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"Oh God have mercy," she said and choked back a sob. "I never spoke to you, young lady."
"You're lying. Didn't you . . . weren't you afraid he would be more likely to become a sinner if he was with me? Didn't you tell him that? Didn't you punish him for being with me, not take him on some church trip?"
"Oh God have mercy," she said once more. "Is that what he told you?"
I nodded.
Tears came into her eyes again. What was this act she was putting on for me? Did she hope to avoid being blamed?
"Why did he run away then?" I demanded. "It's because you made him feel terrible, right?"
She started to shake her head, but suddenly she represented all those people back in Sandburg who stood in judgment over me. I saw all the eyes glaring, heard all the whispers.
"What right did you have to do that? I know something about the Bible too. I remember something about `He without sin cast the first stone.' "
She took another step toward me.
"He didn't run away because of me," she said firmly. "The only thing I did was forbid him to use my car."
"Then why did he go? Where is he?"
"He went to see his father," she said, then she wobbled weakly and took hold of the bannister as she lowered herself to the step and sat.
Her words flew like hard rain into my face.
"His father? But I thought . . . I thought he didn't know where his father was, hadn't seen 'him for years and years."
"He didn't. He hasn't seen him. Neither of us has, nor have we heard from him. That's all true. However, yesterday we received a call from a hospital in Albany. His father was brought there in an ambulance. From what I understood, he was found unconscious in whatever fleabag hovel he lived in. His drinking finally started the nails in his coffin," she said. "Somehow, on his deathbed, he was able to manage getting the information about us to the nurse or the doctor.
"Duncan was angry at me for not rushing out and up there. He was right to be angry. I should find forgiveness in my heart, but I just couldn't do it. God forgive me," she said. She looked down and then up at me again, her face riddled with concern.
"But he's not rushing up to him out of love or respect or a son's obligation. He's rushing up there because he's angry at him. He wants him to know it before he dies. He wanted me to stand beside him and both of us heap our rage on him I told Duncan that was wrong, that it would be a dreadful thing to do, but he's very bitter about it.
"I told him it was wrong to keep blaming everything unpleasant or every one of his own mistakes and failings on his father. I tried to teach him to have responsibility for himself, to show him that if he shifts that to his father and never accepts
responsibility for his actions or inactions, he will never improve. Without remorse, there's no
forgiveness. That's what I taught him, but I never taught him to cast stones at anyone."
She took a deep breath. I could see how difficult it was for her to say all those things. She looked like her own words were poisoning her. They took my breath away.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just so confused right now."
She nodded and wiped her eyes again with her tissue.
"I'm afraid for him," she said. "I never saw him like he was before he left. That was another reason why I tried to keep him from going. He sounded so mixed up, so confused himself, babbling about how he crossed over and how he was escaping. Escaping from where, from whom? I tried to understand, but he was in a frenzy and made no sense.
"I think," she said after a short pause and a sigh, "that he is escaping from himself. Only I don't know where that will take him, where he will go, or what he will do."
She continued to cry softly.
I leaned against the bannister.
"I'm sorry I said those things to you," I said.
She smiled weakly. "You're a pretty girl. I'm not surprised he wanted to be with you, and whatever he did say about you always sounded very flattering. You seemed to be someone he really trusted."
"He showed me his poems."
