Different Circumstances: Part 11D of ?
by Marzee Doats
Author's Note: Well, I'm at it again, inventing more history for our characters. This time it's Emily. I didn't really think that the way she let Jonah off the hook at the end of Vox Populi rang true, given her obvious earlier antipathy for him. Since my own dislike for Emily is rather well known, I hope I've done a decent job representing her case.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wednesday, November 29, two months after the bombs
The swearing-in ceremony - inauguration was too grand of a word for what had happened, Gray Anderson's attempts at oratory notwithstanding - was over and the crowd had dispersed. Johnston Green was back in his street clothes and free of the suit and strangling necktie that Gail had made him wear. She'd been right though, he knew, to insist that they approach this transition with as much dignity as they could muster. His heart was breaking as anyone who bothered to look him in the eye could see - few did - but his upper lip remained stiff. Johnston Green would burn no bridges, nor would he vent his spleen as he left office.
Gail and Eric were upstairs packing thirty some years' worth of his personal effects under the watchful eye of Bill Kilroy. Johnston had tried to enter his office... but it wasn't his any longer, and he had been unable to step over the threshold. Recognizing his tenuous grasp on composure, Gail had kissed him on the cheek, and whispering that she'd find some way to maintain civility around Eric without him, she'd sent him away. Johnston had gone for a walk around the building, ending up here, where he always did, at the entrance. But this time, he didn't mount the steps, didn't enter town hall as Jericho's mayor. Instead he stood back, viewing everything through new eyes.
The crowd was gone, but people still hurried by, on their way to receive their allotment from the airdrop supplies. This was the second wave; those who had attended the swearing-in were the first to receive their portion, and now their friends and neighbors were coming for theirs as word spread. Johnston couldn't help but wonder if there would be anything left when the news finally made it out of town and to the farmers and ranchers who were so much a part of Jericho, and yet were still separate.
"Dad," Jake called out, breaking into Johnston's silent musings. He found that he was staring, unseeing, at the eagle monument to Jericho's World War I dead. 'A War to End All Wars' the plaque read; but the veracity of that statement was something to wrangle over on another day. Jake jogged down the steps, coming to a stop beside his father.
"We're gonna have to take down all these posters," Johnston began before Jake could voice the empty platitude Johnston knew was coming. He stared for a moment at a 'Gray Anderson for Mayor' yard sign. "Get this place back to normal," he muttered.
"Think normal's where we're headed?" Jake asked, his tone only somewhat sarcastic. He waited a beat before quietly adding, "I, uh, I'm sorry."
Johnston looked his son squarely in the eye, heartened by the sincerity he recognized in Jake's gaze. "So am I," he muttered gruffly.
Before Jake could respond, Dale Turner came running toward them, shouting for Johnston. "Mayor!" Dale gasped out, "Mitchell Cafferty did it!"
"What?" Jake asked, frowning at the teenager.
Letting his voice drop so only the two Green men could hear him, Dale explained. "He killed Gracie."
"What're you talking about?" Jake questioned, grabbing Dale's arm.
"He said," Dale began, breathing hard, "That if I refused to give him - give him a cut of the store, he'd do to me what he did to Gracie."
Jake and Johnston exchanged a look, both coming to the same unsettling realization. Whatever else Jonah Prowse was guilty of, it didn't appear that he was guilty of Gracie Leigh's murder. "Let's find Gray," Johnston decided.
They found him at the back of the sheriff's station, outside Jonah Prowse's holding cell. Bill Kilroy was inside, his gun drawn, trying to force Jonah to stand. "What're you doing, Gray?" Johnston demanded, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "Bill?" he ground out. "No longer worried I'll steal some priceless piece of town property like, I dunno, a stapler?"
"I'm - I'm just doin' my job," Bill replied, backing into the corner of the cell, his gun still pointed at Jonah. He clutched the weapon so tightly it shook in his hand. "Followin' - followin' orders, that's all."
Clearing his throat, Johnston fought the urge to educate Bill on what history had to say about those who just followed orders. Taking a step back, he allowed Jake to move into the small space. He watched Gray as Jake's gaze swept over him, taking in the scene, feeling the slightest twinge of morbid amusement at the new mayor's disconcerted expression.
"We're - uh - we're moving him to a - a more secure location," Gray stammered out, eyeing Jake suspiciously as the younger man pushed his way into Jonah's cell. "There's lots of folks who want to rip him apart after what he did," Gray continued, his tone turning indignant as he gained some confidence.
Johnston was distracted for a moment by the sight of his son standing not three feet from the man who five years before had ordered him beaten and left for dead. Jonah Prowse had long been a boogeyman in Johnston's mind, one of the very few people he truly hated in this world, but here and now Jonah looked ... pathetic and scared. "We don't know what he did," Johnston growled, his gaze narrowing. "He hasn't had a trial yet."
"Well, these are special circumstances, Johnston," Gray began, suddenly all bluster and bravado. "We don't have a judge," he puffed, "And as mayor, I formed a tribunal, and he was found guilty."
"You did what?" Johnston barked, taking an instinctual step toward the other man, wanting nothing more than to wring his neck. 'Two hours,' he thought, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, 'And it's already come to this.' Gray had promised that justice would be 'swift and sure' in his acceptance speech, and something in his delivery had set Johnston's teeth on edge, but he still hadn't expected this ... this kangaroo court.
"Mitch just told Dale that he would do to him what he did to Gracie, if he didn't go along with him," Jake protested, nodding at the teenager lurking in the doorway.
"Well, did anyone else hear him say that?" Gray questioned, turning his glare on Dale.
Shrinking back, Dale mumbled, "No..."
Gray continued to glower at the boy. "Well, that's hardly proof," he declared.
"What?" Dale argued, gaining some measure of courage from Gray's easy dismissal of his story. "You - You think I'm lying?" he sputtered.
"He was trying to intimidate you," Gray claimed, the derision in his tone raising Johnston's hackles. He realized then that this is how it was going be; there would be no contrary opinions in the Anderson administration. "It doesn't mean he actually did it," Gray sneered. With those words, he landed his intended blow, a gleam of victory entering his eye as Dale shrank back.
"This is unbelievable," Jake interjected angrily, striding across Jonah's cell towards Gray. "You don't even care who killed her," he accused, incensed. "You just want Jonah."
Johnston watched as Gray turned to face Jake, eyeing the younger man suspiciously through the cell bars that separated him. "I've got Jonah," Gray declared, swaggering, somehow, in place.
"He's innocent," Jake barked out, frustration bleeding into his tone.
