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As he assisted Henry with his meal, Ledge kept up a one-sided conversation, eventually working his way around to Arden Maxwell. “She took it upon herself to do some recon on me. Went to the bar and chatted with Don. I called him as soon as I got home from her place last night. She hadn’t told Don her name, but when I described her, he remembered her right off. She’s got this unusual pairing of pale blond hair, but brown eyes.” Under his breath, he added, “Somehow it works.”
He wiped a missed bite of
oatmeal off Henry’s jacket. “Yeah, I kissed her, but don’t make a big deal out of it, all right? It didn’t amount to anything. Not really. I mean…Oh, hell, I’m lying to you, too.”
He set aside the spoon and dragged both hands down his face. “I’m stacking up lies like firewood, and I hate that like hell. But I can’t tell her about that night.” He looked hard into his uncle’s eyes, willing them to show understanding, empathy, something. They were blank. Which was why he could speak with such candor.
“I’m not just covering my own ass, either. I can’t tell her without creating a shitstorm around her, and she’s just come through a terrible one. The loss of her baby and all.”
Henry picked up the juice box and sipped at the straw without mishap.
“She and her sister Lisa have this weird chemistry,” Ledge continued. “If I were to tell Arden everything, all of it, and Lisa found out, there’s no telling what she would do.
“But what really scares me? Arden is already on Rusty’s radar. I can’t caution her, or explain to her the reason for the caution, without implicating myself, not just for the burglary, but for Brian Foster’s murder. Let’s face it, his was no accidental death.”
He made another unsuccessful attempt with the oatmeal.
“I would like to think that my deployments balanced the scale. You know, good and evil. Criminal on one hand. Protector of freedom on the other. But guilt over what I did that night eats at me, Uncle Henry. Bad.
“But even if I wanted to tell somebody to clear my conscience, or to save my soul, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not because of the repercussions to myself. But because of the blowback on you. See,” he said, and paused to take a deep breath, “I never want anyone to think badly of you because of me. Anything bad I ever did was not your fault. No matter what happens, never think that. Promise me. You didn’t fail me. I failed you.”
He ran his hand over the top of his uncle’s head. Through the thinning hair, he noticed age spots that had recently appeared. Henry’s eyebrows, which had always been dark and expressive, were mostly gray now, and they never conveyed an emotion. The creases in his face became more deeply etched between Ledge’s visits. His body was following the path of his mind, deteriorating incrementally but inexorably.
For all his fighting skills, Ledge was powerless to repel this ravaging enemy.
As he stroked his uncle’s head, he felt an unmanly welling of emotion. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken to carrying your pocketknife.”
Henry had never been without it. He had kept it sheathed in a leather scabbard attached to his belt and utilized it several times a day to open cases of liquor. It had broken Ledge’s heart to have to take it away from him. It had broken his heart even more to realize that Henry hadn’t missed it, when it always had been like an extension of his hand.
The pocketknife was a connection to Henry that Ledge could maintain when none other existed. If there was a single benefit to his uncle’s condition, it was that he would never know about Ledge’s crime. The last memory Henry would have of him wouldn’t be that he was a thief and deceiver, but a decorated soldier.
“Don didn’t think you’d mind if I started carrying your knife,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “He said you’d like knowing that it was in my safekeeping.”
Just then the door was pushed open, and a young black man breezed in. “Hey, Cap’n, they told me you were here.”
Ledge had to clear his throat before he could speak. Grumbling, he said, “I’ve told you not to address me that way.”
George was one of the physical therapists on staff. “Naw, now, we’ve talked about this. Once an officer, always an officer. To me you’ll always be Cap’n Burnet.”
George executed a crisp salute. Ledge gave him the finger. George laughed, then they fist-bumped. This was their script and routine every time they saw each other. Over the time that Henry had been a resident, the therapist and Ledge had become well acquainted and liked each other. They had their military service in the Middle East in common, and, taking into account George’s occupation, Ledge admired the man’s seemingly inexhaustible cheerfulness.
He squatted down in front of Henry’s lounger. “How’s my main man this morning?”
“He ate a good breakfast. All except the oatmeal.” Ledge made another swipe at the damp spot on Henry’s jacket.
George looked at the contents of the bowl and winced. “I’d have spit it out, too, Henry.” He patted his patient on the knee and stood up.
Ledge asked, “How’s he doing?”
“Good.”
“No bullshit, George.”
“I wouldn’t insult you with bullshit. Your uncle’s still strong. He does his exercises when I coach him through them. Oh, every once in a while he balks, but nothing I can’t handle with a little persuasion.”
“Any belligerence? Violent outbursts?” Ledge had dreaded asking about this, afraid of hearing the worst. “I’ve been warned that can happen.”
“Can,” George said, nodding. “But not necessarily. No signs of it yet, so don’t invite trouble.” George hesitated, then said in a softer tone, “You don’t have to come see him quite so often, you know.”
