It all started when a handsome mysterious stranger driving a beat up pickup showed up at my doorstep. The neighbors silently wondered who he was. He didn't dress like everyone else, he didn't carry himself like anyone else. While Barbie had been cheating on Stan for a month already, Stan didn't really begin to become suspicious of her behavior until about a few weeks ago. He had been traveling quite a bit and made it a point to pay more attention to see if his gut was right.
That's about the time when Beth Anderson, my next door neighbor, peeked through the fence to find Bobby naked and wet, alone with Barbie. It had to be the most exciting thing to happen to Beth that day, because by that evening, when Bobby walked Barbie home, and the bored women peeked out their windows for the show, the rumor mill had already begun.
Barbie couldn't stop mentioning Bobby to Stan. How he was a war hero, and he had traveled the world. How fun he was and how excited Rory was to have him back. How he had taken Lilly out to Chicago to dance with the negroes. How the women spent their days watching him do yard work for his sister-in-law, admiring his firm, sweaty body while their husbands softened at the office.
Stan got a hold of their phone bill and noticed many calls to a number he didn't recognize. A lake house owned by the Lightlys. Stan got around to asking Rory if he had been up there recently because he was thinking of buying some property, and that's when Rory told him no, but his brother went up there for a couple of weeks recently to fix the place up.
Then Barbie disappeared from the crowd on the Fourth of July, and Stan went back to the house looking for her. He spotted Bobby emerging discretely through the back door, breathless and sweaty. Then he peeked into the empty house and saw his wife coming downstairs.
And yet, Stan wasn't ready to confront Barbie. Barbie was his world. His attractive, tall, blonde, younger wife. His prize. The mother of his children.
Then he got the call. Barbie had been in an accident. He needed to get home right away. It wasn't looking good for her.
He sped to the hospital. She never woke up.
The police told him a man was with her who fled the scene. They wouldn't comment on who. It was because they didn't know. But talk moves faster than sound and when he found out the Chesterfields' boys were the first people on the scene, he stopped at their house. He was golf buddies with their father who was happy to help the distraught man.
The boys told him what they told the police. They weren't sure, because it was so dark. But it was a male—tall, brown hair. They said it kind of looked like Rory, but it couldn't have been Rory. He wasn't in town. His car wasn't in his driveway. Rory was Stan's friend, he was one of them. It had to be the suave guy who had paraded into their town, who piqued everyone's interest and made a mockery out of their lives just by his presence. Whose arrival coincided with his wife's disinterest and distant behavior. The nigger lover. Now, that guy would be the type to swoop in and steal women. Besides, Rory and Lilly were the perfect couple. Two good-looking folk from good families. Rory was the responsible brother with the stable job. Bobby was the vagabond who dropped out of college. And why would any man step out on a woman as beautiful as Lilly?
When Stan asked more, they admitted it could have been Rory's brother. And when he kept asking, they became sure it was.
Stan went back to his house. The next morning, people had already begun to stop by with food and condolences. But not Lilly. What did she know? She knew her brother-in-law had done it. Her car was out front, but she remained holed up in that house. A few “helpful” neighbors mentioned they saw her helping Bobby pack his things in a hurry.
Stan saw how protective she was about Bobby at that dinner, when she snapped at him for the jabs he took at her brother in law. Of course she would help him get out of town.
So Stan got in his car and thought maybe he'd get lucky if he went looking for the son of a bitch. Because he was so afraid of losing Barbie that he didn't step up and protect her when he had the chance. But now he would make things right. So he drove and drove until he spotted Bobby's signature truck, parked at a lonely motel.
We see what we want to see.
And this . . . I never saw coming.
At first I thought it was leftover fireworks from the fourth. No. That's not true. I told myself that's what they were. Because I felt like the clock had finally stopped. The countdown had reached zero. I knew this was not innocent child's play.
I ran to the door and flung it open. And that's when I saw Bobby on his knees, clenching his abdomen, his white shirt growing red.
Stan stood behind him, holding the gun, but his eyes were glazed over.
“Stan!” I screamed in a blood-curdling voice. “What did you do? What did you do?” I cried, running to Bobby as he slumped to his side.
“Lilly?” Stan murmured, seemingly ripped out of his trance. The sound of footsteps and murmurs coming towards us scared Stan away. The gun slipped from his hand. He ran to his car and sped out of the lot.
I laid Bobby onto his back, cradling him in my arms.
This couldn't be our story. I finally had him. We wagered everything. We paid our dues. We suffered. We earned our chance.
“Call an ambulance!” I yelled to those who ran over. “You're gonna be okay, Bobby,” I wept, placing my hand over his, pressing down on a wound.
His eyes were open, and he was still coherent. “Lilly, listen . . . I need you to call Will.”
“Don't talk like that,” I rebelled against his tone of resignation.
“Lil . . .” his eyes were warm and comforting despite the obvious pain he was in. “I was supposed to die on the hill . . . but Curtis gave me the extra time to find you. To tell you I never left you.”
“Stop . . . you're gonna be fine . . .” But his face grew whiter, while white on his shirt had all but disappeared.
“I got so much more. These were the best weeks of my life. And I got to have all of you for a day. So I'm gonna be okay . . .” His voice dissipated. I patted his face frantically to keep him awake.
“No!” I shouted. “You don't get to leave. You are the best part of me, Bobby.” I sobbed into his neck. “I'll have nothing left.” I cradled him back and forth like a baby. Like I could nurse life back into his body.
His eyes opened again, as if he had used sheer will to stay a little longer.
“Promise me . . . you won't . . . stay. You won't get pulled back in. Live a . . . hundred . . . lives for us.” His words came out in staccato bursts as his chest quivered.
I didn't want to promise. Because that would be accepting that Bobby would be gone.
“No . . . you have to stay.”
“Promise,” he rasped.
I nodded. “A million.” Those words I had just uttered to him minutes before were full of promise. They were a vow to support each other in living our lives to the fullest. To making up for the years we lost. To sharing our lives with each other. Now, they were comfort to a dying man. Now they would become a responsibility I had to shoulder alone. They were a solemn oath.
“Will . . .”
I nodded, assuring him I would follow his instructions.
“You promised you wouldn't leave,” I cried into his ear.
He turned the hand on his abdomen up and threaded his blood-soaked fingers into mine. “Never,” he mouthed.
“No . . . no,” I sobbed.
Hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me away as I wrestled them.
“Ma'am. Ma'am. The ambulance is here,” a voice from behind said firmly.
I watched helplessly as the men worked on Bobby. The life slipped from my body, as if I had died but was somehow still breathing.
“Ma'am. Ma'am . . .” a distant voice echoed. I looked up at the stranger in a daze.