ONE Morris Hills, New Jersey, 1985 Seated in the darkness of the Ford pickup truck he had just stolen, Ronnie Keller looked over his shoulder, shifted into reverse, and eased the vehicle backwards into a clearing of misty woods. As he did so, the quiet night air was interrupted by pine needles and twigs crackling under his tires. Leaving the motor in idle, he stared up a long, asphalt driveway to the white portico and columns of the Bromley Country Club about a hundred yards away, which shone brightly from several spotlights seated on the lawn. He was waiting for his father to emerge -- from a banquet of phony, corporate hotshots so Ronnie could get even with the bastard for Mom burning to death! In a low, secretive voice, he mumbled, “It was Shelley’s thirteenth birthday! He should’ve been home that night! He could’ve saved you, Mom!!” The chopped-up Ritalin he’d snorted earlier was settling in nicely, juicing his head, making him feel as though his brain were soaring. But to pump himself up even more, he uncapped a pint bottle of Captain’s Rum and took another long swig of the biting alcohol. Good, baby, good! He was not only ready, he was eager to follow his father’s big Lincoln up Columbia Road, come alongside at high speed, and then bash it into the ditch alongside Morristown Airport, getting revenge way overdue! Dressed in khaki pants and a light brown pullover, he blinked back tears and blotted his eyes with his sleeve. He hated people telling him he looked a lot like his father. They were both six feet tall and athletically built with medium brown hair over a squarish face and jaw. Bullshit he looked like his father. The old man was forty-five. Ronnie was only twenty-five! The fire had been four years ago, but it seemed as though it were yesterday. Yeah, it was an arsonist out for revenge, but out for revenge on Chip Keller -- who could’ve saved Mom if he’d been home! Ronnie jerked his head up and gurgled more rum into his throat. Tonight, the ol’ man would pay for what he failed to do!
Chip Keller cupped his muscular hands under the faucet in the empty men’s room of the Bromley Club to collect cold water, then splashed it on his face, twice. He leaned on the marble counter with both hands, watching the droplets fall into the sink before he looked up into the mirror, face still wet. He blotted his face with a paper towel that scratched his shaved beard hairs. He then reached into the vest pocket of his tuxedo for the envelope the headwaiter had handed him sealed and postmarked, studying the note inside it again: the same message he’d gotten every year near the anniversary of Betty’s death: SHE BURNED TO DEATH BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T HOME. YOU COULD’VE SAVED HER. The anniversary of her death four years ago was only two weeks away: May 13, 1981, the night of the fire that took Betty and injured Shelley on her thirteenth birthday. As always, the memory was a dark room in his mind, like a silent companion tormenting and reminding him that he might’ve saved Betty, or died with her. Chip had picked that night as the focal point of a voluntary PR campaign to raise nine million to build a new wing at Saint Christopher’s Hospital for kids with leukemia. It was the only date the governor had open. He explained that to Shelley and Betty, emphasizing that to be successful, to raise nine million dollars, one had to have the governor at such an event. That way he’d pull in many of the big hitters without whom they’d fall short of their goal and have to delay building to help those suffering kids. As an alternative Chip said they’d celebrate Shelley’s birthday on the weekend, inviting her sister and brother, Gail and Ronnie, both of whom were away at college. Shelley not only understood, she encouraged him in the effort to help kids sick with leukemia, but Betty was unhappy and made it clear she was. Betty. Four years without her. Still painful. They’d had three children in a good marriage. A very good marriage to a wonderful, giving woman. Obliterated by an arson-crazed screwball. Because of the one hundred year-old mansion’s ‘balloon’ construction, with no cross beams to slow the fiery beast, the fire consumed the house fast, the choking fumes flooding their bedroom. After the initial shock and the arsonist’s confession, Betty’s parents, daughters Gail and Shelley, everyone, except Ronnie, had forgiven him, especially after learning that the fire had been set by an arsonist out for revenge. Still, if he were home, maybe awakened somehow, or just up because of his insomnia, he might’ve done something to save Betty and spare Shelley her burns and broken bones from leaping out of her second floor bedroom window. He put the note back in his vest pocket, then removed and stared at three-by-five cards of notes for his comments when he returned to the dais; but his mind returned to the past, remembering that he had lingered to help his secretary, Lisa, taking her back to the office to try and advise her, she being in terrible straits over her husband, Bobby; the poor guy was a Vietnam vet, mentally distraught, and he had left Lisa, making her an emotional mess, even weeping occasionally at the office.
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