Installment 9

I don’t know if anyone will ever read this. In some ways, I hope no one ever does. But in other ways, I need someone else to know.

I was born in Holly, and I’ve lived here my whole life. When you’re young, it’s entertaining to run around and play in the dirt. But as I got older and became a teenager, I got restless. My friends and I started taking things – just as pranks at first, but I kept stealing on my own.

It was disgusting, but I was smart about it. I started with small things that could be blamed on any drifter. A garden gnome, or shoes left outside. Then I started going inside houses, taking vases or silver platters. I would never strike at the same place twice, and I didn’t do it often or consistently enough to attract attention.

There was one weekend when my family and I traveled out of town. The whole time, I was anxious to get back and start up again. That was the point when I realized it had crossed the line from harmless to criminal. I got a thrill from sneaking around and risking getting caught. At the time, I didn’t have a job. I planned on selling what I stole, but somehow I never got around to it.

I developed a bit of a routine and I was getting more and more daring. Until that night in May. It must have been midnight and everyone in Holly was asleep. I was already outside the Loomis’ house after successfully stealing a Native American woven basket. All of a sudden, there was a voice behind me. “Walter?” I turned around and saw Bobby, he was a year or two younger than me, but bigger. All the Loomises were big: some said they were “part Indian.” His eyes went from my face to the basket and back again.

Without saying a word, he ran at me, pinning me to the ground. “Bobby! I can explain . . . I was just . . . it was . . .” Bobby wouldn’t listen.

“I won’t let you get away with it. I won’t, I won’t,” he kept saying. I couldn’t understand why he was reacting so violently. It was just a basket! He reached for my throat and I couldn’t throw him off of me; he was too heavy. I tried to breathe, but my head was getting fuzzy. My hand groped at the ground and latched on to a rock. I swung my arm up and struck Bobby in the head. He loosened his grip momentarily, then continued to squeeze. I had to hit him again, but he just wouldn’t stop. His head made a cracking sound as it collided with the rock. I watched his eyes roll back and his eyelids flutter, but it wasn’t enough. I hit him, and hit him until I could finally breathe.

I shoved Bobby off of me, and lay, gasping, on the ground. After a moment, I looked over at Bobby. He wasn’t moving. It was then that I realized a small pool of blood had formed around one side of his head. “Bobby,” I said quietly. “Bobby? Bobby!” I was frantic. I tried, but I couldn’t feel his heart beating. He wasn’t breathing. I shook him and shouted at him, but he wouldn’t wake up.

I don’t know how no one heard me screaming, crying, and choking on my tears. Everything in the Holly community seemed silent, except for me. I pulled my t-shirt off and wrapped it around his head to stop the bleeding. I grasped him under the arms and dragged him up the road to the Holly cemetery.

No one went up there anymore. It had been set aside in the 1800’s, but by the time I took Bobby up there, the plots had long since been filled, so community members were no longer buried there. I left Bobby there and grabbed a shovel from the shed at my house. When I returned, I began digging under the cross marked “Little Boy Thomas.” The burial had occurred so long ago that no one knew who that was. I threw the basket I had stolen into Bobby’s shallow grave.

When I finished burying him, I cleaned up after myself. I washed away the blood from the road, and hid the footprints and drag marks using a tree branch. I scattered stones and leaves across the grave so it would look like it hadn’t been disturbed.

No one ever found out what I had done. They blamed it on Michael Glosham and ran him out of town. I was glad he moved because every time I saw his face, guilt tore at my insides.

I am so sorry for what I have done, but there is no way to fix it. My hands can never be clean of the filth and blood. But please, know that it was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it, and I’ll regret it forever.

- Walter K. Paterson
July 11, 1955


* * * * *

It had been five days since Jake discovered the boxes in the attic and read the note. Walter’s words had been drifting in and out of his head for days, but he had done nothing about them. He thought about finding the families and returning the stolen property, but hadn’t come up with a story to tell them about where it was from. Anyway, what good would it do?

Jake was taking a walk around Holly when he stopped and realized he was at the entrance to the cemetery. His feet pulled him forward, climbing the stairs of the cemetery. He wandered along the rows and family plots until he found a weather-beaten white cross. “Little Boy Thomas” was hand-lettered across it in faded black paint. He stared for a minute before picking up a stick and scrawling “Bobby Loomis” into the dirt. Before the words could sink too deeply into the earth, Jake wiped them away with his shoe.

A few days later, Jake was surprised when the phone rang at Walter’s house. “Hello?”

“Jake? This is Michael, Michael Glosham. You told me you were staying at Walter’s house, and I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

“Well, it’s nice to hear from you. Everything is fine, I’m fine.”

“What I meant to say was . . . well, did you ever find out what Walter wanted to tell you?”

Jake paused before responding. “No, I don’t think we’ll ever find out. Maybe Walter didn’t have anything to tell after all.”