In the next moment, he had rounded a bend in the forest path and disappeared completely from her sight.
She slowed down, her own chest burning now. Then she stepped on a loose clod of dirt and fell heavily to the ground amid the scattered pine needles. She sat there sobbing, her thigh already bruised and aching from where Ed had hit her.
A minute later she started as a hand touched her shoulder. Terrified, she looked up, certain that Ed had come to beat her too, for blackening the memory of his dead son.
Fiske was breathing hard, his T-shirt soaked in sweat, the blood already hardened on his face. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and stood up, gritting her teeth as the pain in her leg increased. If Ed’s blind swipe at her leg had caused so much hurt, she could hardly imagine what John was feeling, after taking a direct blow to the face. She balanced against him while he bent down, edged her skirt up and examined her thigh.
Fiske shook his head. “It’s bruised pretty good. He didn’t know what he was doing. I’m sorry.”
“I deserved it.”
With Fiske’s help she was able to walk pretty normally.
“I’m sorry, John,” she said. “This . . . this is a nightmare.”
As they neared the trailer, she heard him say something. At first she thought he was talking to her, but he wasn’t.
He said it again, in a low voice, his eyes straight ahead, his head slowly turning in disbelief. “I’m sorry.”
The apology was not directed toward her, she instinctively knew. Perhaps to the screaming man back at the dock. And maybe to the dead brother?
When they reached the trailer, Sara sat down on the steps while Fiske went inside. He came back out a minute later with some ice and a roll of paper towels. While she held the ice wrapped in a paper towel against her bruised thigh, she used one of the ice cubes and another paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and clean the cut on his lip. After she had finished, he stood, went down the steps and headed down the dirt road.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To get my father,” he said without turning around.
She watched until he disappeared into the forest. While he was gone, Sara limped into the trailer and cleaned herself up in the small bathroom. She spotted Fiske’s suit and shoes and carried them out to her car. She ran her hand along the smooth metal surface of the flagpole and wondered if Ed would manage to raise the Stars and Stripes today. Maybe he would, at half-mast, in memory of his son. Perhaps mourning both sons?
She began trembling with that thought, moved away from the flagpole and leaned up against her car. She scanned the woods nervously as though anticipating the abrupt charge of all sorts of terror from its underbelly.
An elderly woman came out of the trailer next door and stopped when she saw Sara.
Sara smiled in an embarrassed fashion. “I’m, uh, a friend of John Fiske’s.”
The woman nodded. “Well, good morning.”
“Good morning to you too.”
The woman disappeared down the road toward the cottage.
Sara looked anxiously back toward the woods, clutching her hands together. “Come on, John. Please, come on.”
Fifteen minutes later the golf cart came into view. Fiske was driving. His father was slumped in the rear, apparently asleep.
Fiske pulled up to the trailer, got out, carefully lifted his father and put him over his shoulder. He marched up the steps and disappeared inside. He came out a few minutes later carrying the shotgun.
“He’s asleep,” Fiske said.
“What’s that for?” Sara pointed at the weapon.
“I’m not leaving it here with him.”
“You don’t think he’d shoot anybody.”
“No, but I don’t want him sticking it in his mouth and pulling the trigger either. Guns, alcohol and bad news don’t mix real well.” He put the shotgun in the back seat of the car. “You’d better let me drive.”
“Your clothes are in the trunk.”
They climbed in the car and a minute later were back at the owner’s cottage. Fiske went in and slapped four singles down for the guest fee. He bought some pastries and a couple cartons of orange juice.