The Hero's Sin

Sara caught a glimpse of a thin stream of blood trickling down the side of a hard, handsome face before the man helped hoist the boy back onto the raft into the waiting arms of the couple Sara believed were his parents.

The current was already taking the rafts downriver from the scene of the rescue. The man swam at an angle to shore, his strokes sure and strong. Sara watched until he reached land and stepped onto the bank, his clothes hanging wetly on his tall, muscular body. He, too, appeared to be okay.

Who was he? she wondered as her raft drifted farther and farther away. But she already knew.

He was a hero.

H E WAS a coward.

Otherwise he’d hang up the hotel phone, change into something besides the faded jeans and T-shirt he wore and drive to the Indigo Springs restaurant where Johnny and his fiancée were holding their rehearsal dinner.

“Yeah?” It was Johnny’s voice, barely audible above the buzz of conversation and clinking of silverware.

“Johnny, it’s Michael.”

“Mikey Mike,” Johnny exclaimed, the ridiculous nickname making Michael smile. Only Johnny could get away with calling him that. “Where are you? We’re almost through with appetizers.”

Michael swallowed. “I’m not coming.”

“What? Hold on a minute.” The background noise gradually lessened, and Michael pictured Johnny walking away from the table to find a quieter spot. “What aren’t you coming to? The rehearsal dinner or the wedding?”

“The dinner.”

“So you’re in town?” Johnny asked, his relief evident.

“I will be,” Michael said, deliberately vague. There was no point in telling Johnny that, in another cowardly move, he’d checked into a cookie-cutter hotel near the interstate that was a full twenty miles from Indigo Springs. Especially since he’d led Johnny to believe he’d be staying with his great-aunt.

“Want to tell me why you’re not coming to dinner?”

Michael didn’t, but Johnny deserved an answer. Without Johnny’s friendship, life in Indigo Springs would have been even less bearable. Even after Chrissy’s death, Johnny had stuck by him, making the two-hour drive to visit him in Johnstown every few months. They hadn’t seen each other since Michael had gone to the West African country of Niger two years ago, but the bond they’d formed as teenagers never weakened. Johnny was more like a brother than a friend.

“I’ve got a nasty bump on my head.” Michael gingerly touched the spot where his forehead had come in contact with the edge of a rock. The hot shower he’d taken had washed away the river water and the blood but not the bruise. “I wouldn’t be good company, especially in a crowd.”

“What happened?” Johnny asked sharply. “Were you in an accident?”

“A minor one.” Guilt gnawed at Michael. His head ached, but not enough to keep him from anything he really wanted to do. “It’ll be fine by morning.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Michael said, then cleared the emotion from his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had been concerned about him. “You’d better get back to your guests.”

“And you better show tomorrow, buddy. I let you weasel out of being my best man, but I want you at my wedding, damn it. I’m only getting married once.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael promised.

After disconnecting the call, Michael ignored the nearly overwhelming temptation to turn on the television and switch on the Phillies. He’d gotten accustomed to the lack of electricity in the adobe hut where he’d lived in Niger, but enjoyed few things more than a beer and a baseball game.

Not giving himself time for second guessing, he rode the elevator to the hotel lobby, walked past the bored-looking clerk and headed for the black PT Cruiser he’d parked in the hotel lot. It was the last car he would have chosen but the only one the busy rental agency at the airport had available.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled the PT Cruiser to the crowded curb across from his great aunt’s house and set the brake to keep the car from rolling down the hill. Somebody on the street had company, but he doubted it was his quiet, reserved aunt.

His aunt’s charming Victorian house was much as Michael remembered it, with flowers hanging from baskets on her wraparound porch and planted in beds in the front yard. But as he trudged up the sidewalk, he noticed that the lawn needed mowing and the porch could use a coat of paint. Aunt Felicia’s husband—Michael never had been able to think of the man as his uncle—would normally have taken care of those chores, but he’d been dead for three months.

If Murray were still alive, Michael wouldn’t be here.

And then only a screen door separated Michael from the house where he hadn’t been able to find refuge. The doorbell didn’t sound when he pressed the button so he rapped on the frame and waited. He heard voices and laughter. It seemed he’d misjudged Aunt Felicia, but it was too late to turn back.

“Just a minute.” He recognized the gentle, slightly melodic voice of his great-aunt.

He held his ground, wiping his damp palms on the legs of jeans too warm for the balmy summer night. He smelled molasses and brown sugar and guessed she’d baked a shoo-fly cake, her specialty, for her guests. Time seemed to stretch before she came into view. Considerably grayer and smaller than he remembered, she moved slowly toward the door, then stopped as though she’d slammed into a barrier.

“Michael?” Her voice trembled. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Aunt Felicia.”

Her hand fluttered to her forehead to the exact spot where he knew his injury was, and he guessed he was black-and-blue. “Your head…”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged to underscore his words.

He waited for her to invite him inside, but she just stood there staring at him. His throat felt so thick he wasn’t sure he could speak. He hadn’t seen her since his eighteenth birthday, the day Murray had kicked him out. That had been nine years ago.

He squinted. The years had taken their toll. Through the screen of the door, she looked every one of her seventy-plus years.

“I thought you were in Africa,” his aunt finally said, her voice no steadier than before.

He swallowed. “I only just got back to the States. I thought you should know I’m in town for Johnny’s wedding.”

He owed Aunt Felicia that much. She’d taken him in during that dark time after his mother had overdosed. Even though his aunt hadn’t been able to stand up to her husband in the end, he still remembered her trying to explain.

“If it was just me, you could stay,” she’d told him, tears trickling down her papery cheeks. “But I’m worn out from arguing with him about you.”

Michael had claimed to understand but hadn’t. Not back then. Back then he’d wanted somebody to want him. That’s probably why he hadn’t protested too long or too hard when Chrissy insisted she was leaving Indigo Springs with him.

Nine years, he thought again. Chrissy had been dead for eight of them.

His aunt didn’t say anything now, her mouth working but no words emerging.

He cleared his throat. “Johnny told me about Murray. I’m sorry.” It was the truth. Michael didn’t wish anybody dead. Not even Murray.

“Felicia. It’s your turn.” A woman’s voice floated from the direction of the living room.

“Bridge night,” his aunt explained.

“Who’s at the door anyway?” A different, louder voice. One that sounded familiar.

“No one,” his aunt replied quickly, the answer stabbing through him like a jagged spear. She blinked a few times, shifted from foot to foot, her hand fluttering to her throat. Her eyes seemed to plead with him. “You understand I can’t invite you in.”

“I understand.” He gave the same answer he had years ago, but this time it was the truth. Aunt Felicia’s friends would be Indigo Springs long-timers. She had good reason to be ashamed of him. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you I was in town.”