Gray's response was immediate and contemptuous. "He's far from innocent," the mayor argued. "He's been preying on this town for years. From -"
"Of this crime, he is innocent," Jake insisted, interrupting, his hand clenched into a fist, his voice now a low growl in the back of his throat.
Fury flashed in Gray's eyes at that, and he shouted over Jake, refusing to acknowledge the other man's argument. "From now on, guys like him go away," he declared, pointing an accusing finger at Jonah as he strode forward, blocking the cell door. "We don't coddle them," he scoffed, throwing a look over his shoulder at Johnston, "And, we don't make deals with them."
However, Johnston did not see the scathing indictment in his successor's gaze. He was studying Jonah, the subject of their conversation and of so much consternation, as he sat on the cell's hard bunk, for once looking subdued - even cowed - by the situation he found himself in. Jonah, in turn, was watching Jake, his expression equal parts surprise and confusion, a perfect reflection of Johnston's own feelings. Johnston hadn't expected to find in his son such an ally against Gray's tactics, especially not in defense of Jonah Prowse, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Turning his head he tried to catch Jake's eye, but his son ignored him or didn't see him, and instead plowed ahead, laying into their new mayor.
"What are you planning to do Gray?" Jake demanded, starting to shout. "You gonna kill him in cold blood? Say he tried to escape while trying to move him to a secure location?" he guessed. "Who's going to do it? Bill?" he questioned, turning his glare on the nervous deputy. "Hmm?" he challenged, looking between Bill and Gray. "You gonna put a bullet in Jonah's head when Gray tells you to?"
Bill's eyes widened with panic, and he threw the mayor a nervous look. "I'm - I'm not shootin' anybody," he argued.
An eerie moment of silence fell over the jail, broken when Jake pulled his own gun loose and offered it to Gray. "It's up to you, Gray," he declared. "Huh. No?" Jake lunged at Jonah, taking him by surprise and pulling him off the bunk and onto the floor. Holding him by the collar of his t-shirt, Jake pressed the gun to back of Jonah's head, forcing him onto his knees. "This is what you want, right?" he asked Gray, his tone chillingly calm. "You make the rules, decide who lives and dies?"
"Go ahead and do it," Jake ordered, watching the color drain from Gray's face. "But you do it here," he insisted, "In front of me and Dale, in front of everyone. Not in - not in some back room with your buddies." He held the gun out to Gray again, who ignored it.
Alarm crept into Gray's expression, and under less dire circumstances - though, unfortunately, those were the only type of circumstances they seemed to have these days - it would have secretly amused Johnston to witness his successor so obviously in over his head. But Johnston didn't trust Gray to react wisely to Jake's goading, and he found himself grinding his fist against his leg and holding his breath once more.
"Don't let someone else do your dirty work for you, mayor," Jake began, his voice low, though his volume increased until he was shouting at Gray. "You want him dead, you take this gun and blow his brains out!"
Gray hesitated, frowning and starting to turn away. But in the next instance he shocked Johnston and even caught Jake unawares when he grabbed the gun from Jake's hand, cocked it, and forced his way into the cell, leveling it at Jonah.
"Gray, no," Johnston choked out.
"You better be damn sure he's guilty," Jake barked, making the argument his father seemed unable to give voice to. "Because, if he's not, you're a murderer," he declared. "And justice will be swift."
At first, Jake's words seemed to have no affect on Gray who kept the gun trained on Jonah Prowse. Dale, and then Johnston looked away, unable to leave, but also unable to fully witness the execution. Even Jonah closed his eyes, grimacing. He'd lived by violence his entire life, and he'd always known he would die violently, but he still wasn't ready. Finally though, Jake's words seemed to penetrate the haze of fear and power and hatred under which Gray was operating. He lowered the weapon, and without protest, allowed Jake to disarm him.
* * * * *
The mayor's office was almost stripped bare, with only a few knickknacks remaining on the desktop and the credenza. After the confrontation in Jonah Prowse's jail cell, Jericho's two living mayors, the current and the former, had trooped upstairs to finish in private their negotiations over Jonah's fate. Eric, steering a hand truck loaded with boxes of books had been exiting the office as they'd arrived, and Gail had been working on the desk. Johnston had sent her with their son, promising to pack the last box himself, and Gray had thrown himself down on the couch in the corner, content to simply watch.
"So, Jonah agrees to leave town, and not come back," Johnston said, summarizing the agreed-upon terms as he wrapped a small tabletop clock in newsprint. The clock had been a wedding gift from his Johnston grandparents, one that Gail had never cared for. He remembered the glee with which she'd deposited that clock on his desk, not quite thirty years before when they had moved him into this office. 'A piece of your heritage,' she'd called it, though they had both known she'd been nothing short of ecstatic at the prospect of getting it out of her house.
"Exile," Gray muttered. He seemed to be testing the word, tasting it, trying it on for size, and - Johnston recognized - he seemed to like it.
"Worked for the Greeks," Johnston agreed, turning around to retrieve off the credenza a lopsided piece of pottery, barely recognizable as a duck, that Eric had presented to him as a Father's Day present when he was seven. He wrapped up the small sculpture and then reached for Jake's offering from the same year - somewhat more easily distinguished as an airplane - and secured it as well. "Town gets rid of Jonah Prowse," Johnston reasoned, "And you get to save face."
Gray nodded, clapping his hands together, the deal made. "All right."
"What about Mitchell Cafferty?" Johnston inquired cautiously after a short pause. "Not only did he murder Gracie -"
"Allegedly," Gray muttered, interrupting.
"Fine," Johnston acknowledged the correction with a single, sharp nod. "Not only did he allegedly murder Gracie, but he's also in control of Jonah's operation now. That's a problem."
"Sure doesn't leave Jonah much of anywhere to go, does it?" Gray chuckled, smirking rather unpleasantly. He cleared his throat and sat forward on the couch. "Why don't you let me handle all that," he requested. Gray's tone was relaxed enough, but there was no mistaking the underlying message of 'butt out'. "Look - um - Johnston," he continued, folding his hands together, "I love this town. I just want to keep it safe, like what it always was."
Johnston bit his tongue to hold back the retort he really wanted to make. He loved this town - it was his town - and he was terrified for her future now that Gray was at the helm. But it wouldn't do to lose what little access he now had to town hall. Swallowing a snide comment, Johnston settled for a not entirely friendly warning. "What it always was is a democracy," he proclaimed, reaching for the top to the carton he'd finished packing. "That's easy when things are going all right," he declared, fitting the top over the box, "But when you're scared or mad, it gets a lot harder."
