We walked awhile without talking. Honestly, how could you follow that? Hell of a conversation killer.
So we didn’t talk, but Owen stayed right there with me. In this moment, given everything, it was better than talking.
After a good while, Owen asked, “Should I distract you? What can I do?”
“What were your other questions?”
“They all seem stupid now.”
“Ask me anyway.”
“Okay. Do you know how much you shocked the hell out of everybody on the course the other day?”
I smiled a little to myself. It seemed like a different life, but the memory of it felt strangely good. Like it broadened my perspective to remember other things that mattered.
“They can’t stop talking about it,” he said. “You’re a legend.”
“That works,” I said. “I’m good with ‘legend.’”
It felt like maybe that was it for his questions. We walked a little longer, until we made it out to the spot where the road ended and the rock jetty began, and then we sat on one of the benches there, at the turnaround at the end of the road, watching the evening sky over the water.
It did feel good to get out. The wind. The ocean. The stars. Theuniverse. I was surprised how soothing it was to be in the presence of things greater than myself.
“I also wanted to tell you,” Owen said, after a while, “that I talked to my father. About the fire.”
I looked into his face for the first time since he’d arrived. “You did?”
He nodded. “We had a few beers first, but I told him everything.”
“I wasn’t pushing for that, you know.”
“I know. But it felt like the right thing to do.”
“How did he take it?”
“It was rough,” he said. “At first, he kept shaking his head and saying, ‘But there were only two boys.’ But I kept repeating that the witness had been wrong until it sank in. It stirred a lot up for him about my uncle. His voice got gruff, and his eyes got pretty red.”
“Was he angry?”
“I don’t think so. Though it can be kind of hard to tell with my dad.”
“What did he say?”
“Actually, I told him that I’d always worried I might have been the one who threw the matchbox. That I’d been trying to remember for twenty years if it was me or not. But he said no. He was there in the room when my friend Stevie gave his testimony, and Stevie described throwing the box. My dad remembered it specifically because what Stevie had said was so odd: He said that as soon as he lit it, he thought it looked like a flaming hedgehog. And then, the minute my dad said that, I remembered something: I saw a flash in my memory of Stevie throwing the box and shouting, ‘Hedgehog!’ It all came back.”
I let out a long sigh of relief. The rookie hadn’t thrown the box. He hadn’t started the fire—not directly, anyway. What inexpressible comfort he must have felt to know that.
“So now you know it wasn’t you,” I said.
He thought for a second. “I was still a part of the group. But it’s nice to know I didn’t actually throw the hedgehog.”
I pushed my hands down into my pockets and turned toward the water.
The rookie leaned toward me. “Anyway, thank you. I’ve done a lot of thinking about forgiveness since I talked to you that day. I’ve tried to come up with good things that came out of what happened, even as bad as it was.”
“And?”
“I’m starting to think maybe the aftermath of it all wound up shaping my life. In good ways, as well as bad. I couldn’t change the past, but with every choice going forward, I tried like hell to do the right thing.” He gave a little shrug. “It definitely forced me to define who I wanted to be.”
