Strange Girl

Chapter Six

THE NEXT DAY I HAD TO GET UP EARLY TO WORK the nine-to-six shift at the hardware store. Business was slow, though, and my boss ended up letting me go at five. I had my bike and was on my way home when on the spur of the moment I decided to swing by the town cemetery. From talk I knew that Mrs. Nancy Billard always visited her child's grave Sunday evenings. I had no desire to intrude but Aja's remark about their encounter over the summer at the cemetery gnawed at me.

Billard was sitting on a bench not far from her boy's tombstone, a bundle of fresh flowers in her hands. Elder was too small a town to have many secrets. I knew what most people knew about the child's death. It was a brutal tale, and far too common.

A decade ago, two-year-old Barney Billard had been playing in the family living room under the less-than-watchful eye of his father, Stan Billard. The story went that Stan had gone outside to collect firewood, but had left the front door ajar when he came back inside. It was a freezing February morning and all of Elder was buried under four feet of snow. Back in the house, Stan stoked the fireplace with fresh lumber and stretched out on the couch and dozed off. Barney, seeing that the door was unlocked and slightly open, did what most boys his age would've done-especially when they've been locked up in the house for most of the winter.

Barney went outside. A neighbor said she saw him making snowballs and throwing them at a bunch of birds, laughing delightfully. The neighbor hurried to scoop him up and take him back inside but before she could reach him the boy wandered into the street. As fate would have it a car came by at that exact instant. The driver-a salesman from out of town-slammed on his brakes but that was probably the worst thing he could have done. The road was icy; the car went into an uncontrollable spin. Barney was crushed, dead before the ambulance could arrive.

The driver was arrested but soon released. It had been an accident, the police said, nothing more. Mr. and Mrs. Billard separated soon after, with Stan moving to Florida. Perhaps he couldn't bear the stares he'd get when he walked down the street. Everyone blamed the poor guy for his carelessness, although, over the years, I came to understand that his wife wasn't one of them. The fact they broke up so soon after Barney's death made me assume I had a less-than-complete picture of what had gone on in their house after the death of their only child.

Billard looked up as I approached. The sun hung low in the west, coloring the white carnations she held a haunting red. Despite the warm evening air, she wore a gray sweater. I was relieved she took my sudden appearance in stride.

"I hope I'm not intruding," I said.

"Not at all." She gestured to a spot on the bench beside her. "Have a seat. It's not often I have company when I visit my son."

Leaning my bike against a nearby tree, I sat beside her and stared uneasily at Barney's tombstone, particularly at the stone cross set atop the heavy block of granite. Unlike Aja, I never visited the cemetery, probably because when it came to the "Big Questions" about life and death, I had no answers. Or perhaps I should say I had no faith in the answers I'd been fed.

Both my parents were Catholic and I'd been raised in the faith. From as far back as I could recall, I'd gone to church every Sunday; made my first communion when I was in third grade, and my confirmation when I was in seventh. Up until then I assumed the local priest and nuns had the inside track on getting into heaven and I didn't give much thought to my immortal soul.

Come my freshman year in high school, however, the foundation of my beliefs began to trouble me and I spent serious time reading the Bible-a practice that wasn't, ironically, encouraged by most Catholics. For me, it was a real eye-opener.

Because the Old Testament came first, I started there and by the time I got to Noah and his ark and two of every living creature on earth, I knew either my faith was as shallow as my trust in Santa Claus or else the book I was holding in my hand conflicted with every scientific concept I knew. Frankly, because I'd devoured at least a couple of sci-fi novels a week since the time I was ten, I knew more chemistry, biology, and physics than probably any kid in town.