that contained all of the school-aged children from Sweetwater and the surrounding coun- tryside. They went to the Baptist church to- gether, marched down there by a pair of mothers who might as well have been twins for all the real difference there was between them. Rodney and Palmer were two peas in a Southern pod, brothers in all but the genetic sense, each born late in the lives of good women who had given up on the dream of motherhood by the time their respective mir- acles occurred. The boys wandered the hills of north Geor-
gia, hunted the pine woods, fished the cool, green streams, and camped under the stars. They shared each other’s clothing, each other’s families, and each other’s homes. They even entered the mysterious world of dating together in the company of the Nickel sisters, Tiffany and Kaitlyn, although Rodney was a bit better at the social graces than Palmer was, smoother and more self-assured. They grew into tall, good looking young men, and they excelled at the art of being alive and full of promise. And on a hot May afternoon right after they turned eighteen, they both gradu- ated from Sweetwater High School, numbers seven and eight in the crooked, sweaty line that held a class of thirty of Sweetwater’s finest. Shortly thereafter, Palmer killed Rodney.
It wasn’t like he stole his father’s vintage serv- ice revolver, pulled it from beneath his robe at the reception, and gunned Rodney down, al- though the outcome of graduation day for both boys was much the same as if he had done just that. When Palmer did what he did, it was an accident, one of those bad turns of the cards. It had only taken one tick of the second hand to happen, a mere blink of the jaded celestial eye, but Palmer knew he would carry it with him like a jagged scar until the end of his earthly time, and perhaps for longer than that. Indeed, as the years had
passed since the killing, he had actually come to feel worse rather than better about the episode. Rodney’s demise had rubbed Palmer’s conscience as raw as a bed sore. Every day that he awakened and drew breath was another day he had stolen away from his friend. His guilt was compounding interest at an extraordinary rate. The debt was stagger- ing in its scope and could never be fully paid. The fact that Palmer was still unable to re- member the particulars of the accident made the entire state of affairs worse in his view. But try as he might, he could not bring the de- tails into focus. He could retrieve a glimpse here and an impression there, but mostly he drew a blank. This was a problem for him be- cause killing a person was a significant event, and having engaged in this activity, he be- lieved he ought to have the good grace to re- member at least some of the larger details. It would have been the decent thing to do, and he felt that he was being disrespectful to his friend’s memory because he had forgotten. So Palmer Cray felt bad about killing Rodney Earwood, and he felt worse because he didn’t remember doing it. It was the rare day that the subject didn’t cross his mind, and some days it was all he thought about. After receiving their diplomas on that sul-
try Georgia afternoon, Rodney and Palmer each attended the obligatory rounds of family gatherings that went with such an occasion. The afternoon was a blur of hearty hand- shakes and warm hugs, crisp twenties and fifties tucked into shirt pockets, and paper plates loaded with potato salad, fried chicken, and sides of well wishes. Once these festivities peaked and waned, the pair struck out on their own to begin their celebration in earnest. In Sweetwater, that meant riding around in the car while drinking beer and lis- tening to the radio. They chose Palmer’s 1969 Chevrolet Camaro because he had more gas and because his radio picked up better sta-
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