Free Grist Mill Road by Christopher J. Yates Page B

spoken to her. Shaking their heads, they took out their notebooks and that’s when I learned, from the mouths of others, the story of everyone’s role, my own included, in the tragic loss of a thirteen-year-old girl’s left eye. And it went like this—
    Matthew Weaver, Hannah Jensen and I had ridden up to the Swangums together on our bikes the previous morning, setting out from the parking lot of O’Sullivan’s Dive Inn at or around 11:00 A.M.
    Matthew had led the three of us to a spot in the woods where he and I often hung out.
    Arriving at the spot, Matthew sent me away.
    I departed.
    Matthew tied Hannah to a tree.
    Matthew proceeded to shoot at Hannah for several minutes with my BB gun.
    Hannah passed out from shock when one of the BBs struck her left eye.
    It was unclear how long she was unconscious but a few minutes after Hannah awoke, I returned to the scene.
    At this point I was stumbling and faint, bleeding from a hole in the back of my head.
    Nevertheless, I cut Hannah down from the tree and helped her back to civilization.
    At which point, I passed out.
    Yes?
    Oh, just spectacular.
    You see, sometimes you do nothing at all and everything turns out just peachy.
    Next the detectives asked me what put the big hole in my head and I paused, as if waiting for a fog to clear, and told them I was strolling around killing time after Matthew sent me away but had gotten spooked by a snake. Fearing it was a rattler, I turned around and ran but, panicking, tripped and fell. No, I had no clue where Matthew might be now. Yes, I certainly could describe to them the spot where the shooting had taken place and tell them what it was we did up there. I was happy to help as much as I could.
    Dad grasped me warmly by the shoulder. Good work, Patch, good work, he said. And now that I think about it, I’m fairly sure that was the last time in my life that my father ever looked proud of me.
    *   *   *
    ALTHOUGH HANNAH WAS JUST ALONG the corridor from me, I didn’t get to see her at all in the hospital.
    In fact, it would turn out that our family’s time in Roseborn would soon come to an abrupt end and I wouldn’t set eyes on Hannah Jensen again for another two decades, until our accidental meeting on the concourse of Grand Central Station. So I never did get to ask her why she didn’t mention anything to the police about the fact that I was there and did nothing—not that I would ever have asked such a question at that age. Instead I becamehaunted by the thought that one day the police would find out about my cowardice and I would be sent to jail where, with good reason, my fellow prisoners would abuse and torture me for my role in such a despicable crime. If I had thought about Hannah’s silence as to my presence, I probably would have guessed it was some kind of tit for tat situation. OK, so I had done nothing to stop Matthew from shooting out her eye. However, I did go back for her. I did cut her down and help her get out of that place. Perhaps Hannah thought we were even.
    Only it would turn out that the explanation for why Hannah Jensen had said nothing to the police was something completely different. But I wouldn’t learn this new side to the story for many years to come, several weeks after seeing her at Grand Central, a revelation that I overheard accidentally as she spoke on the phone. And now this revelation has become the monstrous secret that paces the perimeter of our marriage, like something that prowls in the shadows, a dangerous creature awaiting its moment, the right time to strike.
    When it comes to our relationship, we have only ever stated one rule out loud, a rule made at Hannah’s request. We don’t talk about that day. Ever. And if Hannah doesn’t want to talk about it, then certainly neither do I.
    So if I haven’t shown this account to you, Dr. Rosenstock, perhaps this is the reason why. Because to have kept the truth to myself