I kissed Lillian on the cheek and whispered in her ear that I needed her to wake up. I then left the hospital and headed to Bridgewood Gardens. This time, I was paying a visit to Dorothy Bennett, Kent and Kyle’s mom.
While driving, I called Kent. Fortunately, he picked up the first ring. I thanked him for the email and asked if he minded me visiting his mother. He was almost offended when I asked. The four of us, Kent, Kyle, Ms. Bennett, and myself, had always had a great relationship. During the years growing up, especially before Kyle disappeared, it was like having two families.
Without question or prompting, Kent consumed the remaining fifteen minutes of my drive, sharing his hypothesis on what had happened to his twin brother. Kent believed Ray Archer had killed both Sharon Teague and Kyle. Sharon, to prevent her from disclosing her pregnancy and rape by Ray, thus destroying his relationship with Rachel, and exposing him to criminal prosecution. As to Kyle, to prevent him from disclosing anything about Sharon to the police, and secondarily, to eliminate him from interfering with Ray’s relationship with Rachel.
When I turned into Bridgewood Gardens’ parking lot, Kent’s confident voice disintegrated. His next words were whispered and laced with sadness. I could almost see him shaking his head sideways. “My problem, our problem, shit, every decent person’s problem, is we have no credible evidence. Kyle and Sharon will never enjoy a minute of justice.”
As I walked to the main entrance, I tried to give Kent hope. Before our call ended, I encouraged him not to give up. That many times in cold cases, some small and seemingly insignificant morsel was discovered and later proved key to solving the case.
Inside, I signed the guest register and walked to Room 114. Like Rosa on Sunday, Dorothy invited me in after one knock,
She stood, albeit slowly, when she saw me enter. She held out both arms. I crossed the intervening space, kissed her cheek, and gave her a big hug. She seemed in deep thought as she continued our embrace. Finally, she said, “see anybody you know?”
I had already spotted the many photos chronologically arranged beneath glass in an oversized picture frame hung on the wall behind Dorothy’s chair. “Oh boy, those trigger mixed emotions, bitter-sweet.”
After we untangled, she insisted I step around her Lazy Boy and inspect Kyle’s progressive growth, from first to tenth grade. Dorothy had chosen two photos per year: one from the school annual, and the other a random shot from many scenes, including several that Mom had taken during Kyle’s frequent visits to Harding Hillside. At the bottom right corner of the fourth row was one Dorothy had taken at the creek beside their house on King Street. It was a snapshot of Kent, Kyle, and me, each clothed only in a bathing suit. The sun reflected off the water behind us. It was almost as though we were standing in the bright shadow of the supernatural. I eased my way around Dorothy’s recliner and fixed my eyes inches from the glass. I couldn’t help but notice all three of us were wearing dog tags, those worrisome metal identification necklaces that practically became an additional appendage. It would have been a cardinal sin to remove them since you never knew when you’d die in a nuclear holocaust.
“Do you still have yours?” At first, I guessed Dorothy was asking about those god-awful pictures taken at the beginning of each school year. Before I could respond, she clarified her question. “Your dog tags?”
“This probably sounds strange, but I have them, along with every report card I ever received. They are in a lockbox Dad gave me when I was five years old.” I returned to the middle of the room and Dorothy motioned me to a couch. I couldn’t help but wonder if the dark green Army surplus container was still on a shelf in the garage or whether it had disappeared during the recent burglary.
Dorothy eased into her Lazy Boy and gave me a long stare. Her white hair and the dark circles under her eyes revealed the half-century mental strain she’d endured since losing her youngest son. “What I would give to see my baby sitting beside you today.” She reached for a Kleenex from the nearby end table and daubed her face high on each cheekbone. “Every morning before I sit, I look at Kyle’s tenth grade class photo and then at the three of you beside the creek. It never fails. I always think about Kyle’s dog tag and how that will be the first way police will identify him. I hope and pray I’ll hold that little metal tag in my hand before I die.”
I felt the need to apologize once again for my failure to help my dearest friend. “Mom.” The word came so naturally. “Mom, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for Kyle when he needed me.”
Quickly, soothingly, Dorothy responded. “Oh honey, you have no reason to apologize. How could you have known something bad was about to happen?”
An image of Kyle, upstairs with Lillian and me at Fred Kings, came to mind. “Since we’re talking about dog tags, I remember Kyle fiddling with his as we watched the parade that night. You know that was a good sign something was bothering him.”
“I do. Kyle was too curious for his own good and couldn’t conceal his excitement.” Her response seemed a little off key, but I let it go. Dorothy paused, once again using the Kleenex to catch her tears. “I’m the one to be blamed.” I was even more confused.
“Why do you say that?”
“I knew better than to let him go to the parade. My gut told me otherwise, but I let him go. I obviously didn’t take Kyle’s teacher seriously enough.” It surprised me Dorothy brought up a subject I’d come to discuss.
“Are you referring to Ms. Smith, Linda Smith, our tenth-grade English teacher?”
“Yes, she called. It was Wednesday or Thursday. The week of the parade. I think it was Wednesday afternoon. She was sincere and apologetic.
“Why? I mean, what was she apologizing for?” I thought I knew but needed to verify.
