The Ones Who Look Away

The first thing Mara Tolland noticed about the woman beside the grave was that she wasn't sweating. Everyone else was. August had baked western Oklahoma into something brittle. The cemetery grass had surrendered weeks ago, yellow blades crunching beneath polished shoes while the sun pressed down hard enough to make the distant grain elevator shimmer. Mara had forgotten Oklahoma heat. Twenty-seven years away could do that.

               She remembered tornado sirens and red dirt and the smell of wheat after rain. She remembered football games under Friday-night lights and driving county roads with the windows down. She remembered wanting desperately to leave. She had forgotten how the heat made your clothes stick to you before 10 in the morning. Beside her, Ruth Tolland dabbed her forehead with a folded tissue.

               “You picked a hell of a week to come home.”

               Mara glanced at her mother. “You said that yesterday.”

               “Still true today.”

               At 76, Ruth had become smaller without becoming fragile. Her shoulders had rounded and her white hair had thinned, but her eyes remained sharp enough to make Mara feel 16. Mara smiled. Ruth squeezed her hand. Twenty-seven years disappeared for a moment. Then Mara looked toward the grave again. The woman stood on the opposite side. Black dress. Bare arms. Long brown hair hanging almost to her waist. She looked perhaps 20.

               Everyone else had arranged themselves beneath the funeral-home canopy or clustered wherever patches of shade could be stolen from nearby cottonwoods. The woman stood directly beneath the sun. Mara leaned toward her mother. “Who is that?”

               Ruth's hand tightened. “Who?”

               “The woman across from us.” Her mother did not look. That was the first thing that bothered Mara. “Black dress. Long hair.”

               “Mara.”

               “What?”

               “Pastor's finishing.”

               The pastor was saying something about Earl Pritchard's service to the community. Mara stopped listening. She had known Earl most of her childhood. Everybody in Sayre had. Coach Pritchard. That was what people called him even after he stopped coaching. He had coached football for 32 years. Taught driver's education. Served on the school board. Organized Thanksgiving food drives. Handed out miniature candy bars every Halloween from a galvanized tub on his porch.

               When Mara was nine, Earl had pulled her from a drainage ditch after she crashed her bicycle. When she was 17, he had written one of her college recommendation letters. When she left Oklahoma at 23, he had hugged her outside Sayre First Baptist and said she was going to make something of herself. She supposed she had.

               Forty-nine now.

               Divorced.

               One adult son who called every Sunday from Oregon. Twenty-two years working hospital administration in Kansas City. A condominium with granite countertops and a refrigerator containing more condiments than actual food. A life that looked successful from the outside and increasingly felt like a hotel room she'd forgotten to check out of.

               Earl Pritchard had died Tuesday morning. Heart attack. Seventy-eight years old. Mara had not intended to attend his funeral. She had come to Sayre because Ruth had fallen in her kitchen the previous week and finally admitted that living alone might no longer be sensible. Then Mara saw Earl's obituary. Some obligations survived distance.

               The pastor finished. People bowed their heads. Mara didn't. She watched the woman. The woman watched Earl's casket. Then she raised her eyes. Looked directly at Mara. And smiled. Not warmly. Not cruelly. Just enough to show that she knew Mara saw her.

               Afterward, people gathered in the church basement around casseroles, sheet cakes, deviled eggs, and sweating pitchers of tea. Sayre had changed less than Mara expected. The pharmacy had become a Dollar General. The movie theater was boarded up. Someone had painted the water tower blue. But the people were mostly the same people, only softened, stooped, widened, wrinkled.

               “Little Mara Tolland.”

               She turned. Wes Hargrove wrapped her in a hug before she could object. He smelled like aftershave and cigarettes.

               “Jesus, Wes.”

               “Look at you.”

               “Look at yourself.”

               He laughed. Wes had been two grades ahead of Mara and had once convinced her to climb the water tower at midnight. He now owned Hargrove Feed & Supply and had apparently developed the stomach of a man who ate biscuits professionally. “You staying?”

               “Couple weeks.”

               “Your mama says you're trying to drag her to Kansas City.”

               “My mother exaggerates.”

               “Your mother says exactly what she thinks.”

               “That too.”

               They smiled. For the first time since arriving in Sayre, Mara felt something unexpected. Not nostalgia. Something gentler. Belonging, perhaps. Then she saw the photograph. It hung on a bulletin board behind Wes. A collage celebrating Sayre First Baptist's history. Vacation Bible School. Christmas pageants. Youth groups. One photograph had faded almost completely yellow.

