Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
It was filthy. Dusty and dirty, with stuff everywhere. It’d never been anything but spick and span when his grandfather was alive. What was this? His grandmother’s final rebellion? A fuck-you to the tyrant who’d beaten her and then made her clean his floors until they shone?
And if it was, maybe he couldn’t blame her.
Even if this was no way to live.
But Ambrose was well acquainted with no way to live.
And deep down, he knew his grandmother was no rebel. She was too weak for that. Her body was still alive, but her spirit had curled up and died. He could practically smell the rot emanating through her dry, wrinkled skin. “Surprised to see you,” his grandmother said, huffing out a long-suffering sigh as she sank down into a wooden chair at the table in the middle of the room.
“I bet,” he said. Was she even more surprised that he was still alive? The cross still hung between the windows over the sink, the piece of dusty reed he remembered still draped over it. He’d read somewhere once that a crown of thorns and a reed had been given to Jesus to mock him before he was strung up on the cross. Ambrose’s gaze moved out the window next to that symbol of the rise above human cruelty, where he could see the edge of the shed in which he’d been tortured.
“I’m not here for a visit,” he told the old woman. “I’m here to let you know that there will be a lot of people on this farm in about an hour. The sheriff. A few dogs. A coroner.”
She showed no surprise, merely stared down at the ancient table, running her finger over a scratch in the wood.
“I doubt you’ll be surprised by what they find,” he said. A child. He wondered if they’d only find one.
His grandmother still showed no reaction, so Ambrose left the house and walked outside, drawing in a lungful of air and leaning against the porch railing.
Inside, he heard his grandmother climb back up the stairs, her footsteps heavy and slow.
Ambrose stared out at the scenery, and strangely, the first memory that popped into his head was of picking rhubarb and later dipping it in a bowl of white sugar. Even now, his mouth puckered at the recollection of the sweet and the sour.
The steeple of a church could be seen in the valley below, and Ambrose remembered going there on a field trip with his class. He recalled the way the stained glass windows had glittered in the sunshine, tossing rainbows on his skin. He’d expected to be overwhelmed by horrific memories here, and he was shocked that now that he remembered the entirety of his story, he was able to see all the threads it’d been woven with.
He leaned his face back and felt the warmth of the April sun, even while a chilly breeze ruffled his hair.
“I’m here, you old bastard,” he said. “I’m here, and I’m alive, and everyone is going to know your secret. Your secret will be your legacy, but it won’t be mine.”
The sheriff arrived forty-five minutes later, the canines a few minutes after that. He’d met the sheriff the day before. He’d sat in his office and told him about the memories of Milo that had just surfaced in his therapy sessions, the memories from when he was a little boy. The man had been kind. Understanding. He’d called Milo’s family, and they’d shown up. And miraculously, they’d thanked Ambrose for coming forward.
And now, Ambrose sat there as they worked, walking the property with the dogs, stopping here and there, and finally beginning to dig out near an aspen grove at the edge of the property. Ambrose had asked to help, but the sheriff had kindly told him no. This was a potential crime scene, and they had to make sure they didn’t miss or disrupt anything.
As it turned out, there was only one grave. The diggers hit upon a wooden box holding Milo’s body a few hours later and carefully transferred it to a white body bag. Ambrose hung his head and closed his eyes as they placed Milo’s small bones in an ambulance and rounded the corner, out of sight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He agreed to meet with the sheriff the next morning, and then he watched all the cars drive in a line down the dirt road, heading back into town, where they’d give Milo’s parents the news that their son’s body had been found. He didn’t imagine it would make it much easier, but at least now they’d have a place where they could visit him.
A mass was gathering in his throat, all the emotion that he hadn’t yet expressed for the little boy who had been his friend. His only friend. Ambrose pulled the screen door open harshly, and it banged against the side of the house with a loud clatter. He pushed at it again when it bounced back toward him, and he entered the house for the final time.