Gray's genial mask slipped away, his face contorting with anger at the affront of receiving a lecture from Johnston Green. "I'll try and watch out for that," he returned brusquely.
It occurred to Johnston then that he and Gray resembled nothing so much as two bucks in rut fighting over a doe. That doe, of course, was Jericho, and they both stood likely to lose their racks if this stand-off continued, to further stretch the simile. But Jericho didn't need two wounded mayors. Rather, she needed a strong leader, and whether or not that was Gray, her citizens had still chosen him for the job. It was time to back off - though not to back down. Johnston picked up his box, moving around the desk and toward the door. "I think we'll all be watching," he warned, exiting the office.
Jake was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, as apparently was Emily Sullivan, who sat on the bench outside the Parks and Rec office, playing with the buttons on her coat. She stood up as soon as she spotted him, taking a hesitant step in his direction. "So?" she inquired anxiously, glancing sideways as Jake when he moved in from his sentry position to join the conversation, leaving about two feet between them.
"Gray's agreed to exile," Johnston reported, hefting the box in his arms in order to get a better grip on it. "Jonah's not welcome in Jericho past five tonight. Ever again," he added a beat later.
Her lips pursed, Emily shook her head, acknowledging that she understood. "Okay," she mumbled, taking a deep breath before finally meeting Johnston's eye. "Thank you."
"Emily," Johnston began slowly, trying to find the appropriate words. "If - if you have anything you want to say, anything you want to talk about or ask," he suggested, "Now's probably it. Gray won't - he won't provision Jonah, not so much as a bottle of water."
"Oh." He watched her as the import of his words sunk in. "Oh," Emily repeated, licking her lips. "Well, uh, can I - can I give him a few things?" she asked softly.
"Yeah, anything but a weapon," Johnston answered, relieved that she understood what he'd been suggesting. "No guns or knives," he clarified, sliding past her to deposit his box on the bench. He noticed then, for the first time, that a poster advertising senior computing classes at the community center was still tacked to the bulletin board outside the office door. Shaking his head, Johnston turned around. "Any chance Roger likes to fish?"
"No, not even a little bit," Emily sighed, "But I still have all of Chris's fishing gear. I'll - I'll see if he wants it. What - what do I do now?" she asked.
"Talk to Bill," Johnston advised. "His orders are, at five o'clock, to drive Jonah three miles out past the end of the Tacoma bridge and leave 'im. You'll have to negotiate with him."
"Okay," she nodded, and stepping toward Johnston, she surprised him with a hug. "Thank you, mayor," Emily whispered into his ear before letting him go.
"I'm not the mayor anymore, Emily," he corrected, but she was already hurrying toward the stairs. Johnston turned an appraising gaze on his son. "You were awful quiet through all that," he observed.
Jake shrugged. "What's to say? Jonah's a cockroach, we both know that," he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets. "The odds are still way in his favor, no matter how Gray tries to stick it to 'im. There was all this money we never found," Jake admitted, allowing a humorless chuckle. "He coulda used it for anything. There's gotta be houses, businesses - something - that only Jonah knows about. Hell, even if it's just a storage unit somewhere, he'll survive."
"I see," Johnston murmured, moving to take a seat on the bench. He felt a little naïve, having never considered the possibility the Jonah would have other resources available to him. "I thought he went to Emily," he said, looking up at Jake, "Because he didn't have anywhere else to go."
"He was injured and she was probably closest," Jake argued. He stepped toward his father and then joined him on the bench. "I dunno. Maybe he is alone in the world without a thing to his name, but I doubt it. That's not the Jonah Prowse I know, the Jonah Prowse I studied." He looked sideways at his father. "Like I said, cockroach."
"Cockroach," Johnston repeated, nodding slowly. "That's what I can't - what I don't understand, why - how - you could defend Jonah, after everything he's done?" he questioned, expelling a frustrated breath. It always came back to this; Johnston could talk to anybody - had made a career out of it - but always with Jake, he couldn't seem to talk to his son. "What he did to you ... and you fought for his life."
Jake's expression was unreadable. "It wasn't about Jonah," he muttered, looking away, his gaze fixed on a water stain left over from a burst pipe twelve years before. All the repairs had been made and the wall had been repainted three times, but still the blemish bled through. "It was - it was about what's right," Jake declared softly. "It's that we can't be a town that 'disappears' people like some South American military dictatorship. And, you know, we let Gray start formin' tribunals every time he wants to get rid of someone," he laughed sourly, "Then all he has to do is recruit the right coupl'a teachers from high school, and I'm gone."
"You never killed anyone, Son," Johnston reminded. Jake flinched and then tried to cover by stretching his hands over his head. Frowning, Johnston continued, trying to maintain his train of thought, not wanting to consider what Jake's reaction meant. "And, I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations on gluing - gluing all the classroom doors shut during finals week is up."
"Right," Jake agreed, chuckling distractedly. He forced himself up off the bench, walking a few steps away. "The look on Principal Gerhardt's face," he said, more to himself than his father, "Classic."
"I wanted to throttle you," Johnston admitted. "And then your grandfather reminded me about a certain sheep attending my senior prom."
Turning around, Jake eyed his father speculatively. "No kiddin'," he muttered, the ghost of a grin touching his lips. "And, you know, it wasn't just me and Stanley. Half the boys in the senior class were in on it."
"Which is the only reason they let you graduate," Johnston grumbled. He leaned forward, peering down the hallway in the direction of his former office, and then got up, shaking his head. "I better get. Your mother's waitin' downstairs for me in the truck," he explained, picking up his box. He stepped toward Jake, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good job today."
"You think?" Jake snorted, one eyebrow raised. "'Cause I don't know. After - After the bridge and everything, I promised Heather I'd try to keep from getting myself killed," he confessed. "That I'd think about her, first, before I did anything."
Johnston let out a relieved sigh. "Well, your mother will be glad to hear it," he told Jake.
"Sure," he acknowledged with a nod, catching his father's eye. "But you know, I get the feelin' that promise is gonna get harder and harder to keep, especially with Gray in charge around here." Johnston, not trusting himself to respond, grasped his son's shoulder again, squeezing. "But I also don't know that I trust what the rest of you would teach my kid about me if I'm not here while he's growin' up," Jake offered, only half-joking, "So I guess I better make sure I stick around."
"Way things are goin'," Johnston returned, his expression tightening grimly, "You need to be here just to make sure your child gets to grow up."
"Yeah, that too," Jake agreed, distracted. "Hey, you better go," he reminded, "Mom's waiting. I need to stick around, I think, just in case," Jake decided, running a hand through his hair. "And, April stayed home with Heather today, but, uh...."
