“That’s from him? Mr. Vernon?” I pick up the envelope—my heart is trying its best to punch through my rib cage. “Do I have to read it here in front of you?”
“You are free to go, Mr. Bass. Enjoy your monster truck rally. Happy birthday to Tommy. And have fun resurrecting our girl. She’s got work to do yet.”
The Crab and I look into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then I say, “Thank you, Mother Catherine.”
She nods with a quiet confidence, and the light in her eyes glows brighter than I have ever seen it shine before.
I jet out of the building and across the parking lot.
Inside my car, I rip open the envelope with trembling hands.
My eyes race back and forth, but I can’t get the words into my head fast enough—and when I finish, I have to reread the letter immediately just to make sure I fully comprehend.
Once I’m sure I understand what Mr. Vernon is suggesting, in the privacy of my vehicle, I raise two sets of devil horns above my head, stick out my tongue, and scream like a proper metalhead for a good three minutes.
EPILOGUE:
PORTIA KANE
John Figler is a law-abiding high-school student. He says in his letter that he has read almost everything of mine and is now prepared to state the single idea that lies at the core of my life’s work so far. The words are his: “Love may fail, but courtesy will prevail.”
—KURT VONNEGUT JR., Jailbird
CHAPTER 34
When my phone’s navigational system tells me I’m close enough to see the spot, I search the triangle of grass at the heart of this little western Massachusetts town, which looks just as Chuck described. I immediately spot Mr. Vernon sitting on a park bench with a small yellow dog in his lap, basking in the midafternoon sun.
I park my truck at a distance and watch him for a time. He’s wearing a blue turtleneck, which makes him look like a sea captain or an elderly Ernest Hemingway. He’s also looking up at the clouds, petting his rather calm dog. Mr. Vernon’s peaceful expression seems very much at home on his face. I fight the urge to smack it off. I also want to give my former teacher a fierce hug.
My mind flashes on the last time I saw him caning his way into the Oaklyn police station. I can’t believe how much time has passed.
It’s a strange mix of emotions—excitement, anger, relief, and even disbelief.
So much of the past is being dredged up.
And yet we’ve come full circle somehow.
Chuck was right—I need closure, which is why I’m here. I haven’t been able to move on.
I’m stuck.
Desperate.
I find myself walking toward Mr. Vernon.
He recognizes me now, even though I have on sunglasses and a silk scarf tied around my neck, but he doesn’t stand, maybe because of the dog on his lap.
He’s scratching the dog’s floppy ears and smiling, peaceful as the Buddha.
When I’m within earshot, in an overly dramatic voice, Mr. Vernon says, “‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’”
“What? Who said that?” The bitchiness in my voice embarrasses me, even though I have a right to be bitter.
“Martha says that to Mary. John 11:28. Am I not your Lazarus?” he says. “My mother was big on making me memorize biblical verses when I was little. I can damn near quote the whole New Testament.”
“I think that teacher reference would make you Jesus, right? You are the teacher.”
“I’m definitely not Jesus. No, you’d be Jesus in this metaphor. I am the metaphorical Lazarus, and you are—”
“Oh, fuck metaphors already. This isn’t English class, for Christ’s sake. And fuck you for leaving me like that at the Manor. That was a mean, horrible, cowardly thing to do. We’ve been worried for years!”
“In all fairness, yours was a pretty dirty trick played at a time when I was in crisis. You were deceitful,” he says. “You didn’t take into account the emotional shock that—”
“We were throwing you a party!”
“Well, I didn’t want a party.”
I smile proudly. “Well, you invited me here today. So I must have been right about something.”
“True.” He nods.
“And I still haven’t forgiven you, for the record.”
“Well, I forgave you. Officially,” he says. “Quite some time ago.”
“I remain pretty pissed off.”
“And yet you came to see me.” He’s lost weight, and the skin hanging from his jaw sags red and loose, which maybe explains the slightly outdated turtleneck choice. Mr. Vernon’s wrinkles have deepened, and yet he looks younger somehow, less stressed, maybe even at peace.
“What the hell is this about?” I say and then laugh in spite of myself. “Why have I driven all the way up here? Am I out of my mind? It’s like we’re yoked in some strange way. Like we’re—I don’t know. I’m too tired to be clever these days.”
“Will you sit with me?” he says, and pats the empty bench next to him.
Sitting down next to Mr. Vernon feels wonderful, maybe because I’m truly exhausted after the six-hour drive—not to mention the toll that my failed life has taken on me—but I can’t resist saying, “I knew you wouldn’t kill yourself. You’re better than that.”
“I really don’t think it’s a question of being ‘better,’ but being sick. It’s more of a mathematical equation maybe. When the bad tips the scales egregiously . . . I had a couple of close calls, if you really want to know. Spent some time at a facility. Nice place on a lake. It was good for me. I took some meds for a while. Talked to a few shrinks. Some good. Some crazier than me. Even wrote a letter to Edmond Atherton. Forgave him too. Spent a lot of time wrapped up in a wool blanket, sitting on an Adirondack chair watching loons—listening to them call to each other across the water. Have you ever heard a loon call? Beautifully haunting. Healing. They just keep calling and hope for the best. There’s something to be learned from that.”