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The two of them went out and down the hall. They must have gone to the kitchen, because in a few seconds I heard a chair screeching against linoleum.
Now that I was alone, the living room appeared to grow darker. As best I could estimate, I was probably directly under the room that had burned. The air had a faint, stinging odor to it. Smoke. Was it my imagination, or could you still smell the fire? How did the Johnston’s stand it? From down the hall, the muffled voices of the two men drifted through the stillness. Sitting quietly on a sofa, I became aware of scampering noises over my head. I strained to listen. Again, I wasn’t sure whether it was my imagination or something was really moving around upstairs. I stood up to get closer to the ceiling. Now the noises changed, becoming playful and watery, like the far-away sound of a waterfall. The faintness, however, was maddening. Was the noise inside my head or out? To get even closer, I kicked off my shoes and teetered on the spongy cushions of the sofa. My ear was just inches from the ceiling. The scampering returned, then the water. The sounds mixed and overlapped, then moved in circles over my head. I wasn’t imagining things. Something was up there. Ghosts.
Reverend Vaughn and the councilman came back in ten minutes. We walked to the door, and the two men exchanged cool goodbyes.
“What an idiot,” said Reverend Vaughn, when we were back on Jefferson Street, heading home.
“He couldn’t help?”
“Oh, he could have helped all right. He just didn’t want to. He was scared to get involved. He kept saying it wouldn’t do any good, that we shouldn’t make the company mad.” The minister threw up his arms in frustration. “He’s too dumb to recognize his own self-interest.”
“What are you going to do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. If no one cares, why should I?” He thought a bit, then added, “I think I’ll give a sermon on it. Maybe I can stir something up in the church.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I think we’re going to come this Sunday—Bunny and me.” I’d suggested it to Bunny the day before. She hadn’t been enthusiastic, but I knew she’d go along.
“Great, terrific,” he said. “That’ll double the size of the congregation.”
We turned down Fourth Street. The day had been hazy and hot, but now some puffy gray clouds nosed into the sky. A breeze flipped the tree leaves to their silvery undersides, usually a sign of rain.
“Can I ask you something?” I said after a while.
“Of course, anything.” He’d been staring at the ground, but now he looked at me kindly.
“Do you think it’s possible to make one mistake—just one, simple mistake, when everything else is basically all right—and then have that mistake ruin your life?”
He tilted his head slightly, getting a different angle on me. “Did you make a mistake? We haven’t talked much about it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t necessarily mean that.”
He thought for a few seconds and then shrugged. “Well, I suppose it is possible. I suppose it happens.”
“Yes. I suppose so.” I felt leaden all of a sudden. I guess I’d been expecting some reassurance.
He stopped on the sidewalk. With his face just inches from mine, he pushed some willowy strands of hair off his forehead. “But, look,” he said, “a mistake has nothing to do with it. The world is full of people who haven’t done a thing wrong, and their lives are ruined anyway. There’s no cause and effect. It happens all the time.”
“Oh.”
“All the time.”
A squat black dog, sulking on the stoop in front of the house where we’d stopped, picked up its head and sniffed at us. Suddenly it barked sharply, leaped up, and hurtled in our direction, its eyes and fangs flashing. The four powerful legs pounded on the lawn. Too late Reverend Vaughn reached out to pull me back. We’d never get away. The dog was almost on us when it uttered a terrible, choking roar, and its legs flew up in the air. For a second, the animal hung upside-down a few feet off the ground, and then it dropped and landed with a thud on its back. The thin chain fastened to its collar and tied to the house had abruptly run out. Undaunted, the dog bounced back up and strained against the chain, making ugly, hoarse, rasping sounds trying to breathe and bark through the too-tight collar. You’d never see a dog like that on, say, Oak Street. New Town is just far enough away that things are a little wilder.
“Shut up!” said Reverend Vaughn, glaring at the animal.
A woman with her hair in curlers pushed open a screen door and stood on the stoop. “Carla! Hush. Hey, Carla!” she yelled. The dog ignored her and kept snarling at us. The woman cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. “It’s all right, Reverend,” she called. “She’s friendly.”
Taking me by the elbow, Reverend Vaughn guided me down the sidewalk. Carla followed us the length of the lawn, snarling and coughing the whole way. Over time, chasing pedestrians and pulling against the chain, the dog had trampled a quarter moon on the grass. The outer edge formed an arc so perfect it could have been drawn with a compass.
“Are you all right?” Reverend Vaughn asked, as we moved safely away.
“Yes, fine,” I said bravely. Actually, I was in shock. Entranced, but in shock. In the commotion of pushing me away, his shirt sleeve had flipped up, exposing for an instant the top of his arm. He had a tattoo—a tiny, blue, rippling design that might have been a wave at sea or a billowing pennant. “A tattoo,” I murmured, unable to hold it in.
“Oh, no.” He grabbed his sleeve to pull it down, though the tattoo was already hidden again. “You weren’t supposed to see that—no one’s supposed to see that.”
“I’m sorry.” He was frowning, and I was afraid he was mad at me. But after a few steps, he shook his head and started smiling.
“Talk about a mistake,” he said. “I’d give anything to have that night to live over.” He patted his arm on top of the tattoo. “Now that, my friend, is a mistake.”