               SUMMER FELLOWSHIP — 1997.

               About 30 teenagers stood on the church steps. Mara recognized Earl immediately. Forty-nine then, broad-shouldered and smiling. And three rows behind him stood the woman from the cemetery. Mara stopped breathing. Wes followed her gaze. “You okay?”

               She stepped closer. The young woman wore denim shorts and a white T-shirt. Her hair reached almost to her waist. “Who is she?” Wes's smile disappeared. Mara pointed. “Right there.”

               He stared at the photograph. His face changed. Only slightly. But Mara had spent two decades in meetings where people lied about budgets, layoffs, malpractice, and mistakes that killed patients. She knew the microscopic rearrangement of a face when somebody decided what truth they could afford. “Don't remember.”

               “You were in this picture.”

               “Long time ago.”

               Mara looked at him. “Her name, Wes.”

               He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy the food, Mara.” Then he walked away.

               Ruth was washing a coffee cup when Mara asked. “Who was Lacey Varden?”

               The cup slipped from her mother's hand. It struck the sink without breaking. Mara had found the name written beneath the photograph. Ruth turned off the faucet. “Where'd you hear that?”

               “Church.”

               Her mother dried her hands slowly. “Mara, there are things you don't understand because you weren't here.”

               “I was here in 1997.”

               “You were 20. You were barely ever home.”

               “I was at OU.”

               “And then Kansas City.”

               “What happened to her?”

               Ruth folded the dish towel. “She ran away.”

               “Where?”

               “Nobody knew.”

               “Her family?”

               “Mother drank herself to death. Father moved to Texas.”

               Mara waited. Ruth stared through the kitchen window. “She was 17.”

               Something cold moved through Mara despite the heat. “Did Coach Pritchard know her?”

               “Everybody knew everybody.”

               “That's not what I asked.” Ruth turned. There it was. The same expression Wes had worn. Mara felt suddenly furious. “I saw her today.” Her mother went still. “At Earl's funeral.”

               “Mara.”

               “She was standing beside his grave.”

               “You're tired.”

               “I know what I saw.”

               “You drove eight hours yesterday.”

               “She looked exactly like that photograph.”

               Ruth gripped the counter. Then said something Mara would remember for the rest of her life.

               “You need to leave that alone.”

               Not that's impossible.

               Not you're imagining things.

               Leave it alone.

               Mara stared at her mother. “You've seen her.” Ruth walked from the kitchen.

               Mara couldn't sleep. At midnight she drove. Sayre after dark was the town she remembered best. Empty streets. Porch lights. Cicadas screaming from cottonwoods. She passed the high school, then Earl Pritchard's house. Three cars sat outside. A porch light burned. And Lacey Varden stood beneath it.

               Mara slammed the brakes. Lacey looked exactly seventeen. Mara lowered the window. “Lacey?” The girl turned. Then walked around the side of the house. Mara followed. Behind Earl's property stood an old storm cellar. Its wooden doors were chained shut. Lacey stood beside them. “What happened to you?” Lacey looked toward the cellar. Then vanished. Mara remained there until mosquitoes covered her arms.

               The next morning she found Wes opening his store. “I need you to tell me.”

               He looked exhausted. “I don't know anything.”

               “Bullshit.”

               “Mara.”

               “She disappeared in 1997. Earl knew her. My mother knows something. You know something.”

               Wes stared toward Main Street. “You remember Danny Kress?”

               “Earl's assistant coach.”

               “Lacey told people Earl and Danny were bothering her.”

               “Bothering?”

               “You know what I mean.” Mara's stomach tightened. “She told her mother. Told Pastor Givens. Told a teacher.”

               “And?”

               “Earl said she was troubled. Danny said she wanted attention.”

               “What did everyone else say?”

               Wes looked at her. “Nothing.” The word landed harder than shouting. “She disappeared that September,” he continued. “Sheriff figured she ran off. People searched awhile.”

               “You believed that?”

               “I was 19.”

               “You're 48 now.”

               His jaw tightened. “You think I don't know that?” For the first time, Mara saw something beneath his fear. Shame. “I saw Earl driving with her once,” Wes said. “Couple weeks before she disappeared. She was crying.”

               “Did you tell anyone?”

               “I told my dad.”

               “What did he do?”

               “Said Coach Pritchard had done more for this town than anybody and I needed to be careful about ruining a man's life over something I didn't understand.”

