Part 3 — Twenty Years Of Lilies
When the firework faded, Dave was still looking at me. I walked straight to him and said, “Tell me everything, or I call the state police tonight.” He sat down on an overturned bucket and told me.
Jim had not died on the bridge. In 2005 he was buried in gambling debts to private lenders, and a relationship in Arizona had produced a baby boy. He left his truck on the Ludington bridge and walked away. Dave agreed to help, to keep him out of the hands of those lenders, and Jim promised to disappear for good. Half of every insurance payment went to me. Half went to him.
Dave had carried the lie for twenty years out of loyalty and fear. Sue wept beside him. Neither of them looked at me.
Dave phoned Jim on speaker while I stood there in the dark. Jim sobbed when he heard my voice. He agreed to come to Michigan the next week with an attorney.
A grave can be covered with lilies for twenty years and still be empty of the truth.
The insurance company and the Michigan State Police opened an investigation. Jim pleaded guilty to insurance fraud and was ordered to repay the money with interest over time. Dave cooperated and received probation. Because I had accepted the payments in good faith, the insurer agreed not to pursue me.
A judge confirmed that my marriage was still legally in effect, so I filed for divorce. The court awarded me the house and a fair share of what Jim had hidden away. My attorney read every page twice.
I met Mason in a quiet restaurant in Grand Rapids. He was twenty, tall, and soft-spoken, and he looked exactly like his father. He said he was sorry for existing. I told him no child should ever apologize for being born.
I told my grandchildren the truth in words they could understand. Grandpa Jim was alive, he lived far away, and he made mistakes grown-ups sometimes make.
On Memorial Day, I had the old headstone removed with the help of our church. In my own garden, I planted a row of white lilies, and I did not stop to ask anyones permission.
Mason comes for supper on Sundays now. He brings the dessert, and he calls me Carol, and we are both learning that a family can begin late.
