A month after his father had died, Taylor had sneaked it out of her purse and fallen asleep while holding it. His mother had come in, found the photo pressed into his small hands, his fingers curled tightly around it. The photo itself was smudged with tears. The following day she’d taken the negative in to have a copy made, and Taylor glued four Popsicle sticks to a discarded piece of glass and mounted the photo. In all these years he’d never considered changing the frame.
Thirty-six.
His father seemed so young in the picture. His face was lean and youthful, his eyes and forehead showing only the faintest outlines of wrinkles that would never have the chance to deepen. Why, then, did his father seem so much older than Taylor felt right now? His father had seemed so . . . wise, so sure of himself, so brave. In the eyes of his nine-year-old son, he was a man of mythic proportion, a man who understood life and could explain nearly everything. Was it because he’d lived more deeply? Had his life been defined by broader, more exceptional experiences? Or was his impression simply the product of a young boy’s feelings for his father, including the last moment they’d been together?
Taylor didn’t know, but then he never would. The answers had been buried with his father a long time ago.
He could barely remember the weeks immediately after his father died. That time had blurred strangely into a series of fragmented memories: the funeral, staying with his grandparents in their home on the other side of town, suffocating nightmares when he tried to sleep. It was summer-school was out-and Taylor spent most of his time outside, trying to blot out what had happened. His mother wore black for two months, mourning the loss. Then, finally, the black was put away. They found a new place to live, something smaller, and even though nine-year-olds have little comprehension of death and how to deal with it, Taylor knew exactly what his mother was trying to tell him.
It’s just the two of us now. We’ve got to go on.
After that fateful summer Taylor had drifted through school, earning decent but unspectacular grades, progressing steadily from one grade to the next. He was remarkably resilient, others would say, and in some ways they were right. With his mother’s care and fortitude, his adolescent years were like those of most others who lived in this part of the country. He went camping and boating whenever he could; he played football, basketball, and baseball throughout his high school years. Yet in many ways he was considered a loner. Mitch was, and always had been, his only real friend, and in the summers they’d go hunting and fishing, just the two of them. They would vanish for a week at a time, sometimes traveling as far away as Georgia. Though Mitch was married now, they still did it whenever they could.
Once he graduated, Taylor bypassed college in favor of work, hanging drywall and learning the carpentry business. He apprenticed with a man who was an alcoholic, a bitter man whose wife had left him, who cared more about the money he’d make than the quality of the work. After a violent confrontation that nearly came to blows, Taylor quit working for him and started taking classes to earn his contractor’s license.
He supported himself by working in the gypsum mine near Little Washington, a job that left him coughing almost every night, but by twenty-four he’d saved enough to start his own business. No project was too small, and he often underbid to build up his business and reputation. By twenty-eight he’d nearly gone bankrupt twice, but he stubbornly kept on going, eventually making it work. Over the past eight years he’d nurtured the business to the point where he made a decent living. Not anything grand-his house was small and his truck was six years old-but it was enough for him to lead the simple life he desired.
A life that included volunteering for the fire department.
His mother had tried strenuously to talk him out of it. It was the only instance in which he’d deliberately gone against her wishes.
Of course, she wanted to be a grandmother as well, and she’d let that slip out every now and then. Taylor usually made light of the comment and tried to change the subject. He hadn’t come close to marriage and doubted whether he ever would. It wasn’t something he imagined himself doing, though in the past he’d dated two women fairly seriously. The first time was in his early twenties, when he’d started seeing Valerie. She was coming off a disastrous relationship when they’d met-her boyfriend had gotten another woman pregnant, and Taylor was the one she’d turned to in her time of need. She was two years older, smart, and they had gotten along well for a time. But Valerie wanted something more serious; Taylor had told her honestly that he might never be ready. It was a source of tension without easy answers. In time they simply drifted apart; eventually she moved away. The last he’d heard, she was married to a lawyer and living in Charlotte.
Then there was Lori. Unlike Valerie, she was younger than Taylor and had moved to Edenton to work for the bank. She was a loan officer and worked long hours; she hadn’t had the chance to make any friends when Taylor walked into the bank to apply for a mortgage. Taylor offered to introduce her around; she took him up on it. Soon they were dating. She had a childlike innocence that both charmed Taylor and aroused his protective interests, but eventually, she too wanted more than Taylor was willing to commit to. They broke up soon afterward. Now she was married to the mayor’s son; she had three children and drove a minivan. He hadn’t exchanged more than pleasantries with her since her engagement.
By the time he was thirty, he’d dated most of the single women in Edenton; by the time he was thirty-six, there weren’t that many left. Mitch’s wife, Melissa, had tried to set him up on various dates, but those had fizzled as well. But then again, he hadn’t really been looking, had he? Both Valerie and Lori claimed that there was something inside of him they were unable to reach, something about the way he viewed himself that neither of them could really understand. And though he knew they meant well, their attempts to talk to him about this distance of his didn’t-or couldn’t-change anything.
When he was finished he stood, his knees cracking slightly and aching from the position he’d been kneeling in. Before he left he said a short prayer in memory of his father, and afterward he bent over to touch the headstone one more time.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Mitch Johnson was leaning against Taylor’s truck when he saw Taylor leaving the cemetery. In his hand he held two cans of beer secured by the plastic rings-the remains of the six-pack he’d started the night before-and he pulled one free and tossed it as Taylor drew near. Taylor caught it in midstride, surprised to see his friend, his thoughts still deep in the past.
“I thought you were out of town for the wedding,” Taylor said.
“I was, but we got back last night.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I sort of figured that you’d need a beer about now,” Mitch answered simply.
Taller and thinner than Taylor, he was six two and weighed about 160 pounds. Most of his hair was gone-he’d started losing it in his early twenties-and he wore wire-rimmed glasses, giving him the appearance of an accountant or engineer. He actually worked at his father’s hardware store and was regarded around town as a mechanical genius. He could repair everything from lawn mowers to bulldozers, and his fingers were permanently stained with grease. Unlike Taylor, he’d gone to college at East Carolina University, majored in business, and had met a psychology major from Rocky Mount named Melissa Kindle before moving back to Edenton. They’d been married twelve years and had four children, all boys. Taylor had been best man at the wedding and was godfather to their oldest son. Sometimes, from the way he talked about his family, Taylor suspected that Mitch loved Melissa more now than he had when they’d walked down the aisle.