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Turns out the truth does indeed hurt.
I slide the saltshaker my way just to keep my hands busy. “You’re scared of her because you’ve been told to be your whole life. Like being told to stay away from the haunted house on the corner of Main Street and Broadway.”
She sits up a little. “You’ve been there?”
This makes me smile. “No, I haven’t been there unless you count every haunted house on Main Street and Broadway in every town in America because they all have them.”
She balls up her napkin and throws it at me. It lands on my left cheek and falls to the table. “That was rude.”
“Maybe, but it wasn’t a lie,” I say around a smile. “So, will you get over this legendary fear and come with me to interview Sally?”
“Dirty Sally, you mean,” she mutters. She’s not trying to be cruel, but a belief about someone is hard to get over and even harder to shake, especially when everyone around you believes it too.
“Jury’s still out on the Dirty part. I’ll decide that after I meet her.” I take another gulp of coffee and push back my chair. “So, is that a yes?”
Billi rolls her eyes with a sigh. “Yes. But if she casts some weird spell on me or kills me after all, I’m blaming you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Consider me warned. Also, consider me not too worried about it.”
She scowls, but I see the smile she’s trying to hide. “Cute.”
“Thanks. I’ll get the check,” I say, standing to push my chair into the table and walk toward the register.
“Darn right, you will. Think of it as a last supper of sorts. The only things we missed were the bread and the wine.”
I sent her a look. “Cinnamon rolls count as bread, but it’s not even noon. And your little joke is sacrilegious.”
“Jesus will understand. He too was killed by a crazy person.”
“Please stay ten feet away, so the lightning strike coming for your head doesn’t hit mine.”
Billi giggles, and I smile.
It takes courage to face your fears.
But it takes the power away from fear when you have fun doing it.
“You mentioned Sally’s father,”Billi says when we’re once again seated in Paul’s living room. Mr. Ford has changed into an old cardigan and sweatpants, a clear signal that he’s ready to wind down the day. I mentally give us an hour before it’s time to pack up and leave. Overstaying one’s welcome applies in all areas of life, but none more so than when you work in news media. I might need another interview in the near future. But the quickest way to be told “no” is to badger an interviewee to the point they reject all subsequent requests for more information. One hour. That’s all. “What can you tell us about him? I’m assuming he’s no longer living?”
Paul slowly shakes his head. “You assume correctly. He’s been gone a long time. Died while Sally was young.”
Billi locks eyes with me, and I read the unspoken questions.How young?Was Sally left an orphan, made to fend for herself long before she was capable?I want to ask but stop myself. Paul’s mind is visibly turning, and I can’t risk breaking the forward motion.
“Do you recall what happened to him? Is there anything you can tell us about his death?”
“I recall everything that happened.” He says nothing else for a long moment. It’s like watching a movie, a slow-motion flashback rewinding right before our eyes. They say that eventually, you’re faced with a choice: to keep moving forward or remain in the past. Paul Ford does a little of both for the benefit of a story.Mystory. He strikes me as a man who lives in the moment, so I’m touched by the sacrifice.
When I witness a sheen of tears appear in his eyes, I know darn well I ought to be.
“It was awful,” Paul said. “The saddest day, really. The worst part was, that she was only fifteen. You ready to take notes?”
I hold up my pen to show him I’m ready.
14
38 Years ago, fall 1960
Sally