"I'll check up on her," Johnston offered. He and Gail had both been concerned about how tired Heather had been the night before, even more so when April had explained at breakfast that she'd ordered her to sleep in. But April had assured them Heather was fine, and that she'd just overdone a little. Johnston, recognizing the warring concerns in his son's eyes, decided that Jake wouldn't be here now if he thought his wife was in any real danger. "I would've anyway."
Jake nodded. "Thanks, Dad."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Saturday, November 24, five years before the bombs
Heather slipped out the back door of her aunt's home and onto the enclosed sun porch. "Sorry Buster," she apologized, blocking the more active of the Reinhardts' two ancient cats from entering the house. "Trust me," she advised the feline when he meowed plaintively, "You don't want to go in there. It's crazy." The sun porch was well sealed, and while it was certainly warmer within the space than it was outside, it was still chilly compared to the house. "How 'bout a little heat?" Heather offered as a compromise, turning on the space heater. "How's that?" The old cat meowed his approval and settled down in front of the heater, while Rosie, his sister, stretched and then hopped down off the wicker rocker, moving to join him. "Well, thank you," Heather chuckled, taking Rosie's seat.
By rights, Heather should have been inside helping to clean up. It was nearly eight, and the house had finally cleared out except for the closest of family. Jessica had convinced Aunt Gerri to go upstairs and lie down, accompanying her mother to her room, and everyone else had gone to work washing dishes, putting away food, and returning furniture to its rightful place. Heather had started to follow her sisters-in-law into the kitchen, but Kerry had stopped her. "You've been playing with your phone for the last half hour," she'd smiled, pointing at Heather's purse, sitting on the couch, her cell phone shoved in the side pocket. "Even after we stopped torturing you and took on Mikey instead."
It was Heather who'd started that line of conversation, looking for anything besides her own love life to talk about. Out of desperation, she'd asked about Michael's girlfriend Caitlin, only to learn that the rest of the family had already met her when they'd gone to see his inaugural college hockey game a few weeks before. Everyone liked Caitlin, but having wrung all the fun out of teasing Heather that they were likely to, they'd been happy for a new target. Heather had enjoyed the time with her brothers and their wives, and she'd even finally gotten her baby fix, playing with Hannah for twenty minutes before she'd gotten fussy and had ended up back in her father's arms for a bottle. But through it all, Heather had been thinking about Jake and she had been playing with her phone, just itching to call him.
"We can handle this," Kerry had assured her, giving her a little push toward the couch. "We've got ten people to put away food. You wanna call him," she guessed, "So just go do it."
"Kerry, I can't," Heather had protested, pulling a soft chuckle from her sister-in-law.
"Sure you can," Kerry had grinned. "Just do it. Go hide in the guest room or somethin'," she'd advised. "You know, about a month after my first official date with John - hockey team after party, of course - it was time to go on the annual Burke family ski trip. I was miserable, and I couldn't tell anyone why," she'd confessed, smiling at the memory. "It had only been a month, and I'd hated John Lisinski with a passion since the first grade. And, of course this was about three months before everyone in the world got cell phones, though Dad did have a car phone," she'd giggled. "It didn't work too well in Vermont. But I tried, every night, for as long as I could stand to sit out in the parking lot. Dad almost killed me when he saw the bill," Kerry had sighed, still smiling softly. She had handed Heather her purse and given her another shove. "Go call him."
Heather had given her sister-in-law a big smile and an impulsive hug before heading to the guest room. She'd found the bed still covered in coats and purses, and so she'd grabbed her own coat and had headed back into the family room, sneaking out the back door and onto the sun porch. Now, settled in the rocking chair, she smiled to herself as she thumbed '*5' - the 'JKL' button - her speed dial number for Jake.
He answered on the third ring with "Hey, babe," the husky quality of his voice sending a shiver up Heather's spine that had nothing to do with chilly air of the sun porch.
"Hey, yourself," she sighed happily. "Where are you?" Heather asked a moment later, letting her head fall back against the chair, causing it to rock gently. She could hear all kinds of background noise that she couldn't quite make out.
"Bailey's," Jake answered. "Stanley and I decided we better walk Eric," he explained, chuckling. "Beer and Buffalo wings," he continued. "The wings are in your honor. Stanley's idea."
"Well, I'm touched," Heather giggled. "You can tell Stanley I had some corn chips earlier in his honor," she instructed. "You had to walk Eric? That doesn't sound good. How is he?"
"Still on crutches," Jake admitted, "You did quite a number on him. But we're pretty sure he'll live. Of course," he continued, raising his voice, undoubtedly in a bid to get a rise out of his brother, "He's two-thirds through his beer, so that means he'll be passin' out here any minute."
"Ha, ha. Very funny," she heard Eric protest.
Stanley came to his friend's defense - sort of - claiming loudly, "Nah, come on now. Eric's good for a beer and a half these days."
Heather groaned, fighting a chuckle. "Now you're just causin' trouble 'cause you can," she accused lightly. "But tell Eric that I'm sorry about his ankle, okay?"
"Aw, babe, it's okay," Jake murmured. "Here," he declared, and then his voice was muffled as he held the phone away from his mouth. "Heather wants to talk to you," she heard him say.
"Hey, Heather!" Eric greeted a few seconds later. "What's goin' on? I mean, besides the obvious, uh, the funeral," he corrected himself, clearing his throat in embarrassment.
"Well, the funeral's over," she replied, "But we still have the memorial hockey game in the morning."
"Of course you do," Eric agreed, allowing a small chuckle.
"Yeah," Heather acknowledged, exhaling softly. "Anyway, I just wanted to say, again, that I'm really sorry about your ankle."
"It's okay," he assured. "Totally forgiven. But, do me a favor," he requested, whispering into the phone, "Convince Jake he should buy tonight. He'll listen to you."
Giggling, she promised, "I'll see what I can do."
"And, I'll make sure he behaves," Eric offered, his volume returning to normal. "Remind him he's got a girlfriend if need be."
Heather, pulling her envelope of pictures out of her purse once more, shook her head. "I'm not worried," she told Eric.
On the other end of the connection she heard scuffling noises and unintelligible arguing that was punctuated by a rather wimpy 'Ow!' from Eric. Heather assumed that Jake had gotten his phone back in the melee, so it was a surprise to hear Stanley's booming voice in her ear. "Heather!" he declared cheerfully. "How are ya?" he asked. "Sorry to hear about your uncle."
