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I pick up a paper from the top of the stack, absorbing the information for information’s sake more than anything else. I already know what it says.
In 1952, Washington Plastics got a huge governmental grant to make small storage containers for hospitals across Arkansas and four other states. Hospitals, in turn, used those containers to store ethyl ether, a substance discontinued in the seventies but still used by some medical institutions well past that decade. When hospitals were told to abandon the use of ethyl ether altogether, they were given disposal instructions: open the containers, let the substance evaporate inside a fume hood, then dispose of containers accordingly. Safe. Effective. Minimal effort required. Makes sense to even the most casual of readers, like me.
But what Washington Plastics and the Silver Bell Memorial Hospital did was toss those full containers of ethyl ether into a shared dumpster that sat between the two buildings. Over and over in the name of ease, all while knowing better. Over time, the containers heated. Overwhelming heat caused those solvents to combust. Multiple times, Mr. Elmer Gertie warned them against the practice. He voiced verbal complaints to co-workers. He filed a formal complaint with the courthouse and then another. Both were dismissed. He even went as far as retrieving and disposing of many of the containers himself, pulling them out of dumpsters and relocating them to his own home to evaporate in a small containment unit he’d set up at the back of his property. This continued until he was caught in the process by the vice president of the company he worked for. Immediately after, he was fired. The year was 1960. Most places of business were commonly using asbestos back then. People smoked in restaurants, on airplanes, at kid’s school events, and next to oxygen tanks without giving it a passing thought. Needles were left out in the open, blood was cleaned with bare hands, and everyone’s idea of sanitation was a quick wipe-down with paper towels. Safe disposal of most things was hardly a top priority.
It should have been.
A few short years later, the unthinkable happened. An explosion outside the Silver Bell Memorial Hospital maternity ward. All because an institution meant to save lives and a corporation designed to make lives better couldn’t be bothered to spend an extra five minutes doing things the right way. A few lives lost in the process were simply an unfortunate occurrence. Time is money, and money is everything. It’s an age-old song that those in power will never stop singing.
Elmer Gertie had been right all along, but with that rightness came a shunning so cruel it cost him everything. Which loudly, excruciatingly asks the question:
Was Sally right too?
The Gertie family were known to the residents of Silver Bell as conspiracy theorists to the highest degree. Not to mention murderers, lunatics, outcasts, and heathens.Witch, Finn remembered the graffiti on the house claiming in drippy, blood-red letters.God hates you. Revenge for the simple-minded, some might argue.
But is Sally right? Has this whole town been wrong all along? It’s been thirty years since the hospital explosion. What could be done about it now?
More importantly, what should I do?
“What are you going to do?”
I laugh quietly at Billi’s question as though I hadn’t just been asking the same question myself. She’s been sitting next to me all afternoon, a supportive presence while I read pages from the files we swiped from county records. This time, we didn’t ask permission. Occasionally, Billi skimmed through a few pages herself. Now she joins me on the hotel room floor, back against the bed, waiting for me to say something. Her hand is on my thigh, and I reach for it, threading my fingers through hers just to feel something other than lost. I have no answers.
“What can I do? This all happened three decades ago. Anyone we could confront is no longer here. The statute of limitations has not only run out but it’s completely dried up and buried six feet under.” I’m mostly referring to my parents, but it’s the case with nearly everyone involved.
“I think Sally’s doctor is still alive.”
“I checked. He’s in hospice care with Alzheimer’s. There’s nothing I can do with that.”
“What about—”
“There’s no one, Billi. We could ask your dad, but what could he say? The man might have known about it, but that doesn’t make him guilty of an actual crime.” I feel her stiffen at the venom in my tone and soften my words. “Hearing a rumor doesn’t make you an accomplice. If that were the case, we’d all be guilty of something.”
“So, we just…do nothing?”
“Not nothing. We can—Ican—learn to accept it.”
The full weight of her gaze lands on me, heavy and disbelieving.
“And what? You’ll just go back to Houston like nothing ever happened?” She launches herself from the floor to pace the room, arms wrapped around her waist, hands tucked under her armpits. “You’ll go back to writing articles for theChroniclethat tell only half the story? Forget about the fire? About Sally? About—”
She stops short of saying the wordme, but it hangs in the air like a strobe light flashing, swirling, spinning. If life were that simple, there wouldn’t be a need for therapists. And right now, I need one desperately. Because I won’t forget about any of it—not Sally, not the great big question mark hanging over my heritage, and certainly not Billi. If I could take a drug to erase my memory of everything, I would take it only with a guarantee of that exception.
It’s impossible to forget Billi. Once you’ve spent time with her, she’s in your bloodstream. There’s no getting rid of her, so you might as well learn to accept it. I stand and walk toward her, tug on her shirt to pull her backward into me. She goes hesitantly, the grudge on her shoulder keeping her from fully relaxing. So, I use words to bring her the rest of the way.
“I won’t forget any of this, least of all you.” I rest my chin on her head, breathing easier when I feel her sigh.
“But still…you’re just going to leave?”
Not every question has an easy answer. In fact, some questions are so confusing they don’t have an answer at all.
“I don’t know, Billi. I just don’t know.”
I’mdue back to work first thing in the morning, set to cover a story about the President’s appearance at the airport. It’s stop one on his bid for reelection, and Bing assigned me the story. It isn’t quite the promotion I’d hoped for, but it’s a step in the right direction. The last time a president rolled through town, I covered the grand opening of a new McDonald’s on the corner of first and Harvard.
Definitely a step up.
I already said my goodbyes to Billi, who promptly burst into tears and vowed to never speak to me again. Right after that, she made me promise to write to her. I said I would, and I meant it. It isn’t that I don’t have feelings for her; I do. Strong ones. Stronger than I’ve ever had for anyone before. But my feelings for her will be forever tied to this town—to high levels of loss and abandonment. To more questions than answers. To cover-ups and harsh judgments and foul words painted on private doorways. Maybe that’s unfair but tell that to my mind. Separating the two would take more work than I have energy for right now.
