasn't just in the bathroom, she slowly pulled herself up and felt around for the bathrobe. There was no chance of getting back to sleep. Although she was already dreading it, she needed to find him. She didn't know exactly where he was, but she knew, with almost one-hundred percent certainty, what he was doing.
She checked the kitchen first, but it was empty. As she was getting ready to try the living room, however, she noticed that the heavy inner door was wide open, leaving just the screen door as a barrier. There was a faint glow coming through it, which meant that the porch light was on, farther down near the corner of the house.
She approached the door tentatively and took a deep breath. Gently, quietly, she inched it open and stepped out, looking down to where she knew he'd be sitting, in the porch swing.
She waited a few seconds, but he didn't look up.
"Not really the best light for reading, is it?"
Finally, he pulled his eyes away from the worn, faded letter in his lap. Still not turning towards her, he looked instead out over the darkened valley. He didn't say anything, and she could tell he didn't want her there. But just because she could pick up on hints didn't mean she was obligated to follow them.
Wrapping her arms around herself in the chill of the early October air, she walked slowly to the swing and sat down next to him, following his gaze out toward the mountains. They sat there in silence for a few minutes.
Still looking out away from him, she spoke. "It was a really stupid thing to do. I was an idiot." A faint smile touched her lips. "And you know I wouldn't admit that to just anybody."
"This don't have nothin' to do with you, Freckles." He sounded weary.
She closed her eyes for a second. "Maybe not, originally. But we both know if I hadn't made you look at that picture, you wouldn't be out here right now, reading that thing." With these last words, she shot an angry glance toward the letter, as if was personally responsible for all his problems, rather than the incident that had inspired him to write it.
"Tell you the truth, I'm glad you found it. I feel better knowin' that it doesn't exist anymore."
She exhaled slowly, choosing not to respond to the patent absurdity of this remark. She had a feeling he was baiting her, and she wasn't going to let him turn this into a fight.
Waiting a few seconds, she watched his profile closely.
Finally, seeming to gather courage, she asked, almost in a whisper, "It wasn't him, was it?"
He seemed impatient. "What?"
"The man you killed."
Now he turned towards her, unnerved. "What the hell you talkin' about?"
"When we were playing that ridiculous game, on the island. 'I Never'," she said, rolling her eyes slightly and enunciating the words as if to emphasize their silliness. "You said you'd killed a man. Or implied it, anyway." She shifted her position on the swing to get more comfortable, turning her entire body to face him.
"At first, I thought it must have been him. The guy you were looking for...the one you wrote the letter to. But now...I don't think so anymore." She looked at him steadily. "Because if you'd already done it, I don't think you'd still be reading that thing. I don't even think you'd still have it."
She waited, a little nervous about what kind of effect this would have on him, but also curious.
It was having some kind of impact, that was for sure. She could see it in his eyes. He looked almost trapped, the way he'd looked when she'd first revealed to him that she knew he'd written the letter himself. He attempted to shake himself out of it, turning back out to the yard with a faint contemptuous smile. "Don't think so, huh?"
"No."
"Don't be too sure about that." He paused. "You're right about one thing, though." Looking over at her sharply, he continued. "Wasn't him."
She nodded a little, as if she'd already known the truth.
"Will be, though. Just as soon as I find the son-of-a-bitch."
That was what she'd been afraid of.
"Then you're still planning on going through with it. Even now...after all this time."
"Of course I am. It ain't really the kinda thing you outgrow."
"But things change, Sawyer."
"Not that much, they don't."
"It's been almost thirty years," she went on. "You're telling me that in thirty years, you haven't found one good reason to let this go? There isn't a single thing in your life worth giving this up for?"
She was referencing, however indirectly, the two of them, and whatever the hell it was they had going on here. He knew what she was getting at.
"No offense, darlin', but this letter's been keepin' me company a lot longer than you have. I figure I owe it somethin', at least."
She was visibly hurt by the words. Her face clouded over, and she looked away quickly, not wanting him to see how easily he could wound her.
It wasn't possible for her to hide it, though, and he felt terrible. But that didn't make his words any less true.