"Thanks, Stanley," she sighed. "I hear you're having Buffalo wings in my honor," she giggled, "So I had corn chips in yours."
"You callin' me corny, Lisinski?" Stanley demanded, chortling.
"I'm sayin' you grow corn," Heather returned, making an exasperated noise.
"True," Stanley agreed. "And you know," he continued, "Not everyone's cut out for farming."
"Well of course not," Heather acknowledged, taking the picture of Jake checking the airplane's engine out of the envelope. She examined it, smiling at his serious expression.
"So, now that you're back home with your brothers and everything," Stanley began, clearing his throat, "I hafta ask. Do I still remind you of them?"
She groaned, dropping the picture in her lap and covering her face with her hand. "You really don't want me to answer that question!" Heather told him, giggling softly. "They just spent the last hour torturing me about Jake," she complained, slumping in her seat. "You know what? Tell him I need some sweet talk so I can recover," Heather requested.
"Sweet talk?" Stanley crowed, necessitating that Heather hold her phone away from her ear for a moment. "Jake?" he laughed, "You sure he's capable?"
Heather fished the picture of Jake kissing her - and her kissing him back - in front of Dolly Doolittle's out of the envelope. "You'd be surprised," she told Stanley, chuckling huskily.
"Okay then," he declared, actually sounding a little flustered. "And, on that note - and with loverboy givin' me the evil eye - I'm gonna give you back. See you in a couple of days."
"Thanks, Stanley," Heather sighed, "See you soon."
She heard Stanley tease Jake, saying, "Your girl's been traumatized. Says she needs some sweet talkin' from her Jakey."
"Gimme that," Jake grumbled, but in the next second his voice was warm and soothing in Heather's ear. "So, babe," he murmured, "You need some sweet talk, huh?"
"I do," she agreed, another shiver running through her body. Heather knew she had to be grinning like an idiot. "Ugh. My brothers," she complained, laughing softly at herself. "And their wives, and my cousin. They're all very interested in you, and they interrogated me for an hour. I need comforting."
"Poor baby," he murmured, his voice full of affection. Heather closed her eyes, picturing him smiling at her as he said it. He'd reach out and touch her hair she knew, curling a strand of it around his finger, tugging it ever so gently before finally letting go. His next words, though, brought her back to the present, and she reluctantly opened her eyes. "Hold on a sec. I'm heading for the car," Jake explained, and she could hear the snatches of conversation changing as he moved through the tavern. "I think we're gonna need some privacy."
"Privacy's good," Heather replied, giggling softly. "I'm guessin' an audience might be a little inhibiting, and we wouldn't want that."
"Yeah," Jake drawled, and Heather could imagine the smirk on his face. "We wouldn't want that. So," he continued a few seconds later, clearing his throat, "How're your aunt and cousin doing?"
"My aunt seems pretty wiped out," she sighed, "And Jessica is trying really hard to hold it together. She wanted us to go do karaoke tonight," Heather groaned. "We talked her into hockey in the morning instead. The Burton Reinhardt Memorial Cup."
"Hey," Jake greeted someone in passing, chuckling. "Sounds about right," he told her, "From everything you've said, I think your uncle would approve."
"I think he would," Heather agreed. "Of course, he also approved of karaoke," she giggled softly. "However, since he and my brothers aren't actually blood relatives, I guess it's not some weird recessive gene on the 'Y' chromosome."
The background noise from the bar was suddenly cut off, and Jake announced, "Okay, almost there. You don't like karaoke?" he asked next, sounding surprised.
"You do?" she returned, sounding even more surprised.
Jake let out a loud snort. "You wouldn't catch me dead anywhere near karaoke," he informed her. "But I think you'd be good at it. You've got a good voice, and you like to sing."
"Really? You - You think I have a good voice?" Heather squeaked, sitting up in her chair, causing it to sway slightly. She glanced down, her gaze once again focusing on the photographs in her lap. Jake smiled up at her from in front of the diner and she caught herself smiling back.
"I love your voice," Jake replied quietly. She heard him pull his car door shut and then a sigh escaped him. "You sing to yourself when you forget you're not alone. I like listening to you. You should sing when you remember I'm there, too, if you want."
"Oh. Okay," she whispered, picking at a small speck of white lint on her black skirt. "I will," she added, allowing a nervous giggle. "But just at home, you know. I so don't have the karaoke gene," she groaned. "Now, Andy had his song all picked out," Heather informed him. "And, it was in your honor."
"What could he possibly wanna sing in my honor?" Jake asked, his tone dubious. Heather giggled again, louder this time, her answer unintelligible. "What?" he demanded, starting to laugh. "Now you've gotta tell me."
"Uh, 'I Wanna Be a Cowboy'," she replied. "See, Mikey was calling you 'the boyfriend'," Heather continued in a rush of breath. "Which - actually - he's been calling you that all along, but anyway he was calling you that, and then Deb said 'Jake' was a cowboy name, and then... well, it just went downhill from there," she sighed, shaking her head.
"I see," he chuckled, though it was clear from his tone that he really didn't. "I guess all I can say to that is, 'and you can be my cowgirl'," Jake teased.
"I'll take that deal," Heather murmured, her attention settling on the picture - the other picture - of the two of them in front of Dolly Doolittle's. Their heads were together, his arm around her, and they were both smiling widely. She loved his smile. "I miss you," she sighed.
Jake allowed a resigned chuckle. "I miss you, too. How long 'til you come home?"
"Forty two hours," Heather guessed, checking her watch. "Forty three, with the time difference."
"Too long," he complained grumpily.
Heather caught herself nodding. "Definitely too long."
"So what else did your brothers do?" Jake asked, letting out a long breath. "Or should I just skip to the sweet talk?"
"They threatened to come out to Jericho to check you out," she groaned, shaking her head. "I told Andy you had a gun and a badge, and that you could arrest him."
"Babe, I can't arrest your brother for visiting you," he laughed, "Or for bein' protective. I can pretty much only arrest him for growing, manufacturing, transporting or selling illicit substances. No matter how much I love you."
Twirling a lock of hair around her finger, Heather licked her lips, "Well," she began quietly, "How much do you love me?"
She held her breath, waiting for him to respond. Jake seemed to be holding his breath, too. "More than - I love you more than you could possibly know," he choked out finally, his voice cracking on the last word.
"That's how much I love you, too," she whispered, wiping her suddenly sweaty palm on her skirt. Jake's breathing was loud in her ear, and Heather caught herself once more holding her breath. They were both anxious, she knew, terrified of being too exposed, and in the end she'd gotten the reassurance she'd been fishing for. She could let him off the hook for anything more, for now. "So, I guess I can forgive you for refusing to abuse your power and arrest my brother for being annoying," she told him, the words tumbling out of her in a nervous giggle.
