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Behind the wheel of the rented SUV, I see the sign—Welcome to Walton. I spent from my seventh-grade year until I graduated high school, making Walton the only community I’d lived in for longer than four years since I was born.
Less than a mile down the road, I pass by the First Methodist Church of Walton—a place we spent every Sunday since moving here. The place where I met Whit, who lived with her grandparents. Last I heard, her grandfather is still the pastor, and her grandmother, Mildred, still plays the piano every Sunday and leads the choir Mom sang in. This should feel like home, yet it doesn’t.
Just past the church, I flip on my blinker, pull into the cemetery, and follow the road that leads to the very back row, where Mom was laid to rest under the biggest tree on the property, with Dad’s ashes inside her casket, just how she wanted it.
I sit in the vehicle for a long while, looking at the flowers in the pots on either side of the headstone. White lilies—Mom’s favorites. I feel bad that I wasn’t the one to put them there. I decide enough is enough and open the door and step out onto the dirt, pulling my sunglasses down as I walk over to the large headstone with both my parents’ names on it.
Squatting down, I slide my hand over the smooth marble, etched with their names—Gregory and Bianca Paul, Beloved parents.
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. Sorry I haven’t been around. Life’s been busy. I’m stopping by to tell y’all I finished my first season with the Mets. That wouldn’t have happened without either of you. I you would have been there if you could have. Swear to God, I looked for y’all.” I fight back the emotions building up inside. “I miss and love you more than I could ever imagine. Thank you for being my parents. I hope I’m making you proud.”
Not knowing what shape the house is in, I make the decision to check into the hotel just outside of town. When the front-desk clerk’s face catches fire, I know that it’s just a matter of time before all of Walton knows I’m back.
I shower, grab the three promised jerseys—one to Ollie, one to Nancy, and the other to Coach Locke—and head back into town.
Pushing open the wooden door of Ollie’s, it’s like nothing has changed. The jingle of a bell hanging above the entrance still announces your arrival, but at this time of night, it’s muffled by the laughter, clinking of glasses, and the Oilers game on the big screen. The chatter of locals fills the air as groups of familiar faces are illuminated by the warm overhead lights. Four kids, probably not old enough to drink, are engaged in a friendly game of pool. In one corner, the old-fashioned dartboard beckons with its well-worn darts and faded markings. Ollie never did put in the machines that require payment to play. Wooden stools line the aged mahogany bar, and behind it is Ollie, who has looked fifty years old since I was a teenager, he’s no doubt talking sports as he uses his white apron to diligently polish glasses. The shelves behind him proudly display an array of liquor bottles, some dusty from lack of use while others gleam from recent popularity. The vintage jukebox in the corner is completely dark—because Ollie always unplugs it when there’s a big game on.
My eyes stall on the couple who are sitting so close that she might as well be on his lap. A wave slowly flows through me that is always a prelude to a numbing feeling—a natural protective instinct I no longer have to call upon because it just happens. Novocain for the soul, anxiety relief when needed. His hand is on her cheek, pushing black curls away from her face and …
What the fuck?
Before I have time to think, I make my way through the bar to that corner and am barely able to stop myself from grabbing Danny’s collar and dragging him off his stool.
“Hey, man, got a minute?”
He looks over his shoulder at me, his smile drops, and he sighs out, “Fuuck.”
Anger begins to boil inside of me, but that calm wave is still there too—thank God. “Let’s you and I go have a chat.”
I head out the back, and he follows.
Once the back door is closed behind us, I ask, “You know what you have coming, yeah?”
“Look, things didn’t?—”
I jab him quick in the mouth.
“The fuck, Pope!”
Before I can reply, the door flies open, and the brunette walks out and looks at him. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”
He spits on the ground and wipes his split lower lip.
I push a finger into his chest. “Whit deserves better than this, and you know it.”
She throws her hands up. “Are you kidding me?”
I grab the door handle and pull it open. “Handle your shit. I’ll be at the bar.”
2
Saturday
Walton is a small community, and almost everyone knows everybody’s business. It’s not always as wonderful as the movies make it out to be. There’s no doubt in my mind that Chloe is hating it right now.
“Over to you, Whit.” Ruth, the head nurse, looks at me, and without using one single word, she gives me an itemized list before patting my shoulder as she passes me and walks out the exam room door.
I’m the preacher’s granddaughter, and my colleagues seem to believe I can perform miracles, which is what it often takes to get a victim of abuse to press charges, especially when it’s against the man she still allows herself to believe loves her.