               Mara thought about Earl pulling her from the ditch. Earl writing her recommendation. Good man. She had spent half her career hearing people use those words. As though goodness were a bank account from which evil could make withdrawals. “Where's Danny?”

               Wes looked toward the floor. “Died in 2014.”

               Something in his expression made Mara ask. “Was she there?”

               His eyes lifted. “At the funeral?”

               Wes swallowed. “You need to understand something. People have families. Kids. Grandkids. Some things, after enough years…”

               “Was she there?”

               “Yes.”

               Mara confronted Ruth that afternoon. Her mother sat at the kitchen table with both hands around a glass of tea. “I saw her twice,” Ruth said.

               “Danny's funeral?” Ruth nodded. “And yesterday.” Another nod.

               “How many people can see her?”

               “I don't know.”

               “You're lying.”

               “I don't know because nobody talks about it.”

               Mara laughed once, without humor. “That's convenient.”

               “You left.”

               The words struck harder than Mara expected. “What?”

               “You left, Mara. You got to build a life somewhere else. The rest of us stayed here with each other.”

               “So that excuses this?”

               “I didn't say that.”

               “You all protected him.”

               Ruth's eyes filled. “You think I don't know?” Mara stopped. Her mother looked suddenly ancient. “Lacey came here once.”

               Mara sat down. “What?”

               “August of 1997. You were in Norman.” Ruth stared into her tea. “She had a bruise on her face. Asked if she could stay here. Said she couldn't go home.”

               “And you let her?”

               “For one night.”

               “What happened?”

               “Earl came the next morning.” Mara felt sick. “He said Lacey had been making accusations. Said she was unstable. Said her mother was frantic.”

               “You gave her to him.”

               “I believed him.”

               “You gave her to him.”

               Ruth began crying. “I was 47 years old. Earl had coached your brother. He'd helped us after your father died. He was Earl.”

               Mara stood so quickly the chair scraped backward. “And she was 17.”

               “I know.”

               “Did you see her alive again?” Ruth shook her head. Mara walked outside before she said something she could never retrieve.

               That evening, she returned to Earl's house. His widow answered. Carol Pritchard had aged into a delicate woman with translucent skin and trembling hands. “Mara?”

               “I need to see the storm cellar.” Carol's expression answered everything. “Please.”

               “Did you know?”

               Carol looked past Mara toward the road. “For a long time, I made myself not know.” That sentence destroyed whatever anger Mara had prepared. Carol sat on the porch steps. “He came home late one night. Clothes dirty. There was blood on his cuff.” Mara sat beside her. “He told me Danny hit a deer.”

               “You believed him?”

               “I decided to.”

               There was a difference. Mara understood it now. A terrible one. “Why?”

               Carol wiped her face. “I had two children. No job. Everybody loved him.”

               Mara thought of her own marriage. The nights she'd known her husband was sleeping with someone else before she found proof. The months she'd smiled at Christmas parties. The lies she'd accepted because truth required action. Smaller cowardice. Same mechanism. Perhaps that was the ugliest thing about human beings. They rarely chose blindness all at once. They closed their eyes by degrees.

               “What's in the cellar?”

               Carol looked toward the backyard. “I've never opened it.”

               “Why?”

               “Because if I opened it, I'd have to see.”

               Wes brought bolt cutters. Ruth came too. So did Carol. Nobody invited the others, yet by 9:00 seven people stood behind Earl Pritchard's house. Pastor Givens, 83 and leaning on a cane. Retired sheriff Hal Brenner. Two women Mara vaguely remembered from church. People who had spent 29 years not talking. Mara looked at them.

               “You all knew.”

               Sheriff Brenner shook his head. “We suspected.”

               “That's what people say when they want innocence without ignorance.”

               Nobody answered. Wes cut the chain. The cellar doors groaned open. The smell that emerged was earth, mildew, and something older. They descended. Mara used her phone flashlight. Shelves lined the walls. Canning jars. Christmas decorations. Rusting tools. Nothing else. Brenner exhaled. “See?”

               Then Mara noticed the wall. Different concrete in one corner. A rectangular patch. She looked at Wes. He whispered, “Jesus.” They found a sledgehammer. Mara swung first. Concrete cracked.

               Again.

               Again.

               Wes eventually took it from her. Twenty minutes later, something pale appeared beneath the rubble. Carol screamed. A human hand. Small. Around one finger was a silver ring. Mara recognized it. Lacey wore it in the church photograph. Pastor Givens lowered himself onto a crate and began sobbing. The sound was enormous. Mara looked around the cellar. “You knew.”

