Clean Slate

Prologue

For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.

The Gospel According to Luke

Chapter 1

As the flight attendant ended her pre-arrival spiel, Mac felt the faintest stir of a long dormant emotion: Excitement.

Strange. Could this be, he wondered, because after a combined 24 hours in the air, I'm done flying?

No. The reason he felt excited, he realized with mild astonishment, was that he was almost home.

Pretty amazing that he felt that way, considering the manner by which he'd left, exactly a year before. His exit had been abrupt, near-empty-handed, and headlong; a one-way flight to the east, without a look back. His return route was also to the east, also near-empty-handed. But, unlike his departure, his return was fully planned, in fact agonized-over. He'd doubted, dithered, and second-guessed the thing to the instant the plane door chunked shut behind him in Phnomh Penh. Even now, moments from touchdown on his native soil, Mac felt conflicted. Is this the right thing? How long will I stay?

Is this even home any more? Really?

Dampening the thoughts as best he could, Mac found himself face-glued to the window, avidly scanning the wooded hilly landscape far below. There was the Sabbath River, a broad blue ribbon carving majestically through the steep rocky slopes, dotted with pleasure craft and oblong coal barges. There in the distance was the toylike cityscape of St. Marys, the downtown a dense cluster of multicolored buildings wreathed with freeways and surrounded by the seven hills of legend. There were the triple towers of the Zemke nuclear power plant, and the Suspension Bridge, and, on the south side of the Sabbath, the narrow frame houses of the town of Belle Terre, marching up the steep hills. On the St. Marys side Mac could see the downtown Skywalk and Judiciary Square; the long disused Armory Canal and the above-ground sections of the Metrotrain. And there, along the Sabbath in the shadow of the double-deck Interstate 73 bridge, was the red-masonry pile called Fort Van Dorn, where years ago Mac had enlisted in the Navy.

The big 767 banked southeast, south, and then west, losing altitude rapidly. The apex of its curve had to pass somewhere over Wild Rose, but despite best efforts Mac could not make it out. Straightening, he tucked his small backpack under the seat ahead of him, tightened his lap strap, smiled briefly at the passenger beside him, then re-opened the latest Halberstam book to distract himself from the landing.

ST. MARYS WELCOMES YOU, said the jetway placard under which Mac trooped in procession with the other 105 passengers. The concourse, practically new and glass/chrome sparkly as were so many in the Bible Belt, was fairly crowded for a Saturday noon, mostly with pleasure travelers. The broad faux avenue bristled with stores hawking teeshirts and trinkets, luggage and lingerie, novels and newspapers. From a rack facing out a headline caught Mac's eye: WHO'S NAMED IN HOOKER'S ‘BLACK BOOK'? Not in the least enticed – the media sleaze-fest had never interested him, or so he thought – Mac continued his brisk pace toward security choke point, craning his neck, scanning the waiting crowd for the familiar face. Then he saw her.

Julie collided with him in a full-impact hug. Holding her easily, he raised her and turned her, kissed her warm neck as she gripped him tight, felt her tears, his own eyes moist. Of all the McGladreys, they were the only ones who cried, and even with them it was a private thing, seldom done, never discussed. Setting her down, Mac took her soft face in his large hands and kissed her lined forehead.

"My God, you're so tan," she said, inspecting him with her shrewd gray eyes.

That's a McGladrey, Mac thought, smiling. First comment must always be about appearance. "You're thinner," he said.

"Thank you," she said primly, and smiled, lighting up the area. Julie, at 37 exactly one year younger, had a full oval face and watchful eyes and a compact, cared-for build. Her very long straight brown hair had the odd strand of gray – that's got to be giving Mom fits, Mac thought – and banded back in a loose pony tail. She wore sandals, snug blue jeans, and an open white shirt over a navy halter top. The wedding rings on her worn hands suggested that Ray was still in the picture. "Luggage?" she asked, guiding Mac toward the escalators.

"Just this," Mac replied, hefting the small back pack.

"Really," Julie asked owlishly as they got on the escalator.

"Left with nothing, came back the same way."

"You're all right, though?"

Raising both hands, Mac fluttered his fingers. "What do you see?"

Grinning, she mimed a count. "Ten!" she beamed, then faded. "So your body's whole. What about your heart?"

Mac shrugged. "I'm here."

The airport terminal was jammed with travelers, in queues that snaked across the floor, complicating their route to the door. Compared with where he'd been, Mac found the din to be overwhelming. So much noise, so much of it pointless. Here, people seemed larger, faster, more powerful. Certainly better dressed, better fed. And there was a cockiness about the crowd-atmosphere, also; a sense of entitlement, of self-assurance, as befit the citizens of the most powerful country on earth. How lucky we are, Mac thought, first with pride, then self-consciousness, and finally guilt: about those less fortunate, many of whom he'd left back there, on the other side of the world, in not inconsiderable danger.

You did what you could, he reminded himself. And if this doesn't work out, you can always go back.

But still.

"So what's new with you?" Mac asked as they walked the pedestrian bridge across toward the concrete parking deck.

"Same old," Julie replied with easy cheer. "Where'm I taking you, by the bye?"

"Wild Rose."

"Not Montcalm?" Mac gave her a look. Julie's lithe hands did I surrender. "You know Suzanne's still up there."

"I didn't know. But I'm not surprised."

"Well," Julie said presently, "you'll see her tomorrow."

"Makes you think that?"

Julie chuckled. "At Mom and Dad's, to which you'd best be coming."

"Yes, but --" Stopping short, Mac stared down at her. "Suzanne shows up out there?"

