Rocking Chair

She’s buried on a hill at the southernmost edge of my property, beneath a Bradford pear tree. I did that on purpose. I know she loved Bradford pears, especially in spring. I’ve always thought they smell like something dead, but she couldn’t get enough of them. So, in accordance with what I suspect her final wishes might’ve been, that’s where I laid her to rest. I visit her grave now and then, though not as much as I used to. I might go soon and pay my respects. Or maybe not. I walk with a cane now, and movement doesn’t come as easily as it once did.

Now that I’m getting older, I find myself thinking about her more often. I guess the truth is that I’ve never really forgotten her, but it was easier to push her memory aside when I was younger and still had plenty to distract me. But now I’m gray-haired and hobbled and I have too much time to sit in my rocking chair on the front porch and think about things. That’s something they don’t tell you about getting old. You find yourself with nothing to do and all sorts of memories for company… some of them good, others not so. My memories of her are mostly good. My memories of what happened to her are… complicated, let’s just say that.

Her name was Irene. Irene Dudek. She came to town in 1956 as a typist for the local newspaper. We met at church, back when I still used to go. I thought she was just about the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. And I told her so. That was when things were good. So good. They didn’t stay that way. Good things rarely last.

I know that the people in town think I killed her. The police certainly thought so right after it all happened. But without a body they couldn’t do much about it. And while they were right in that I was involved in her death, I did not kill her. I don’t think I could kill anybody. Least of all her. I’m not saying I loved her. Shit, who knows? Maybe I did. I don’t know. But something as perfectly beautiful as her? No, I couldn’t have harmed a hair on her head, even if I’d wanted to.

You know, it’s kind of strange. I can’t remember much about the last sixty-five years. Most of what happened in that time is a blur now. But no slow passage of time could erase my memory of Irene’s face. Even now, so many decades later, as other memories fade with age or vanish completely, I can still see her piercing blue eyes, her coquettish smile, her soft, golden hair—all as though I looked upon them only minutes ago. I can barely recall the faces of my parents, or the sound of their voices, or the scent of their embrace, but I remember everything about Irene. And I think I will to my dying day (which, by the way, probably isn’t too far off).

I know you’re wondering what happened to her. You’re wondering why people think I killed her. I could tell you about that. But I’d rather talk about something else: memories. The thing is, memories lie to us. Or maybe we lie to them. I’m not sure which it is, but the point is this: if you tell yourself something enough, and if you do it over a period of decades, you might actually get to a place where you can no longer tell what’s true and what’s false. Memories aren’t fixed. They’re fluid. You can bend them. You can manipulate them. Repeat something to yourself over and over for years and who’s to say it isn’t true? You can make yourself believe anything. So when I say that I didn’t kill her, I’m almost positive that this is so. But I can’t be sure. It was so long ago, after all. And the passage of time is a breeding ground for distortion. You’ll learn that when you get old.

Here’s a question. They say that the human body replaces itself every seven years or so. As far as I understand, this means the cells in your body replicate so that, every seven years, there’s a new you. Assuming this applies to brain cells, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t, doesn’t that mean your mind is also replaced every seven years? Could it not be said, then, that the “present you” isn’t guilty of what the “younger you” did? The younger you was literally a different person, even down to the cells! How can you be held responsible when you’re eighty-five for what you did when you were twenty? This is something I think about.

Still, I’m fairly confident you can believe me when I tell you that I didn’t kill her. I don’t think I could have. She was so lovely. So sweet and innocent. So beautiful. It would be insanity to harm something like that. And whatever else I might be, I don’t think I’m insane. I think I’m very much a friend of rational thought.

Sometimes, at night, I think about that pear tree. She’s buried so close to it. I don’t think there’s any doubt that the tree has fed off her remains. Her rotting flesh must have made the tree strong. So, really, when you think about it, Irene is still alive. She’s alive in the tree. So I couldn’t have killed her because she’s not really dead.