"Thanks," Jake murmured. "But, you know," he suggested, allowing a relieved chuckle, "You don't have to tell 'em I can't arrest them."
"Sneaky," Heather declared, laughing. "I like it."
"So, what else happened?" he rasped out, his tone once again sending tingles up Heather's spine.
"They asked if I had a picture of you," she told him, stacking the photos together, the 'kissing' picture on top. "Well, not my brothers," Heather clarified. "Jess, Deb, Mandy and Kerry. They knew, just by looking at me, I swear. John got my purse for me, and I had to show 'em."
"Which picture do you have with you?" Jake asked. "God, I hope not the vampire picture from Halloween," he muttered. "They see that, your brothers will all be on that plane with you."
"I dunno, the vampire picture might have been okay," Heather informed him, the pitch of her voice rising so that she ended her sentence with a squeak. "I can explain Halloween. But I - I had some pictures from the trip to Wyoming with me. They, um, were all very interested in the one that, uh, Hank Doolittle took. The one of us kissing."
"Oh," Jake muttered.
"Yeah," she sighed, drawing that one word out for three or four syllables. "Mikey saw it. He thought he was being funny and asked if you still had your tonsils."
"Well, I do," he confirmed, clearing his throat.
"I know," Heather admitted. "Or, I figured. I mean, it's not like -" Feeling the heat rise in her face, she cut herself off, covering her eyes with her free hand. "Oh, God, never mind," she swore, giving into an aggravated chuckle.
"Babe," Jake began, his voice in her ear an instant balm for her mortified sensibilities. "Don't be embarrassed," he commanded gently. "I like that picture, and I like - love - that I get to kiss you. So, no being embarrassed."
Her blush subsiding immediately, Heather caught herself nodding in agreement. "I - I love kissing you," she murmured. "And, actually, Mikey and John objected to that picture, but the girls kinda liked it," she giggled. "Deb says you're cute, and Jess says you're hot," Heather admitted. "But don't let that go to your head."
"I won't, promise," Jake chuckled. "It's flattering, but what I really wanna know is if you agree with them," he challenged, though a question rang in his tone as well.
"Well, I agree with at least one of 'em," Heather teased in return, earning a piteous groan from Jake. "Actually, what I liked best was what Rebekah said. Deb wouldn't let the kids see the one picture, of course," she emphasized, "But she did show them the one from the airport. Rebekah said we matched," she murmured, shuffling the photographs one handed until she was staring at the picture her niece had commented on. "She's six, so she just means we both have dark hair and were both wearing red shirts and jeans. But, I agree with her. I think we - we match in lots of ways."
"Definitely," he agreed. "We definitely match. And when we don't it's -"
"Complementary," she completed for him. "Though, I'm still not gonna read your cell phone manual for you, Tom Sawyer," Heather joked.
"So, you think I'm tryin' to get you to paint my fence, huh?" he kidded in return.
Heather found herself pondering the hidden meaning - if any - of 'paint my fence'. She started to giggle, softly at first but she quickly lost control, ending up snorting, and finally gasping out an apology. "I'm - I'm sorry," she snickered.
"Get your mind out of the gutter," Jake grumbled, fighting his own laugh. "I know what you're thinkin' and that's not what I meant. This isn't supposed to be that kind of conversation," he reminded.
"Well, what'd you mean?" she inquired her voice lilting, thoroughly enjoying herself.
"That I got it," he answered. "I even know it's Mark Twain."
"Very good," Heather pronounced. "I think you deserve extra credit for that, hon. April said you had ... issues with Huckleberry Finn," she decided, laughing softly.
Jake made a strangled sound. "Adventure story, I'm tellin' ya," he joked. "Two guys on a raft. But extra credit, huh?" he asked, his voice so warm in her ear she found herself imagining she could feel his breath on her cheek. "That's got possibilities," he drawled. "One of the hidden perks of dating a teacher, I think. So, are there, uh, rewards to go along with this extra credit?" he teased, his tone turning husky.
"You never know," Heather breathed into the phone. "But I do usually come up with somethin'," she reminded. "Though I thought this wasn't that kinda call," she added, giggling.
"Yeah," he acknowledged with a sigh. "So.... Forty two hours."
"Forty two hours," she confirmed.
"Come home," he ordered softly. "Just make sure you come home. Even - even if I have to watch you grade book reports all night, that's fine," Jake told her. "It's fine. You can read me the funny parts," he suggested. "I'm - I'm just happy when I'm with you, whatever we're doing." He paused, exhaling deeply before saying, "You make me happy."
"You make me happy, too," Heather replied. Her heart seemed to be beating faster and she laid her hand over it. "I -" The door from the house creaked softly signaling someone's arrival, and she completed her statement in a rush of breath. "I love you," she told him, glancing over at the door to meet her father's surprised - shocked was more like it - gaze across the twelve feet that separated them.
"Love you, too," Jake returned.
Heather smiled at that, and then, watching her father as he pulled the door shut behind him, caught his eye again, offering him a distracted version of the same smile. "Jake, I - I better go."
"Okay. I love you," he repeated.
She gathered up the photos in her lap, tucking them back into her purse without bothering to find the envelope. "I love you, too," she answered, zipping the bag closed. "Call me. After you're done walking Eric, and you get home," Heather instructed.
"Coupl'a hours," Jake agreed. "Eric's probably under the table already anyway," he joked.
"Jake," she chastised him half-heartedly. "But, oh!" she declared, suddenly remembering her promise, "Eric wanted me to convince you to pick up the tab tonight. So, you know," Heather chuckled softly, "You should pick up the tab. There. I tried."
"I'll keep that in mind," he laughed. "Bye, babe."
"Bye," she murmured, thumbing off her phone.
Joe Lisiniski cleared his throat. "Michael and I are ready to go," he told his daughter, offering her an inscrutable smile. "I didn't know if you wanted to stay the night here with Jess, or...."
"No, I'm gonna go home with you guys," Heather answered quickly. "With hockey in the morning and everything, it's easier," she explained, tucking her phone back into her purse and starting to lift herself out of the rocker.
He waved her back into her seat. "Hold on a minute, sweetheart," Joe requested. "We haven't - we haven't gotten a chance to talk yet, really."
