The Ledger

Catch’s Confession, Episode Four

“You asked me to explain,” said Imogene. She spoke with a child’s voice. But her words were far older than Catch. Older than the room. “You said it like a man requesting a receipt. So, I will explain.”

Catch’s eyebrows rose high, plowing rows in his forehead.

“You like arithmetic,” she said. “This is arithmetic.” She spoke as though checking entries in a ledger.

“Mr. Dawkins stopped breathing first,” said Imogene. “He did not fall. He did not struggle. His heart simply refused him. That happens when a man has rehearsed fear for too many years. The body remembers even when the mouth does not speak. Are you alright, Mr. Catch?”

He shifted in his chair again and cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“May I continue, then?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Dawkins was afraid of dark rooms. Not ordinary dark. Closed dark…. Contained dark. He used to place boys in closets when he worked at the county home. Just for a few minutes. To quiet them. To make them compliant. He stood outside the door and counted slowly. He liked the counting. He told himself it was discipline.”

Imogene lowered her eyes to the doll and stroked its hair once. Then she looked back at Catch. She continued.

“The last boy did not stop crying,” she said. “So, Mr. Dawkins left him longer than usual. That boy stopped making noise too.

“Tonight, when the lamp answered, Mr. Dawkins felt the door close again. He could not find the handle. His chest tightened the way it did the night the crying stopped. He did not want to count. But he did. And then he ran out of numbers. That is why he is upstairs.”

Catch looked up at the ceiling.

“You checked his pulse,” she said.

“Yes.”

“His body was still warm. Warm things cool quickly. You know that.”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Mr. Huxley lasted longer. He tried to reason. Men who stutter often believe thinking carefully will save them. He buried something once. Not a body. A letter. It was addressed to the woman who waited for him during the war. It explained what he had done to survive. He never sent it. He married her anyway. She never knew.

“He called silence mercy. But silence is not mercy, Mr. Catch. It is delay.

“When I stood, he remembered the letter. He felt it under the floorboards where he had hidden it in his mind. He reached for it. You saw his hand. He thought if he could retrieve it, he could speak.

“But the floor had already opened. So, his heart folded inward. Quietly. He was thinking of the word forgive. He did not reach it.”

She studied Catch’s posture. “Is something brothering you, Mr. Catch?”

“No,” he said.

“Perhaps something is not adding up?”

I’m fine,” he said. “Continue.”

She nodded.

“Mr. Lyell is not dead.

“You call him comic relief. You underestimate him. He likes contracts. Paper makes harm official. Official things feel cleaner. He has made men sign papers they could not read. He has made widows sign papers they did not understand. He calls it business.

“When the shadow leaned, he saw ink. Not blood. Ink. He saw his own name written in something thicker than ink. He believes he signed something. He is not wrong. He is laughing because laughter is easier than reading the fine print. He will laugh for some time. Then he will grow very quiet.”

The silence stretched.

“And the kid?” asked Catch.

“Mr. Anderson did not move,” she said. “You noticed that. He freezes when motion is required. He has always frozen.

“There was a road once. A woman called out for help. He stayed in the truck. He told himself it was not his business.

“Tonight, he heard the same voice. He tried to step forward. He could not. He is still trying. He will keep trying. His body will remember longer than his mind will.

“And that is not my doing, Mr. Catch. That is arithmetic.”

Catch stared at his shoes.

“You are different, Mr. Catch,” she said. “You did not freeze. You did not reach. You did not laugh. You observed. You always observe first.

“In North Africa, you told yourself that the man moved. He had not. You wanted him to move. It was easier that way. You still call that arithmetic. But arithmetic requires honest numbers. You removed one. You have been removing numbers for many years.

“You call that fate. It is not fate. It is selection. There is a difference.”

Catch did not answer.

“You asked me to explain what happened at midnight. Here is the bottom line. Nothing happened. Nothing new. Only alignment. When the clock finished its circle, what was hidden no longer had to remain hidden.

“The lamp did not bend. The light did not reconsider. It simply answered.”

He looked at her.

“You saw that. You are not a man who imagines things. That is why you are still alive.

“For now.”

She adjusted the doll in her lap.

“You think I killed them,” she said. “I did not. I do not touch. I do not wound. I do not tear. I reveal.

“Some men survive revelation. Some do not. That depends on what they have practiced.”

Catch’s gaze fell to the doll’s pale hair.

“You asked me to explain, Mr. Catch. I have. Now it is your turn to count again. Tell me about the man in the sand. The one who did not move. Tell me why you fired.”

Upstairs, Lyell’s laughter thinned.

The kitchen lamp flickered once. Then steadied.

She waited.