Every now and then new cops turn up at my front door, asking the same old questions. The latest was a very young man, no doubt fresh out of the academy, eager to put “solved” to some old cold case. I bet he sits at his desk at the precinct in town, sifting through old files, asking himself over and over, “What happened to Irene Dudek? Where did she go? Did Frank Glasgow murder her? Where is her body? Is the old man hiding something?”

And, of course, the answer is yes. I am hiding something. I didn’t kill her, no. But I was involved in her death. I was the one who buried her, you see. And I’m the only person alive who knows where her grave is. But I didn’t kill her, no. I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill anyone.

So I sit here in my rocking chair on the front porch and think about her. I think about visiting her grave. I think about the pear tree that has fed off her remains. But as I said, I’m old and worn out now and lurching down the south end of the Glasgow estate with this rickety cane doesn’t sound smart.

The strange thing is that I still dream about her. It doesn’t happen a lot. But when it does, the dreams are very vivid. The sound of her laughter echoes in my sleeping brain… and the sounds of her screams. I dream about the day we swam in the old water hole on Yeager’s farm. (There is a Walmart there now. Or a Target. I can’t quite remember.) I dream about the night we made love. And I dream about the day she died, that hot summer morning when she sat at the kitchen table and delivered that terrible blow to my confidence. But it’s best not to dwell on that.

I know you’re wondering what happened to her. You’re wondering if I killed her. But I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill Irene.

My mother thought I did. Isn’t that ridiculous? She even asked me about it to my face. But that was a long time ago, and she died right after that. Serves her right. What kind of mother could think such a thing about her son? What kind of mother talks to the cops about stuff she doesn’t even understand anyway? At least my old man never doubted me. He was always there for me. A good dad and a good man was Leland Glasgow. He always cleaned up after me, like a father should. But he eventually died, too, as parents do. His estate is mine now. I’m the only Glasgow left.

Oh well, I guess none of it really matters. I’m much too old and harmless now to be of any consequence to anyone. And though the true breadth of all my deeds will be a secret that dies with me, I think I left enough of a mark on the world that my existence carried some weight. That’s all you can really ask for, you know. A legacy. And really, any legacy will do. As long as you make your mark, it doesn’t matter how you do it. But me? No, I couldn’t kill anyone. That’s absurd.

But, yeah, if you want me to be honest, then I admit it: I think about Irene more than any of the others. They say you always remember your first. And she was my first. I guess that’s why she’s so special to me. But I didn’t kill her. I promise. Yeah, I was involved, sure. But I didn’t kill her. You can trust me.

But even if I had killed her, does that really make me so terrible? Isn’t it true that some people just don’t deserve life? Isn’t it true that some people have it coming? It’s not like I don’t know right from wrong. I’m not insane, after all. I’m not insane. Killing her wouldn’t have made me a monster or anything. I’m not a monster. And besides, I didn’t kill her.

So I sit here in my rocking chair. Thinking. Getting older by the minute. Dying a little more each day. Lingering in silence. Yes, silence. It’s quiet around here. Except for my chair. It creaks when it rocks. Sometimes the sound is soothing. Sometimes it’s maddening.

I didn’t kill Irene. Please believe me when I say that.

And you know what? I don’t think I’ll be alive much longer, so what does it matter? I’m eight-five years old, and the clock is ticking. I’m not afraid to meet my maker, though. I’ll stand before him with a clear conscience… yes… because I didn’t kill her. I didn’t.

I know I didn’t.

And all the others? No, I didn’t kill them, either. There’s a new me every seven years, after all. I’m innocent. I’m blameless. I’m far too old now to matter. And if you tell yourself something enough, you can make yourself believe anything. That’s what I do. I sit here in my rocking chair on the front porch and tell myself what I need to hear. It’s as simple as that.

Trust me, you can believe anything you want if you set your mind to it.

I am not a monster. I’m not a killer. I’m just a harmless old man in a creaking rocking chair. I’m just a washed-out has-been who sits on the front porch, waiting to die. And I don’t think I’m capable of killing anyone.

Least of all Irene.