Neither one said anything for a minute, letting the reverberations of this last remark die away.
Kate was the next to speak. She started out softly, contemplatively, almost as if she was thinking aloud. "What happens if you find him...and he's just like you?" She looked over at him. "What if he's just some screwed-up, miserable guy who can't stop thinking about what he did...about the lives he destroyed? What are you gonna do then? Are you still gonna kill him?"
"Yeah," Sawyer said simply, and she could tell he meant it.
"You think it'll change anything? That it'll make you feel any better? It won't." She smiled sadly. "Trust me," she whispered.
"Thanks for the advice, Puddin'...But I think I'll just wait and see for myself."
She was getting frustrated with him. "Okay, then... what if he's married? And he's got kids, or maybe even grandkids by now. You're gonna kill some kid's grandpa because of something that happened thirty years ago?"
He ignored her.
She continued, obviously upset. "Or what if he isn't married, but there's a woman. Someone who worries about him, and cares about him, and depends on him." She swallowed hard, trying to hold back tears. "And even though she knows that he's selfish and stubborn and doesn't really deserve her, still...Her heart would be broken if anything happened to him."
Her voice wavered dangerously on these last words, and he looked over at her, tortured, wondering who exactly they were talking about here. The look on her face didn't leave much room for debate.
"Then I guess maybe she shoulda been more careful about who she took up with." He said this pointedly, but softly, not trying to hurt her.
She nodded slightly, almost with bitterness. Glancing away, she brushed the sleeve of the bathrobe angrily across her eyes.
Speaking with control, but coldly, not really caring now if she hurt him, she asked, "You want to know what I think, Sawyer? I don't think you care whether you kill this guy or not. And the sad thing is, you don't even know it."
He looked at her, confused.
She went on. "I don't think he means anything at all to you. He's just an idea. He isn't even real. I'm sure he was, to begin with. When you still thought of him like a separate person. But that all changed the day you decided to start using his name...when you started living his life."
She could tell he wished she would stop, but she had no intention of doing that. Not until she'd said what she had to say.
"After that, it became almost like a habit. You keep looking for him, trying to kill him, but what you don't seem to realize is that it's not even about that anymore. You're way past the point where it could make any difference at all. Because I've seen the way you obsess about it...the way you torture yourself...even the way you let other people torture you, sometimes literally - for no reason at all. You never had Shannon's medicine, but you couldn't just say that, could you? Because the truth is..." She paused, and said quietly, "You don't want to make this guy suffer. You want to make yourself suffer."
He glared at her, disturbed and pissed off by the way she could hit so close to home. "You want to psychoanalyze me, sweetheart, maybe we oughtta go inside so I can lay down on the couch. Would that help you out any?"
Ignoring him, she continued. "The funny thing is, I didn't even realize it until now. But I don't even think you know which one of you is which anymore - which one's the victim, and which one's guilty. Or maybe," she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "you think you're even more guilty than he is. After all, he never killed anybody, did he? At least not directly. Can you say the same?"
His eyes were glittering and haunted, and she began to wish she hadn't gone quite so far. In a ragged voice, he said, "Think it's about time you went on back to bed."
"I will," she said. "But I want you to promise me...that you'll stop this - stop trying to find him. That you'll make some kind of effort to let this go." She watched him hopefully, almost desperately. "Please, Sawyer."
He waited a few seconds, seeming to consider, but then said sadly, "I can't make you that kinda promise, Freckles. Wish I could." And he looked as if he sincerely did wish it.
Unbearably disappointed, she tore her gaze away from his and stared at the ground. "Okay," she whispered. "I won't ask again."
Was that a reassurance? It sounded more like a threat. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to be able to give her that promise and mean it, but he couldn't just lie to her. She'd see through it.
Standing up, she bent down to kiss him, briefly. He tried to hold her there longer, but she pulled away.
"Are you coming up?" she asked.
"Be there in a minute."
She started back down the porch resignedly. At the door, she paused to glance back at him. He was still watching her. She looked utterly defeated.
Pulling the screen door open, she stepped inside and closed it softly behind her.
He continued to stare at the space she'd occupied. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned his eyes back to the letter.