"I know what you're gonna say," she said, balancing her purse on her knees. "But, Dad -"
"How can you know what I'm going to say?" Joe interjected, settling on the wicker loveseat to the left of the rocker. "I don't know that I really know what I'm gonna say," he admitted, his smile transforming into the accepting and comforting expression that Heather had relied on for her entire life. He reached across the foot that separated them, enfolding her hand in his own and squeezing it. "In the last hour, each of your brothers has come to me, and in strictest confidence, told me that this boyfriend - Jake - is serious. They all seemed to think I needed to be warned," he tried to joke, though his gravelly tone betrayed the conflict in his heart.
"It is serious," Heather agreed, winding the strap of her purse around the fingers of her free hand. "And, I'm sure it seems way too fast to you, but -"
"You love him," he - very uncharacteristically - interrupted for a second time.
"I do," she confirmed.
He opened his hand loosening his grip on hers for a second before gently pressing her hand flat between both of his, holding it in place. "When you were born," Joe sighed, "Your hand was so tiny - so dainty - in mine. The boys' hands were small when they were babies, I'm sure, but I can only remember yours. I remember holding your hand against mine, like this," he explained, adjusting their hands so that they held them up, their palms pressed together. "And, I just couldn't get over how small it was." He caught her eye then, smiling. "You're thinking I don't know, or that I don't want to admit, that you're an adult now," Joe guessed. "But I do know that," he assured. "I've watched this hand grow," he told his daughter, wiggling his fingers against hers, "And I've watched you grow up and into, I must say, an exceptional young woman."
Joe stopped, his lips pressed together, and Heather could see the warring emotions in her father's eyes and behind the smile he continued to force for her benefit. "Dad," she said, wrapping her fingers around his. "Dad," she tried again, standing up, and then stepping toward him. He moved over, allowing her room to sit, which she did before turning and pulling him into a hug. Her father returned the embrace, clutching her to him and pressing a kiss to the top if her head.
"I just - just didn't plan on losing you to Kansas, sweetheart," Joe admitted, allowing a shaky laugh.
"You're not losing me to anything," Heather protested.
"I'm losing a little bit of you," he contradicted, sitting back and blinking rapidly. He held up his hand, illustrating an inch or so of space with his thumb and index finger. "Which was always going to happen, I knew that," Joe sighed. "I just hope that he's worthy of you and of your heart."
"He is," she promised, laying her head against her father's shoulder. "Jake is."
"Okay," Joe acknowledged gruffly, turning his head so he could kiss her temple this time. "Shall we go?" he asked a long moment later, finding Heather's hand again and squeezing it. "I believe you're expecting a phone call?"
Heather smiled at her father, nodding. "I am."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wednesday, November 29, two months after the bombs
Emily held Roger's old pea coat open for her father, helping him thread his injured arm into the sleeve. "These will keep you warm," she told him, referencing the coat, but also the wool socks, new shirt, hat, gloves and hiking boots, worn only once, she'd found for him. "There," she sighed, patting his shoulder.
Jonah had turned down the offer of Chris's fishing equipment, but he'd taken a backpack stuffed with supplies. He hadn't said anything as Emily had shoved her last half box of energy bars into the bag, though he had smirked at the slogan - 'Perfectly Balanced Nutrition for Women' - emblazoned across each wrapper. She'd continued searching her pantry for lightweight items, grabbing Cheez N Crackers snack packs - Roger's secret vice, nothing she'd actually yet deigned to eat - before stopping to consider whether a small jar of peanut butter was too heavy or not, given the six bottles of water she'd already packed along with a change of clothes. Rummaging through her kitchen junk drawer, Emily had located a spare box of matches which she'd then thrown into the pack, along with the medical supplies Jake and Dhuwalia had inadvertently left behind.
She'd scoured the house, looking through each closet, desperate to send him off as well-prepared as she possibly could - obsessed with the task, really - as she tried to work up the courage to take Johnston Green's advice and address her father. But in the end it was Jonah who took the first step.
"Emily," he began, turning around to face her. "When Chris was born...."
"Don't," she cut him off, taking a step back, and then another toward the dining room table, intent on checking the backpack one more time. This was all happening too fast for Emily; she wasn't used to complying with anyone else's schedule, least of all Bill Kilroy's or Gray Anderson's. Her whole adult life, she'd worked to arrange her relationships so that she had the upper hand, so she was the one in charge. Everything was better - easier - when she was in control.
Moving behind her, Jonah laid a hand on her shoulder. "When Chris was born, you were four years old," he reminded, tightening his grip when she tried to shrug his hand off. "Your mother said she wanted a clean break. I was into some bad stuff, and she didn't want you and Chris growing up in it."
"Some bad stuff?" Emily repeated, her tone incredulous. Quickly wiping one eye, she turned around, forcing Jonah to take a step back. "A -"
"What I've done isn't important, here," he dismissed, shaking his head. "I - I let her go," he explained, "But I didn't want to."
She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing her father closely. "God, she never got over you, even -"
"We loved each other," Jonah claimed, allowing a small grin.
"Yeah," Emily acknowledged, frowning as she hugged herself tighter. Jonah was half right, that much was for sure. She'd always known that her parents both loved and hated one another with equal passion. Emily had despised that ... that weakness in her mother's character, the fact that she'd allowed herself to be Jonah's doormat, continuing to love him even as she'd cussed him out, and always, always nursing the wounds from their last encounter. "It was like -"
"It was like you and Jake," he interrupted again, his grin widening. "I never did get what you saw in that boy," Jonah added, emitting a wheezing chuckle, "But, I hafta say, he still loves you."
"I was gonna say it was like a train wreck," Emily muttered, staring down at her shoes. She'd surprised herself and Jonah too, if the warning grunt he'd emitted was anything to go by. But she wouldn't take it back, Emily decided, looking up and meeting her father's now hard stare. "What do you expect me to say?" she demanded, worrying her lower lip. "My mother hated you as much as she loved you. And, you never let her alone long enough so she could get over you. You - you always showed up, picking at the scab," Emily accused. "You loved her?" she snorted, adding sarcastically, "That's great. You tortured her. And, you certainly didn't take care of her."
Reflexively, Jonah clutched one hand into a fist. "Watch it, little girl," he ground out.
Emily, though, having gained the courage to question her father's version of history, wasn't going to give up now. She glanced toward the living room, where Bill Kilroy waited, sprawled out on her couch, reading - of all things - Roger's last issue of Forbes. Bill looked up from his magazine, blushing so that she knew he'd been listening to their conversation. He raised an eyebrow in question, and she shook her head, turning back to face Jonah. She didn't need the deputy's assistance - his presence was an intrusion, she reminded herself - but at least it was a comfort to know he would help, if it became necessary.
