“Billy Braithwaite could never look me in the eye again. He went back to school right after that night, and didn’t come into the Tavern again. People of his ‘station’ didn’t drink at the Tortoise, so I think he took to drinking at home by himself. I always thought that was why he never married. Who would want to live with a recluse?
“I saw him once, the day after the one-year anniversary of his incident with me. I was coming out of the pharmacy and he was headed in. I wouldn’t have noticed him except he was wearing a heavy sweatshirt with the hood up on a steamy August day. He looked away fast, but not before I saw two huge black eyes and a white bandage across his nose. I can only imagine what the sweatshirt was hiding.
“At that Sunday’s dinner I made mention of having seen him and the condition he was in. Gram gave her patented ‘oh dear,’ and Pap didn’t say a word; choosing to take a swig from his beer instead. Santiago let the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth before wiping it away with his napkin upon receiving a look from Pap.”
Silence fell between us and we both went off with our own thoughts as the sun dipped down towards the Melanski. The slivers of river I could see through the trees glistened like fire. I thought about the mills, and my life.
I looked back on it in a new light that felt old. My emotions were always fragile. I was delicate. As I’d aged I’d assumed it was because I hadn’t had a father to toughen me up. My mother did her best, and she was as hard and tough as they come, but she wasn’t a father.
I looked up to Pap, but he wasn’t all that interested in me until I came to work for him, and by then it was too late. He’d already decided I was too soft and he only had a couple of years of life left.
Santiago had been the only other male in my life. He did treat me better than most of the other people I saw him interact with in town, but there was always a distance; more like an uncle or a much older brother. He’d sneak me beers and tell me stories of working in the cemetery, but he didn’t do any of the things I thought a father was supposed to; take me to ball games, get me to try out for sports, teach me how to work with my hands, tell me about life.
And still, a piece of me always wondered if he was my father and that’s why Pap let him work at the cemetery, and why he, Santiago, had treated me alright as a kid. Since I’d become an adult, whatever that is, I’d never had the courage to ask Ma. I’d asked all the time as a kid and her stock response was that he’d been an important man in Berwick who’d died in a mill fire years ago.
That had always been enough, knowing he was important. It wasn’t now, but I still didn’t know how to ask, so I broke the silence, looking for an entry point.
“I guess that explains why Santiago was so angry when we buried Billy Braithwaite,” I said.
“Oh?”
I proceeded to tell my mother the episode of the burial and how it had driven the rift between us. She smiled when I told of Santiago urinating on the vault, shook her head and said, ‘Santiago’ with a false disdain.
“I’m sure he never would have told you this. He didn’t tell me until he had the diagnosis. Once a year after the assault had passed, he called Billy Braithwaite every day. Sometimes, if he’d been out late, he’d call in the middle of the night.
“He’d try to use a different phone each day, but called from the Tortoise most often. He never called from the cemetery, as he felt that would be a dead give away, but he assumed Billy knew anyway.
“He would tell Billy he was watching him and if he so much as looked in my direction or in the direction of another female, there wouldn’t be a person in the state who didn’t know what he had done that night.”
At this Ma turned and looked into my eyes. Her smile was sad, but her eyes were steel.
“I don’t want you to think any less of me, but I suppose I can’t help it if you do. I loved Santiago for making those calls. It’s awful, but the weakness and fear I felt behind the Tavern that night, I felt so helpless, and it was this one stupid man, boy really, who made me feel that way and knowing that Santiago put fear into him, well, it made me feel better.
“And knowing Santiago, when he said he called him every day, he called him every day. I’m sure it drove Billy mad.”
“Do you think that’s why he killed himself?”
“I don’t know why he did what he did, but I guess it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Why did Santiago call him? Did he say?”
“Not in so many words, but I can guess. I think he did it for Pap. I don’t think Pap ever wanted Billy to have a moment’s peace. Pap would never have said as much, but even at that point in time, he and Santiago had a good read on one another, so I’m sure he said something in passing and Santiago took it and ran.”
“Do you know who beat Billy up?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure you can guess.”
Her statement hung in the air as the darkness fell around us though the sky still held the gentle light of the gloaming. Crickets and other night creatures began their songs. I fought with myself, struggling to find the courage to ask the question I needed the answer to, hoping it was somewhere in the darkness.
“So that’s why you cared for Santiago once he got sick?” my voice sounded thin in the darkness, “because of how he protected you and then tormented Billy the rest of his days?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” my tongue tripped over the thoughts in my head, “of course it’s enough, and I’m not questioning why you did it. It just…”
“Seems strange because you can’t help remembering how miserable and angry he was and that those traits don’t deserve care, or love. And maybe, you’re wondering if I cared so much because you think he was your father.” I could feel her smile as she said this.
