Saturday, May 16, 1970
On the night Annabel decided to drown herself, Reed Lawson was drunk. Not falling-down, but close enough. He stumbled out of the packed Rathskeller Bar well past nine o’clock. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes and the pounding of the Rolling Stones’ “Midnight Rambler” bled into the warm Florida night. The bar had advertised LSD—Large Size Drafts—for twenty-five cents, a clever hook to lure in more business.
Reed checked his watch—the same model worn by his father, Commander Frank Lawson, U.S. Navy. Dumbass. An hour late for his shift, which never happened. On time for Reed always meant fifteen minutes early.
He shuffled through the crowded parking lot searching for his car, past students and locals drinking beer, slouching against fenders, passing joints amid the shadows. Then he remembered he’d parked around the corner.
Ten minutes later the Mustang rumbled to the curb in front of a brick bungalow, and Reed stumbled out. Twenty years old, he had a lean, muscled frame that suggested rigid self-discipline. But tonight his swarthy, olive complexion was pale, black hair unkempt, deep-set brown eyes glazed over, Levi’s wrinkled and T-shirt slept in.
Waves of nausea washed over him. Gagging, he was sure he’d vomit. Should’ve eaten something to soak up the beer.
Down the street, the branches of live oaks arched over the sidewalk. A quick gust drove clumps of Spanish moss across the pavement. The university’s iconic Gothic buildings loomed a block ahead—the Florida Polytechnic Institute and State University, better known as Florida Tech.
Reed trudged through patches of weeds that passed for a lawn and onto a porch cluttered with a threadbare sofa, metal chairs, and overflowing ashtrays. A single yellow bulb illuminated a hand-painted sign on the door: Lifelines.
Just what he needed—another Saturday night shift, always the craziest of the week. No way out, though. Maybe two cups of their caffeinated mud would sober him up. With any luck, the call volume would be light.
Reed stepped inside. The hotline phones occupied the bungalow’s largest bedroom, with two desks, two chairs, and a bulletin board papered with warnings about drug side effects, emergency phone numbers, and guidance for handling calls.
Meg was on duty, earnest and professional as usual in sensible shoes, ironed slacks, and a buttoned-up blouse. Her robin’s-egg-blue eyes widened in shock at his drunken, disheveled appearance.
Reed collapsed into the empty chair and mumbled, “Sorry I’m late.”
Meg flicked auburn bangs from a freckled forehead. “Called your dorm earlier. You just missed Annabel.”
His stomach knotted with dread. “What did she want?”
“I tried to find out, but she would only talk to you. Seemed super freaked out. After she split, I called her mom. Turns out Annabel left the house after lunch and hasn’t been back since. Also, her mom found joints and Quaaludes in her room.”
Shit. Annabel’s favorite drug cocktail.
“Sorry,” Meg said. “I begged her to stick around.”
“Not your fault. Any coffee left?”
“Got a fresh pot brewing.”
In the kitchen, every cup was coffee stained. Reed scrubbed and filled one. He listened to the murmur of conversation from the adjacent bedroom—a volunteer talking somebody down from a bad trip. He was way too wiped to deal with anything tonight. Not Annabel, not a tidal wave of callers.
Stepping back into the hotline room, he asked, “Sure she said nothing else?”
“Well, I followed her outside to stall her, but she was in a big hurry. Said something about the river.”
“The river? That’s it?” Annabel must have meant the Black River, where they’d spent so much time together. Reed slammed the coffee mug on the desk, scalding his wrist with the overflow, and raced outside.
—
Moments later the Mustang roared to life, and Reed barreled onto Broad Street—the city’s main east-west artery—and weaved through stop-and-go traffic. He barely noticed the crowd waiting for a table at Rossetti’s Pizza, the gaggle of students watching dryers spin inside Groomers Laundromat, or the usual stoners lingering outside the Second Genesis head shop.
At the first red light, his left hand trembled on the steering wheel as his right massaged the gearshift. A sobering breeze swept in. He rolled the window farther down to invite more cool air, then smacked the wheel. Should have seen it coming. The signs were there, clear as day. When she’d most needed a friend, he’d let her down, pushed her away to wallow in his own despair.
The light was taking forever to change. Screw it. Reed stomped on the gas and roared through the intersection. Horns blared. Oncoming traffic skidded to avoid a collision. He blew through two more red lights before swerving onto the highway that led out of town.
More alert now and pushing the eager V-8 to ninety miles an hour, Reed peered into the rearview mirror every few seconds, expecting to see flashing red lights. Cookie-cutter suburban houses soon gave way to open farmland. The road narrowed to two lanes lined by a thick forest of southern pines.
On a curve, driving as fast as he dared, Reed roared past a truck, then cut off two denim-and-leather-clad bikers astride chopped Harleys. One lifted a middle finger in salute.
After five more miles that felt to Reed like fifty, the Mustang skidded into a dirt parking lot at the river. He pulled alongside a dusty green Chevy, jumped out, and ran to the shore. Familiar bell-bottoms and sandals lay strewn on a thin strip of sand.
“Annabel!”
He scanned the fast-moving current, illuminated only by pale flecks of moonlight slicing through heavy cloud cover. Gnarled branches of cypress and mangrove dangled over the river. Darkened by tannins from decaying vegetation, the tea-colored water gave the Black River its name. If she’d gone in, it would have been here.
“Annabel!”
A cacophony of tree frogs and crickets answered him. What if she already lay at the bottom or had drifted downstream? Heart pounding, he spotted a glimmer of movement in the middle of the river. Annabel? Driftwood? Or just a ripple on the surface?
Ripping off his sneakers, he waded into the inky river, the muddy bottom sucking at his feet. Though a confident pool swimmer, Reed was nervous in water where he couldn’t see the bottom. Shaky, he labored with clumsy strokes to the middle before pausing to tread water.
“Annabel!”
A crane screeched. A stiff breeze quickened the current. Reed imagined water moccasins stirring beneath him, gators paddling in from the riverbank.
“Annabel!”
A memory surfaced from high school English class—beautiful but forsaken Ophelia from Shakespeare’s Hamlet plunging from a willow tree to her watery death. If he was too late and her slender body lay somewhere beneath the surface—skin ivory, lips blue, raven hair fanned out—he had only himself to blame.
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Thomas Tibor
A veteran writer and video producer, Thomas Tibor has helped develop training courses focusing on mental health topics. In an earlier life, he worked as a counselor in the psychiatric ward of two big-city hospitals. He grew up in Florida and now lives in Northern Virginia. Fortunate Son is his first novel.
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