“She’d promised Kyle to keep secret what he’d shared with her. I could tell she was torn, but she was honest. On one side, she thought Kyle might be overreacting. For caution’s sake, she thought he might be in trouble, the type that could get him hurt.”
I moved the conversation forward. “I assume,” I caught myself. I shouldn’t do that. It might make Dorothy feel worse than she does. “I mean, did you speak to Kyle about Ms. Smith’s call?”
I caught the look, one that screamed, ‘well, of course.’ “Any good mother would.”
“Would you share that conversation with me? It might be helpful to our investigation.” I took the dive and told Dorothy what I was up to and what I had learned since returning to Boaz.
“Thanks for all you’re doing for Kyle. And me.” A knock at Dorothy’s door interrupted our conversation. The same tall and skinny young man who’d brought Rosa’s breakfast two days ago entered and delivered a banana and a small container of ice-cream.
Tad was cordial. “Can I bring you something?”
“No, but thanks for taking care of Dorothy. She’s always been my second mom.”
Dorothy continued even before Tad exited the room. “I’m sure Kyle shared only select details, but they convinced him Ray Archer had something to do with the disappearance of the Albertville cheerleader. Her name escapes me.”
“Sharon Teague.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Dorothy opened the ice cream and asked me to retrieve a metal spoon from the minimalist kitchen nestled along a wall inside the foyer. She despised the small wooden spoon Tad had brought. “What seemed to conflict with what the teacher said was Kyle’s take on Rachel. Even after I asked him whether he and Rachel had a spout, he defended her, said it caught her in a dilemma.”
“What exactly did that mean?”
“I took it to mean she, Rachel, cared for Ray but knew he was trouble. But that’s not what bothered me the most. And it’s not something Ms. Smith knew about. At least she didn’t mention it.”
I leaned back and motioned for Dorothy to continue eating her ice cream. She took another bite and set the plastic container and spoon on the end table. “That Rachel was pregnant?” I asked this question to motivate Dorothy to be completely open. I thought if I shared that I knew about my wife’s teenage pregnancy, it would be her permission slip to be factual about anything bad concerning Rachel.
“No, that’s not what I’m referring to, even though Kyle shared that fact. We’re back to dog tags.” Again, Dorothy paused. She had to have noticed my puzzled look.
“Huh?”
“I’ll probably never know the truth. Kyle, bless his loving heart, may not have known the truth himself.”
“You’ve kind of lost me.”
“Rachel had given him the Teague girl’s identification tag.” This news floored me.
“You mean her dog tag?”
“Yes. I’ll try to explain.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“She, Rachel, wanted Kyle to hide it. He said she’d found it one afternoon when she’d borrowed Ray’s truck. It was on the floorboard. I’m not sure if Kyle said where, passenger or driver’s side.” I thought there had to be more to the story, but Dorothy stopped talking, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
I waited thirty seconds before saying, “I may be wrong, but that seems like a made-up story. Rachel finds it in Ray’s truck?” I plowed forward. “Did Kyle offer any reason Rachel wanted him to hide Sharon’s dog tag?”
“Not really. He left me believing it could prove important, but not now.” I could never have guessed what Dorothy would say next. “And not for the next fifty-plus years and I’m still counting.” Again, I was confused. Dorothy was an expert at reading my mind. “I see you thinking, ‘what happened to Sharon’s dog tag?’”
That wasn’t what I was thinking. Instead, I was trying to figure out what exactly Dorothy was counting. “That is an excellent question. Do you know the answer?”
“It’s in my jewelry box.” Dorothy pointed to the door to my right, the one I assumed led to her bedroom. “I found it in a shoebox at the back of Kyle and Kent’s closet a month after Kyle disappeared.”
I uncrossed my legs and sat along the edge of the couch. I hoped she’d sense I wanted to see the mystery dog tag. Instead, she reached for her ice-cream and spoon. I asked another question that was burning a hole in my mind. “Not to be judgmental, but why didn’t you report this to the police?” The moment I finished my statement, I realized my assumption. “Sorry, awful question.”
“It’s not. There are two reasons for my secrecy. By the time I found Sharon’s dog tag, the police had already arrested Nick Pearson. My other reason is the most important. I had promised Kyle not to tell anyone unless he said it was okay. Since he never did, I kept quiet.” Dorothy again leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Kyle, my baby, please forgive me for breaking my promise.”
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever been so sad. My despair seemed equal to that feeling when I’d found Rachel hanging from the basement beam. I stood and walked two steps to Dorothy. After lowering myself to one knee, I took her hands in mine and poured my empathy into her eyes. “Kyle was so blessed to have you as his mother. You kept your promise and now, I believe you are hearing him say you did the right thing in telling me. You want justice for your son. So do I.”
She stared at me for a good long time, saying nothing. Finally, she released my hands and shooed me backwards. “Stop it. You’re going to make me cry,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
The two of us spent the next fifteen minutes standing beside her bed with an open jewelry box along the edge. She insisted I take Sharon’s dog tag, but it just didn’t feel right, so I refused. But I snapped a picture with my cell phone’s camera and with little thought asked, “Does Kent know about this?”
Unsurprisingly and promptly, Dorothy responded, “No. Remember, I promised Kyle, I’d keep it a secret.”
We exchanged another long hug before I departed.
by 
The Pencil Driven Life 