Julie had keys out, sandal soles clicking on the deck concrete. "Every Sunday, just about."

Mac wanted to hide his annoyance, but knew better than to try. There was no fooling Julie; they'd practically been twins. He whispered, with wonder, "Well, isn't she something."

Julie guided him to the rear of a gray Ford Expedition and unlocked the tail gate. "So even after a year you're not over it," she said.

"Should I be?"

"Hey," she said gently. "Please don't take that tone. I'm not Mom."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, kid."

Mac threw his backpack inside. Julie closed the tailgate. "You know I'm in your corner," she said, going to the driver door.

"I do know that, and I'm grateful," Mac replied. They climbed in, shut doors, clicked belts. The vehicle felt huge to him, big enough for a battalion. "More than you know," he added.

"But keep this in mind," Julie said, starting the engine. "Whatever your feelings, you've been out of the picture, and Mom and Dad are still here. You can't expect them not to observe the civilities. At least on paper, Suzanne is still their daughter-in-law. And the mother of --"

"Yes," Mac said.

Which was as close as they came to talking about Nicholas.

---

With a short happy horn-blast, Julie's Expedition roared away up Old Kennesaw Road, scattering gravel in the clouds of dust. Mac waved, then turned and walked up the dirt drive toward the house. At that instant, he felt pure contentment, an emotion seldom felt during the 15 months since Suzanne took Nicholas to Detroit. The contentment came partly from the all-too-short time with his sister. But mostly it resulted from the overwhelming impact the farm had on his senses. The caress of the warm breeze, the scent of the deep grassy meadows and forests and rich earth, the sound of the birds and other creatures, the warm winds wafting the limbs of the tall white oaks and monumental maples, and the gleaming white of the clapboard two-story Victorian era farm house. Yes, to the extent Mac had one, this was home. Never the colonial in the north St. Marys suburb of Montcalm, an overpriced ego trip chosen by and for Suzanne. Nor his folks' house, where he'd grown up, in North Liberty – a community saturated with status to the tips of its grass blades. Home for him was here at the farm, on what Suzanne dismissed as "the wrong side of the river," seven miles from the village of Wild Rose. The old family farm, where his grandparents had lived all their lives, and where Mac McGladrey spent the best summers of his.

Mounting the white wood steps, that creaked as if welcoming his weight, Mac crossed the deep wrap-around porch and entered the house through the kitchen. Just inside he stopped and waited, feeling the personality of the old house embrace him. It smelled stuffy from a year of zero ventilation, and was empty of furniture or other trappings of occupation, except for the downstairs bedroom just off the house's only bathroom. There he found the stuff he'd brought out on that dreadful March day 15 months ago: canvas army cot, closet full of clothes, and a wood trunk that held his map collection. Nothing had been touched. Mac dropped his backpack there, used the bathroom (noticing with satisfaction that the water worked, which meant the pump motor still functioned, which meant the electricity was still on), and wandered into the large country kitchen.

Except for the oblong table, there was no furniture here either. Aside from Mac, nobody had lived here since the early nineties, when his grandparents died. All around him, though, he could feel their welcoming presence. Mac peered out the window over the kitchen toward the road, and out the side window by the squat iron wood stove at the driveway. On the window sill by the wood stove sat the phone and, beside it, an answering machine. Its red light glowed. Unbelievable, after all this time. Mac pressed "play."

"Mac?" Suzanne's voice, peremptory, rushed, and as usual a little resentful that he had not answered. "Call me, I'm at work."

Beep. "Mac, where are you? Pick up." Suzanne again. Then, "Call me right away."

Beep. "Hello, Mac," yet again Suzanne, tone a soft snarl. "This is your wife. Trying once again. Call me now."

End of messages. Hitting "erase," Mac felt himself smiling ruefully. The year since those messages had come in had changed him more than he'd realized. Once he would have felt guilty at not having leapt to her commands. Now his feelings were quite different.

Going to the side door, Mac crossed the lawn by the two towering pecan trees and then down the grassy slope into brilliant sunshine. Ahead of him stretched the broad east lawn, a full acre of thick grass so green it seemed blue, showing no signs of the traditional midsummer drought. Walking along, Mac noticed clumps of dead grass, meaning that the lawn was getting somewhat regular attention from Dale Johnson and his brush hog. This, along with the functioning electricity and phone, was evidence, Mac knew, of his father's deft and dutiful attention to the old homestead. To his right, from Old Kennesaw Road, Mac heard a truck clattering along, and a horn honk. Mac waved – it looked like Donice Klump, who lived on the only other farm on this mile – and knew that by suppertime word would be all over the section. "It was Mac McGladrey, all right. Can't miss that height of his and those long arms and that reddish blond hair. Looked just fine, though I could swear he's lost some weight. Where'd they say he'd gone, again? Europe somewhere?"

The old barn sat at the east end of the vast lawn, rising from it two stories in faded splendor, all washed-out black except for the brown stone silo by the milk house to the left. Hoofing up the hill to the big weathered-wood double doors, Mac grabbed a handle and tugged it back, ancient steel wheels screeching above. From the darkish interior wafted air redolent of hay and straw and decay, and just the remotest scent of manure from long-gone livestock. Hand-hewn posts and beams as thick as a man rose into the near darkness of the mows. From the many recesses Mac heard the fluttering and skittering of hundreds of creatures: barn music. Before him sat, as he'd fully expected, his lovingly restored deep blue 1951 Ford Tudor.

But immediately he knew something was wrong. Mac had always parked his car nose out.

Now it was parked nose in.