               “I prayed I was wrong,” he whispered.

               “You prayed?”

               He covered his face. “I was afraid.”

               “So was she.”

               Nobody spoke. Behind them, footsteps descended the stairs. Everyone turned. Lacey Varden walked into the cellar. Seventeen forever. Black dress. Bare feet. Dust did not cling to them. Mara watched the others. Carol looked directly at Lacey. So did Wes. Ruth. Pastor Givens. Sheriff Brenner. Every one of them. Lacey moved past Mara. She stopped beside the broken wall and looked down at what remained of herself. Then she turned toward the people who had survived her. Mara expected rage. There was none. That was worse. Lacey simply looked tired.

               Ruth stepped forward. “I am sorry.” Lacey regarded her. Ruth collapsed to her knees. “I should have protected you.” Carol began crying. Then Pastor Givens. One by one, people who had spent almost three decades refusing to see finally looked at her. Lacey's gaze moved across them. Then settled on Mara. For the first time, Mara understood the smile at the cemetery. Lacey hadn't been grateful Mara could see her. She had been waiting to find out what Mara would do about it.

               Mara held her gaze. “I see you.”

               Lacey smiled. This time, warmly. Then she was gone.

               Three days later, state investigators removed Lacey Varden from Earl Pritchard's cellar. The story spread quickly. News trucks arrived. People who had spent decades silent suddenly remembered things. Rumors became statements. Memories became evidence. Sheriff Brenner admitted he'd discouraged questions about Earl and Danny in 1997. Pastor Givens told investigators what Lacey had confided to him. Carol surrendered Earl's old journals. Sayre discovered that secrets became considerably less sacred when television cameras arrived.

               Mara postponed her return to Kansas City. Then postponed it again. One evening she sat with Ruth on the porch while thunderstorms built along the western horizon.

               “I keep thinking about that morning,” Ruth said. Mara knew which morning. “I could have told Earl to leave.”

               “Yes.”

               “I could have called somebody.”

               “Yes.”

               “I could have believed her.”

               “Yes.”

               Ruth looked at her daughter. “You're not going to tell me it wasn't my fault?”

               Mara took her mother's hand. “Some of it was.” Ruth flinched. Mara squeezed tighter. “But you don't have to spend whatever time you have left pretending otherwise.”

               Lightning flickered beyond the wheat fields. After a while Ruth rested her head against Mara's shoulder. Mara thought about Kansas City. Her condominium. Her job. The refrigerator full of condiments. Her son 2,000 miles away. She had spent years believing leaving Sayre had made her different from the people who stayed. Maybe distance was just another way of not looking.

               The next morning, Mara drove to the cemetery. Earl's grave was still raw earth. Someone had already left flowers. Mara stood where Lacey had stood during the funeral. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then she noticed footprints. Bare feet pressed into the dry grass. They began beside Earl's grave. Mara followed them. Across one row. Then another. They stopped at Danny Kress's headstone. Mara stared at it. The air seemed suddenly colder. Another footprint appeared. Moving away from Danny's grave. Toward the older section of the cemetery. Mara followed. The prints ended beside a granite marker.

               THOMAS GIVENS

               Beloved Husband, Father, and Servant of God.

               Pastor Givens's older brother. Dead 12 years. Mara's stomach tightened. She heard movement behind her. Wes stood 20 yards away. He had followed her from the road. Mara pointed toward the grave. “Wes.” He didn't move. His face had gone white. “You know something.” He stared at the headstone. Then closed his eyes. Mara understood. Lacey's body had been found. But whatever happened in 1997 had never belonged to two men.

               Perhaps Earl's death hadn't ended anything. Perhaps opening the cellar hadn't either. Maybe towns were like people. They could bury things so deeply that eventually they forgot the difference between healing and hiding. Mara walked toward Wes. He kept his eyes closed. “Open them.”

               “Mara, please.”

               “Open your eyes.”

               “I can't.”

               She stopped directly in front of him. Behind her, somewhere among the graves, dry grass crunched beneath bare feet. Wes began to cry. Mara took his hand. Not because she forgave him. Not because she understood. Because she knew how easy it was for frightened people to mistake looking away for survival. “You can,” she said.

               His fingers tightened around hers. Slowly, Wes opened his eyes. Mara turned with him. Lacey stood beside Givens's grave. And this time, neither of them looked away.