"My mother never saw a doctor, not in twenty years," Emily informed Jonah with a glare. "She couldn't afford to. She went into the hospital on Tuesday and she died on Saturday," she said, shaking her head. "She didn't know she had cancer. I don't have my mother because of you."
Anger flared again in Jonah's eyes. "Carol made her choices. The mechanic," he practically spat out. "It wasn't -"
"My stepfather?" Emily questioned, shouting over Jonah. "You drove him off," she charged. "We were - we were a normal family," she sighed, her voice cracking. "For just a little while, we were like everybody else."
Emily had run into her stepfather, Dwight Sullivan, out with his family in Fielding just over a year before. She and Roger had gone to the movies, Roger complaining as he always did about living in a town that didn't even have its own movie theater. Emily had kissed him as he'd handed her into the car, teasing as she always did that it made going to the movies an event, as it should be. Waiting in line at the theater, she'd laced her fingers through his, cajoling him into a better mood by whispering silly, flirty things in his ear. Roger had been smiling by the time they'd walked into the theater, his arm wrapped around her. And then she'd seen Dwight with his wife and daughters.
Dwight had seen her, too, staring at him. It had taken him longer to recognize her - she wasn't ten years old anymore - but he had realized, finally, who she was. A smile had blossomed on his face, and he'd strode across the lobby, greeting her warmly and then pulling her into an awkward embrace. Roger had just stared. Dwight's family had joined them and introductions were made, Emily chuckling nervously as the middle girl - ironically her name was Emma - had asked if Emily was her stepsister. Clearing his throat, Dwight had answered, "No, not really, Emmers," before hugging her.
It was the same nickname he'd called Emily by when she was little, and she'd had to force herself to breathe and to smile through the rest of the conversation. Finally though, Dwight had said something about dinner at McDonald's and the girls and their mother had started toward the exit. "I was - I was sorry to hear about your mother and Chris, Emily," Dwight had told her, one eye on his departing family. "But it's good to see you," he'd smiled before muttering, "God, you look so much like her. Take care of her, Roger," Dwight had instructed, shaking the younger man's hand.
"I will," Roger had agreed, putting his arm around Emily once more. They'd watched Dwight walk off to join his family, Roger commenting, "Seems like a nice guy." Emily had only been able to nod, not trusting herself to speak as she'd watched Dwight hold the door open for his wife and daughters, laughing at some joke the youngest had made. "So, ready?" Roger had asked a moment later, leading her away. "You want popcorn?"
It had been a tantalizing glimpse of what her home life - her childhood - could have been like if only Jonah had kept his promise to her mother, and had walked away. Only now, with the memory of that night still fresh in her mind's eye, did Emily wonder about the fate of the Sullivan family. She hoped that they were okay and together.
Her expression hardened as she refocused her attention on her father. "You took that away from me - from me and Chris - and now I have no one left," she told him. "Not my mother, not my stepfather, not my brother, all because of you."
"I s'pose you blame me for the bombs, too," Jonah decided, snarling. "Sorry to disappoint you, little girl, but your old man's not quite that powerful," he admitted with a caustic laugh. "But, hey, if you need someone to blame, have at me, kid," he invited, pointing his thumb at his own chest. "'Cause in an hour, I'm gone. Then, if you're alone, it's because you're not doin' anything about it. You gotta nice, big house here," he reminded, waving his hand at the room around them. "You were gonna get married. You obviously get what you want. If you're alone," Jonah repeated, "That's on you."
"Roger was in a plane crash," Emily bit out. "I didn't have any control - any say - in that."
"Boo-hoo," he muttered. "You don' wanna be alone? Do something about it. Jake -"
"Jake doesn't love me," Emily interrupted, emphasizing each syllable. "He doesn't," she squeaked, looking away, into the living room, once again meeting Bill's most interested gaze. She glared at the deputy before turning back to face Jonah. "I thought he was working for you, and then Chris died, and I was so mad," she grumbled, shaking her head. "I hated him, and I let him know it. And then he fell in love with somebody else. He loves his wife," Emily admitted quietly. "And they're having a baby, and he can't wait to be a - to be a father. So don't think you can make yourself - make yourself feel better about leaving again, thinkin' Jake's here. He's not," she declared, forcing a tight-lipped smile. "Not for me."
Jonah stared at her for a long moment, his left eye twitching a few times. "So whaddya want me to do?" he argued. "Take you with me? Well, that's too damn bad, little girl," Jonah growled. "You're just gonna have to take care of yourself, 'cause I sure as hell can't do it for you."
"So, what else is new?" she flung back at him, her voice angry and taunting.
"You watch your mouth," he snapped in return, clenching his fist against his leg again.
Emily flinched instinctively, closing her eyes. Jonah had never hit her, but she'd seen him hit her mother, more than once, and she couldn't look, not now when her heart was pounding and she was expecting his hand against her face any second.
"Okay, time to go, Jonah," Bill declared, hurrying into the room, his hand on this gun. Emily opened her eyes, meeting his. The deputy nodded, clamping his free hand down on her father's shoulder. "Let's go," he repeated. "Gimme the bag, Emily," he instructed, "And we'll get outta your way."
She picked the backpack up off the table, handing it to Bill without saying a word.
"Say goodbye now," the deputy ordered, his tone gruff.
"Goodbye, Emily," Jonah intoned emotionlessly, shaking Bill's hand off as he took a step away from his daughter. "Take care of yourself."
"Yeah," she agreed with a jerk of her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "You, too."
Emily followed them to the front door, shutting and locking it after them. Turning around, she leaned back against the door, slumping, feeling thoroughly unsatisfied. She closed her eyes and let the tears come, rolling silently down her cheeks. She'd taken Johnston Green's advice, assuming as you had to these days that she would never see her father again. She'd wanted closure, though did the mayor of Jericho - no longer mayor she remembered belatedly - believe in closure? It seemed like much too much of an Oprah concept for him. And, it hadn't worked, whatever Johnston had meant to have happen, Emily was forced to acknowledge, a bitter taste pervading her mouth. It hurt more to have even a few of Jonah's answers than it had to have a lifetime of unanswered questions. It turned out, there was no such thing as closure.
"Okay," she breathed, pushing herself off the door. Emily wiped her eyes quickly. "Okay." She moved into the living room, replacing a throw pillow that Bill had moved and then returning the magazine he'd been reading to the top of the stack on the coffee table. Next, she crossed the hall, entering the dining room. Emily tucked a chair back into place before trying to pull the tablecloth straight. "Okay."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *